She ignored this and continued unabated. “We say we want the truth while conservatively seeking the comforting legend—that’s all I’m saying. I’m not an agnostic. I want people to take responsibility for their actions—even dead people.”
“Dead as in historical figures, you mean?”
“History is ever with us, David—as is death itself.”
“I get it. I get it.”
“Then what was in old Captain Eddy’s head when he piloted the massive Titanic into an even more massive iceberg?”
“I will agree that Titanic’s maiden voyage should’ve gone smoothly—perhaps a bit late getting into New York harbor but essentially intact—even after striking the iceberg.”
“You make my point! Why didn’t they shut off the compartments that were built to be sealed in the event of her taking on water at the bow?”
“The story goes the riveters in the shipyards left the bulkheads between the compartments unfinished, so—”
“Again with ‘the story goes’, David. What if that was a lie told by 2nd Officer Lightoller at the inquest to protect Captain Smith’s memory? Suppose instead the order was given to not seal off the compartments. Suppose—”
“Whoa! That’s crazy. Why would Smith not seal off the bow section if he could? I read you were a genius IQ—and that you were cleared on the classes we all had to take for this job.”
“Trust me, I took every class you did, and I know every inch of Titanic; I am just saying what if… what if—”
“That they all lied to protect a captain who lost his mind?”
“No, he didn’t lose his mind; he lost far more than that.”
“Kelly, damn it, you’re confusing the hell outta me.”
“Face it, David, since childhood, you’ve been brainwashed on the Titanic legend, not true history—stuff that doesn’t even approximate the truth. But your faith in the lies told became the facts; so-called facts that came from those hearings and men like Lightoller.”
“Lightoller was a hero.”
“Lightoller simply wanted to save himself after seeing what Murdoch had done.”
“You talk as if… as if you were there in some former life.”
“In a sense… I was.”
“What does that mean?”
“Lightoller, Murdoch, Smith—the entire crew, they were all supposed to go down with Titanic together, David.”
“What’re you saying?”
“That they had a pact.”
“Like some evil cabal? A pact? A pact to sink Titanic?”
“No, not evil… not a cabal or a covenant of evil. But they had their reasons.”
David stepped away from the railing and her, pirouetting and looking as if he would stalk off; instead, he raised both hands skyward and stepped to within inches of her. “But it struck an iceberg—and what other way to strike an iceberg than by accident?”
“How about intentionally?”
He could only stare at her now and not with a good thought in mind, and certainly not with a romantic one. “Think it’s getting late, and we’ve a big day tomorrow.” “Yeah, no one’s promised a ride down,” she agreed.
“Have to pass muster on the submersible and gear, so…”
He started off. She grabbed him, spun him around and pinned him against a bulkhead, kissing him. When she pulled away, she said in a whisper, “I’m going to need your help, David. I have to trust someone—and you’re it.”
Surprised at her sudden kiss, he swallowed hard. “Help? What kind of help, Kelly? What’s really going on inside that pretty head of yours?”
“Smith rammed his ship into that berg, David, and it was borne of a horrible fear.”
“You do realize you sound insane, right?”
“It gets worse.”
“Worse how? How worse?”
“I need you to come to my quarters, but tell no one.”
“We could be kicked off the dive team for what we’ve already done here, Kelly.”
“You’ve got to come. Give it fifteen, twenty minutes; I’m alone. They gave us girls our own space. Promise me you’ll come—number seven.”
She rushed off like a person fearful of being thrown into a cell should anyone see her. He recalled the crewman who’d whisked by, showing little interest but one word to another crew member and speculation would go viral. David felt dazed and not just over Kelly’s kiss, but over her strange words as well. He felt in a terribly awkward position and she’d placed him here—intentionally.
Now Dr. Irvin wanted him in her private quarters, but it meant going against Swigart, against the rules; it could land them both a seat on a chopper for Woods Hole come morning. What was all that crazy talk about Captain Edward Smith—a man who, from his photos, looked the unassailable, quintessential captain—spiffy in his dress whites, a bearing and a beard on the order of the knighted James Bond actor Sean Connery.
EIGHT
Declan Irvin slapped his best friend and colleague, Thomas Coogan on the shoulder where they stood amid the bustle and excitement of the Red Lion Pub in a back alleyway deep inside Belfast’s most notorious district. Declan pointed to a table in the back of the crowded ale house.
It’d been twenty hours since Coogan’s uncle, Anton Fiore, had been seen or heard from. At home, Anton’s wife, Thomas’ favorite aunt who’d kept the two young interns from starving these many months, sat weeping and terrified something awful had happened to Anton. She’d expected him home as usual when young Thomas and Declan had slipped past curfew at the teaching hospital where they were in residence doing their work for Queens University, to make their way to the Holland and Wolff shipyards to meet Anton.
For two years now while enrolled at Queens, the boys had watched in fascination as the largest seagoing vessel on the planet was being built; they’d seen the hull fashioned from Belfast iron ore laid and tested. Between classes and studying anatomy and physiology and an array of mathematical and scientific curricula, the young men had seen the ship go from a skeletal marvel to the most wondrous and largest man-made object in the world. It marked their time as residents here in the city and helped make that time fantastically exciting.
The sprawling shipyards were situated relatively close to the Mater Infirmorum Hospital grounds where they were in residence, and only the night before, Uncle Anton as Thomas called the shipyard watchman who had early on learned of his nephew’s fascination with all things Titanic, had boasted, “You do know I can get you lads aboard to see the interiors—that is if you should like.”
“Should like?” Declan had echoed. “Absolutely we should like, right, Tom?”
“If you’re sure you won’t get into no trouble, Uncle.”
“Bah! I’ll see to it you good fellas have as grand a tour as that Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews.” Anton winked and flashed his signature Cheshire cat grin.
“Ahhh, yes, the owner and the architect!” declared Declan, taking Anton’s surprise away. “Sorry, sir… I have studied the Titanic and Britannic from their inception, sir.”
“Well—those muckety-mucks’ve had their tour!” Anton laughed and it sounded like bells ringing.
Declan Irvin felt he had been adopted by Thomas’ aunt and uncle. They were wonderful people and wonderful with one another, as well and good to be around. But now the old gentleman had disappeared without a trace, and Aunt Fiore was destitute without him. Much to Declan’s chagrin, they had lost any chance of seeing the inside of Titanic, making the loss that much more painful still, but Declan dared not say so aloud.
There would be no other chance; the all but finished ship was to be launched the following day or so. Thereafter, the only way to see her was by ticket or signing on as a maid, purser, crewman, or stoker. Last chance to see her interior ballroom and state rooms, the rumored pools, spas, and the gymnasiums for first, second, and third class as well as reading and smoking rooms, cafes, lounges, saloons and bandstands, and multiple promenades. Last chance to walk her topmost deck, to look down f
rom such a height from her bridge. How he wished to see all her shining brass fittings and teakwood floors.
Declan knew he couldn’t afford even a third-class ticket. Nor could he afford the time away from medical school to get a job waiting tables or stacking deck chairs aboard Titanic.
At first Declan had been angry at the turn of events—frustrated and annoyed. After all, Thomas had assured Declan that it was all set. Then just before midnight when they’d slipped curfew at the dormitory and arrived at Anton’s office, they found the small shack empty and Anton very much absent. For Declan, it resulted in a dashing of excitement, and for Thomas a gnawing fear beyond any disappointment that’d seeped into Declan’s heart. Where Declan was a devoted fan of all things Titanic, Thomas was devoted to his uncle.
Meanwhile, Thomas, who by now had lost all interest in the ship, was going on about his missing uncle. At the time, Declan assumed the old fellow had just been talking, or that he’d gotten his nights mixed up and had ambled home, but Thomas found his uncle’s watch still on his desk, and it was a time piece he’d never leave behind.
It was the first they’d begun to truly worry, and the worry only grew with the ticking of Anton’s pocket watch when Thomas confided that his Uncle Anton had promised the watch to him upon his death.
And so with each tick-tick-tick of the second hand, it played on their nerves like a constant drip. They’d waited for him, imagining him on his rounds even without his watch! But he did not return.
About then, Declan’s disappointment had gotten the better of him. “Your uncle set the time and his job is one of schedules, so where is he?”
“I don’t know!” Thomas replied.
Eventually, they had gone toward the ship and its gaping cargo hold, calling out Fiore’s name as they went. Thomas made a mantra of it, calling, “Uncle… Uncle Anton! Uncle, where’n Hades are you?”
“Where the deuce could he be?” Declan added again. “He’ll be sacked for this if they find us here.”
“You there!” shouted a man from the topmost deck of Titanic, so high up he might be God. The boys had to crane their necks to look up at a lone figure in dark shadow waving a lantern in what seemed an angry arc. “Disembark, the two of ye; out from here now! Go along… that’s good lads.”
Unable to see the man’s face, Thomas shouted back, “Is that you, Uncle?”
“It’s not Anton’s voice,” Declan assured Thomas.
Thomas realized this too and added, “Who’re you? Where’s my uncle, the watchman at the yards?”
“Tuttle!” shouted the man far overhead. “Pinkerton Agent, and I’m armed along with five other able men! Now shove off.”
“Bluffing,” Declan muttered to Thomas; Declan then shouted up to Tuttle. “Where’s the shipyard watchman—Mr. Fiore?”
“Brought you Pinky’s on and fired him, haven’t they?” asked Thomas.
“I’ve no clue! Likely left his post for a dram at the nearest pub.”
Two other Pinkerton agents sporting long guns materialized at the railing beside Tuttle. “Can’t trust Black Irish or any Paddy for that matter!” said a second agent from on high.
A third added, “It’s why we’ve been called on in the first place!”
“You take that back!” shouted Thomas, shaking a fist at Tuttle and the others. “My Uncle Fiore is not a Black Irish; fact is he’s French mostly, and he’s never left his post unattended! Takes it serious, he does!”
“We’ve reason to believe he’s aboard, Agent Tuttle,” added Declan.
“Not ’board Titanic, he isn’t,” shot back Tuttle from on high. “We can see everything and everyone coming and going from up here.”
“Then you must’ave seen the old watchman leave for his rounds—which direction did he go in?” pleaded Declan. “He could be hurt. Tell us which way’d he go so we might locate him.”
“Save your breath. He’s not the least bit interested, the bastard.” Thomas pulled his best friend away and the moment their backs were to Tuttle, the agent shouted for them to hold on, making them turn and again crane their necks to the light of the lantern far above.
“Hold on,” repeated Tuttle. “The watchman staggered off hours ago complaining of having gotten hold of some bad oysters, he said. Sick as a dog, he was, all bent over.”
“We’ll take his watch to the house for him then,” Thomas told Declan, the watch reflecting the lantern light even from this distance.
But on arriving at this witching hour to the Fiore home, they learned he’d never come home, and soon the hours brought on daylight and still no sign of Anton. It was then that they’d gone to the Belfast Police who so far as Declan could tell offered little hope and less help. Thomas pleaded until they turned him over to the Chief of Constables but to no avail so far as Declan could tell.
However, Thomas came out of the police department stationhouse with having been told of an eccentric American who’d come to Belfast to set up shop as a private detective. Someone had taken pity on Thomas, apparently, and had told him he might be in need of this man’s services.
After discussing the matter and finally getting Thomas’ aunt to take some laudanum and get some sleep, they’d gone searching for this man rumored to get results, this American-Irish named Alastair Wyland.
And now they’d found him this April afternoon at a card game with several rough-looking characters here inside the Red Lion Public House.
“Three,” said one man with a scar across his left eye, asking for more cards.
“Two,” announced another—a fellow with missing fingers on one hand.
The one who most resembled the description the boys had of a Mr. Alastair Wyland, a well-dressed dapper fellow with watch fob and wolf’s head cane, called for one card which precipitated a bit of banter and laughter.
The dealer, a man who looked as old as wood and as hairy as an Irish wolfhound laughed heartily and said, “So… going for an inside straight, eh? Hehehehe… it never works, son.”
“It is worth it just to hear you call me son,” replied Wyland, whipping the single discard at the old man. Wyland, frayed, grey scruffy beard and all, appeared in his early sixties if not older. Most assuredly, rough cut wrinkles spoke of years of experience with worry.
“Mind those long shots,” added the dealer. “You Americans. Risk-takers you are!”
“You are Mr. Wyland?” asked Declan, now standing over the poker table, making the four men nervous. In fact, it appeared everyone sitting here had fragile nerves and itchy fingers.
Wyland was more nervous than any of them, Declan decided, but he covered it well as a good poker player must. Wyland didn’t look up as the others had, instead sizing Declan up from the shadow thrown across the cards. “You’re in my light,” was all that Wyland said to Declan’s shadow.
Declan could see that Wyland was not looking for an inside straight but rather held two pairs. Sixes and eights.
Thomas, beside Declan repeated the question. “Are you Wyland or not?”
“Who might be asking?” the heavyset, well-dressed detective asked.
“We’re wanting to hire you. To find my friend’s uncle who’s gone missing.” Declan nudged Thomas to speak up on the matter, but before Thomas could go into it, one of the men at the poker table said, “It’s them two miners that disappeared, eh? Who’re you lads to O’Toole and McAffey?”
“What two miners?” asked Declan.
Thomas said to Wyland, “My Uncle Anton’s the watchman at Harland and Wolf—the shipyards.”
“Declan put in. “We were supposed to meet him at midnight last eve.”
“But he didn’t show up,” Wyland said, bored, “and he never came home neither. Wife’s worried sick—they’d had a row.”
“All true but how did you know?” asked Declan, eyes wide.
“Hear it every day sittin’ here, son.”
This made all the card players break into laughter.
“Look, this is no joke!” Thomas shouted, drawin
g Wyland’s eye. “We’re all sick with worry.”
Wyland looked around the table. “Three men missing just like that, all yesterday? Sounds like they found a keg, eh lads?”
Again everyone at the table laughed, one slapping hard against the wood, all except for one man, the old dealer. “Tim McAffey and Francis O’Toole are not the sort to up and disappear, keg or no keg. They are good men, both—stalwart miners! And no one’s more reliable than that big watchman, Fiore.”
“Like yourself McClain, I’m sure,” replied Wyland who looked at his pocket watch and saw that it was just past five, and that he’d been here too long. “Let’s finish the hand, shall we, lads? Then its time I find a meal.”
“Will you take our case?” asked Thomas, displaying fifty-dollars in bills. “It’s all I could collect, but I can get more.”
“One thing at a time.” Wyland continued with his game and his drink, and when the cards were laid out, everyone but Wyland groaned. The detective, known to have left America for Belfast, raked in his winnings. Rumors circulated about the man; why would anyone migrate to Ireland from America? It was not done except for the other way round. He was a secretive man, and in Ireland for fifteen years—the last three in Belfast—or so it was said. Most seriously, no one knew exactly where in America he’d migrated from, but it had been a number of years now that he enjoyed a reputation of getting things done here at street level.
Others said he did so with an iron fist and a swift gun. That and the fact he’d become a fixture in the neighborhood with connections to both police and lowlifes. This made him the right man to locate Anton Fiore as the local authorities had shown little interest in the missing man.
As Wyland now basked in his winnings, Thomas Coogan informed Wyland, “We wanted a real detective—a Pinkerton agent—but we couldn’t afford one.”
“Well now I’m no Pinky and never’ve been one,” replied Wyland, scooping up the last of his coins. “So you’re stuck with me is it?” Wyland stood and stuffed his pockets with his winnings, smoke encircling his head from a pipe he’d taken the time to relight. “I warrant it’s no coincidence your uncle, young man, has disappeared alongside these two miners. Who can tell me where the miners were last seen, and where they take their secret meetings these days.”
Titanic 2012 (inspector alastair ransom) Page 8