A Poison of Passengers

by Jack Treby

  The game was not over. Sir Richard took a couple of seconds to steady himself and then, with superhuman strength, spun himself around and, with his spare hand, launched a fist directly at my face. I barely saw the blur of it, but I felt the impact as the knuckles cracked solidly against my jaw. My head jerked backwards and there was a loud crunch, as the back of my head collided with the brickwork. The pain was indescribable. I must have blacked out for a moment, as my body slipped beneath the surface of the water.

  I woke to find myself several feet under, with blood starting to spill out around me. I had cracked my head pretty severely. Once again, I found the strength to kick my way to the surface, but I had lost my orientation. I was now in the middle of the pool, well away from the support of any ledge. I worked desperately to keep myself afloat, but my energy was beginning to flag.

  Sir Richard had his own problems. A howl of anger echoed across the hall, as Hopkins resurfaced and went on the offensive. The wound in Sir Richard’s leg was beginning to take its toll and, as the two men locked together, he was struggling to hold his own. Hopkins had his hands firmly around Sir Richard’s throat.

  For my part, I was battling just to keep my head above the water, coughing up half the liquid I had already swallowed. My battered cranium was shrieking with pain and my legs were kicking feebly beneath me. Try as I might, I could no longer keep my face clear of the water. Abruptly, I found myself falling and, this time, there was nothing I could do to prevent it.

  The last clear image I had was of Mr Hopkins, doing to Sir Richard what Sir Richard had done to him, holding the man’s head savagely beneath the surface.

  My foot bumped the bottom of the pool. All around me the water was swirling red. I could barely focus my eyes. My chest was tightening under the pressure and the last of the air was bubbling up from my lungs. I flapped my good arm about as best I could, but my energy was spent and I realised, in despair, that I no longer had the strength to propel myself back to the surface. A strange calm came upon me then, as my knees scraped the base of the pool. I was going to die. If my mind had not been so fogged over, I might have railed at the indignity of it. I had survived a hurricane and a tidal wave and now I was going to pop my clogs at the bottom of a swimming pool. But in truth, I felt a strange kind of peace wash over me. What was the point of struggling against it? Everything was beginning to darken. I stared numbly up at the glistening surface, so far above me. If my time had come, then so be it.

  I fancied I saw a figure rushing along the side of the pool, but it was almost certainly a trick of the light. If I then heard a heavy splosh behind me, I was sure I must have imagined it.

  The next thing I was aware of were the arms that seemed to be grabbing hold of me. Strong, silent arms. An angel had come to collect me, I thought, an emissary from the hereafter, though whether from above or below I could not begin to imagine. Regardless, I surrendered myself into his embrace. I could feel myself being tugged upwards through the water. Someone or something was pressing against me, a firm, heavy trunk of a body. Not an angel, then. Together we broke the surface and the whole horrible world and its choking pain came back into focus. I found myself coughing and spluttering, the agony returning to my head, while an arm around my neck kept my mouth gently above the water line.

  ‘Careful, Monsieur,’ a voice whispered in my ear. ‘I have you. Try to keep calm.’

  I was dreaming. It was my man come to save me. It had to be a mirage, a phantom to comfort my deluded brain. ‘Morris...’ I spluttered vaguely. And then, once again, everything went dark.

  I was sitting on a cork board floor, my back against the side of a changing cubicle, my head throbbing like the devil himself as I shivered into consciousness. A gentle hand held me in place as my eyes cranked open. I coughed loudly, momentarily gasping for air and starting to panic. I was in pain everywhere, my arms, my shoulder, my neck, my head. But then I saw the vague outline of my man Maurice crouching next to me, and gradually my heartbeat began to slow.

  ‘How do you feel, Monsieur?’ Maurice asked.

  I coughed again. ‘I...I...’ My throat felt raw and constricted. I was having difficulty finding a voice. A chill came over me, adding to the sense of disorientation. My clothes were dripping wet. My jacket had been removed, but the waistcoat, trousers and shirt sleeves were absolutely sodden; and stained red with blood.

  Maurice held up his hand, a gentle blur in front of my face. ‘How many fingers, Monsieur?’

  I tried to focus but a wave of nausea swept across me. ‘I...I think I’m going to be sick.’ Bile rose up from my gut, my body convulsing under the strain, but nothing came out. After a moment, the trembling subsided and, with a supreme effort of will, I forced the hand into view. ‘Three...three minutes,’ I said. ‘Then come and...no.’ I frowned. That wasn’t right.

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘I...three, three fingers.’ That was it. There were three fingers.

  He removed one of them. ‘And now, Monsieur?’

  ‘Two.’ The gesture sparked something in my mind, and I almost laughed, before a coughing fit engulfed me again. ‘That...that’s considered very rude in England,’ I said, after I finally managed to settle myself.

  ‘If you say so, Monsieur.’

  I slumped back against the wall of the cubicle, the world gradually coming into focus. I was alive. My God, I was alive. ‘I thought...I really thought I was a goner there,’ I said, gazing up at the valet in wonderment. ‘You...you saved me.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ Maurice had a cloth in his left hand. Carefully, he began to wipe the side of my head. I flinched at the sudden sting as the fabric made contact.

  ‘Is it...is it bad?’ I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

  ‘I do not think so, Monsieur.’

  I gazed down at my shoulder. The waistcoat and part of my shirt had been pulled back. Evidently, Maurice had already taken a look at that. ‘He shot me,’ I recalled in dismay, remembering the moment but still not quite believing it. ‘Sir Richard, he shot me.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’

  I had faced quite a few lunatics over the years, but none of them had ever managed to put a bullet in me before. It was not a pleasant experience. My right shoulder was still throbbing and any movement of the arm caused a fresh spasm of pain. ‘Is the bullet still in there?’

  ‘Not a bullet, Monsieur,’ the valet corrected me. ‘A musket ball. Do not concern yourself. It merely grazed the top of your shoulder.’

  I grimaced, not quite believing him. ‘Are you sure? It nearly knocked me for six.’

  ‘I am certain, Monsieur. The wound is superficial. The ball is embedded in the wall of the cubicle behind you.’

  I tried to glance round but the movement provoked another wave of pain. ‘I’ll...I’ll have take your word for that.’

  ‘Better to stay still, Monsieur. I believe the wound to your head may be a little more severe.’

  ‘Yes, I...I cracked it on the side of the pool, when Sir Richard hit me.’

  ‘You have lost a little blood.’ Maurice finished wiping my head and then produced a roll of bandage from his jacket, which was lying on a bench at the back of the cubicle. The man always carried a set of bandages with him – and some cotton wool – but this time it was not my bosom that needed restraining.

  As the valet set to work, I took a moment to gaze beyond the open curtain of the cubicle, across the hall. The slippery tiles leading back to the gymnasium were awash with crewmen. Doctor Armstrong was in the water, at the shallow end of the pool. I struggled to bring the man into focus. He was in his shirt sleeves, the water up to his waist, engaged in the grim task of manoeuvring a body towards the edge of the pool. Two crewmen were assisting him. The body was that of Sir Richard Villiers. Mr Hopkins had got the upper hand in that last, desperate struggle.

  The secretary was now standing by the side of the pool, dripping wet, a towel around his shoulders. Mr Griffith, the security officer, was standing next to him, overseeing
the recovery of the corpse with his usual dour efficiency. Hopkins did not seem to be under restraint – Griffith had probably run out of handcuffs – but two further stewards were standing by at the far door, making sure nobody tried to leave.

  Maurice had finished wrapping the bandage around my head and was tying off the end. I coughed loudly and wiped a spot of phlegm from my mouth; then I returned my attention to the valet. ‘You saved my life,’ I breathed, still not quite believing it. The fact that I was alive, even, was nothing short of a miracle. The last I had seen of Maurice, he had been heading off to bed. ‘What on earth brought you back down here?’

  ‘I did not wish to retire, Monsieur, without first making sure you had returned to your room.’ That was typical of Maurice, never following instructions. ‘When midnight came, and there was no sign of you, I decided to come looking. Then I saw Monsieur Villiers stepping into the elevator on B Deck, with a curious expression on his face, and I alerted the stewards.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad that you did,’ I puffed, observing the man with some gratitude. His clothes were as wet as my own, apart from his jacket, which he must have taken off before he jumped in. ‘You dived into the pool,’ I realised belatedly, finally connecting him with that blurry figure I had seen earlier on. ‘You dived in and....’ I stopped myself and frowned. ‘I thought you hated water.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ Maurice’s expression was neutral – that is to say, grim, which was his version of neutral – but I understood only too well the anxiety any large body of water provoked in the man. And yet somehow, on the spur of the moment, he had set aside his fears and dived straight in.

  ‘I didn’t even know you could swim,’ I said.

  ‘I am a good swimmer, Monsieur,’ he assured me, matter-of-factly. ‘My father taught me when I was a boy. If I had not been able to swim, I would myself have drowned many years ago.’

  ‘You mean, when the Lusitania went down?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ He buttoned up the front of my shirt, covering over the wound in my shoulder. Even now, there was so much that I did not know about this peculiar, grim-faced Frenchman.

  ‘You were in the water, then?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur. For three and a half minutes. A minute longer and the cold would have killed me.’

  ‘And yet...’ I regarded him with something close to admiration. ‘And yet you still jumped in and saved me today?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ He closed up the flap of my shirt. ‘I did not wish to have to find another employer.’

  I laughed abruptly and the sudden movement provoked a fresh round of coughing. ‘Morris, you never cease to amaze me.’ I rested my head against the back of the cubicle. ‘That’s one hell of a way to ask for a pay rise.’

  Maurice dismissed the idea. ‘That will not be not necessary, Monsieur.’

  ‘I’m not taking no for an answer.’ I coughed again. My God, if any action was beyond the call of duty, it was this. ‘How long has it been since you last had a raise?’

  Maurice considered. ‘I believe it was last April, Monsieur.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ I remembered. ‘Oh, you mean...?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ I swear there was a ghost of a smile on his face as he added, ‘the last time I saved your life.’ But if it was there, it was gone in an instant.

  The pain in my shoulder had lessened slightly by now but my head was still throbbing. Had I suffered any serious damage, I wondered. ‘How is it looking, the head?’

  ‘I believe you will live, Monsieur,’ the valet responded, peering carefully at the bandage. ‘But I am not a medical man. You should perhaps allow Doctor Armstrong to examine you.’

  I grimaced at that suggestion. I have always done my best to keep doctors at arms length, for obvious reasons. But Sir Richard’s body had now been retrieved from the pool and Armstrong was heading in our direction. ‘Not the shoulder,’ I insisted. Even a cursory inspection of that area might prove troublesome. ‘I suppose it can’t hurt to let him have a look at the head, though.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ Maurice finished buttoning up my waistcoat.

  By now, the doctor had come to a halt outside the cubicle, his large ears flapping despite the absence of a breeze. ‘How are you, Mr Buxton?’ he asked, observing the bandage Maurice had wrapped around my head.

  ‘I’m all right, I think. It probably looks worse than it is.’

  ‘I ought to be the judge of that.’ Armstrong crouched down in front of me. ‘You have been in the wars. That looks quite nasty.’ He reached forward and placed a gentle hand on the top of my head. ‘What happened? Did you hit your head against the side of the pool?’ I nodded, trying not to flinch as his fingers moved across, probing the scalp for any abnormalities. ‘I apologise for not getting to you sooner. I was helping with Sir Richard. We had to see if there was anything to be done.’

  ‘That’s quite all right. Is he...?’

  ‘Dead? Yes, I’m afraid so. Drowned, poor devil. That’s three bodies I’ve had to examine in the past twenty-four hours. Can you credit it?’ Armstrong’s pin hole eyes were shrivelled up even further than usual. ‘Keep your head still, please.’ He peeled back a section of bandage and scanned the interior; then he returned the bandage to its proper place, and rocked back onto his haunches. ‘Well, it doesn’t look too bad, all things considered. What on earth happened down here? Mr Hopkins hasn’t been very coherent, so far.’

  ‘It’s a long story. We’ve all had a difficult evening.’

  ‘Evidently. You’ve done a good job with the bandage, Monsieur Sauveterre,’ he said. His eyes flicked down to my bloodied shirt. ‘I ought to take a look at that shoulder, too.’

  ‘It is a flesh wound, Monsieur,’ Maurice cut in calmly. ‘Nothing more. The musket ball merely grazed the top of the skin.’

  ‘Yes, we heard a gunshot.’ He shuddered. ‘Even so, I ought to take a look at it.’

  ‘There’s really no need,’ I assured him, waving the doctor away with my good arm. ‘Maurice has cleaned it up. He knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘You have some medical experience?’ Armstrong gazed across at the valet.

  ‘He was a...hospital orderly during the war,’ I improvised. ‘Don’t worry. He can take care of me.’ Maurice was not a qualified doctor, but he had recently attended a lecture on human anatomy; and he was currently reading a biography of Florence Nightingale. ‘I’m more concerned about my head,’ I said.

  Doctor Armstrong raised a hand to his ear and gave it a good scratch. ‘Well, there’s no sign of a fracture. We’ll have to keep a careful eye on you, though. Always better to err on the side of caution with these things.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I agreed. ‘I could do with a little something for the pain, if you’ve got it. It’s still throbbing.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll see what I can find. If you start to feel at all nauseous, though, anything out of the ordinary...’

  ‘You’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘Good man.’ He lifted himself up. ‘We’ll get you back to your cabin. I’ll send one of the stewards over to help. There’s quite a lot of cleaning up to do here.’ He wiped his hands on his shirt sleeves, which were almost as wet as my own. ‘Try and get some rest, Mr Buxton. Sleep if you can. And please make sure the wound is kept clean, Monsieur Sauveterre. I have some surgical spirits, if you need them. And some tablets for the pain.’ Doctor Armstrong gave a quick smile and then departed, heading back to the far end of the pool, where Ernest Hopkins was being led away by a couple of crewmen.

  Two minutes later, with a bit of help from Maurice and a rather tired looking steward, I was also on my feet and shambling barefoot towards the exit. Mr Griffith was loitering at the edge of the swimming pool, examining the discarded pistol, which had now been recovered from the water.

  ‘You’ve had a lucky escape, Mr Buxton,’ he observed.

  ‘I don’t feel all that lucky,’ I said, wincing slightly.

  ‘I don’t suppose you happen to know anything about
a knife, do you, sir?’ he asked. Griffith was looking rather perplexed. ‘There was a gash in Sir Richard’s leg,’ he explained. It appeared they had not yet found the penknife.

  I was about to answer, but Doctor Armstrong cut across me. ‘The questions will have to wait, Mr Griffith. Mr Buxton has had had quite an ordeal. He needs rest.’

  The security officer inclined his head. ‘Very well. But I will need a full statement in the morning.’ He glanced down at my sodden clothes and the red stained shirt. ‘When you’ve properly recovered, that is. One little thing, though, sir,’ he added, as we were about to move past him. ‘That lad, Hopkins. He seems to think Sir Richard was behind it all. The pen letters. The death of Mrs Hamilton-Baynes. Is that really true, sir?’ In other words, had Griffith arrested the wrong man?

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I confirmed. ‘I heard it from his own lips. Sir Richard’s, I mean.’

  ‘And the Reverend Hamilton-Baynes? He had nothing to do with any of it?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ I said, shaking my head sadly. ‘Just another victim of Sir Richard’s madness.’

  The police launch was hovering along the port side. A small gangplank connected the vehicle with the mother ship. The launch had been hauled to and securely attached, but it looked a little precarious to me. Unlike Maurice, I had no particular fear of the sea – despite one or two disastrous incidents in my recent past – but I could recognise a degree of risk when I saw it. Nonetheless, I steeled myself and made my way quickly across the plank. A hefty young constable on the far side gave me a hand over the lip of the boat and onto a wobbly approximation of terra firma. I looked back at the Galitia and glowered up at the stream of passengers lining the port side. They were not here to see me off; they wanted to catch a glimpse of the fearful murderer Ernest Hopkins, as he was escorted across the gangplank in chains. They had already enjoyed the splendid entertainment of the corpses being loaded aboard. The ghoulishness of some people never fails to astonish me.