Murder Aboard the Titanic: A Mystery At Sea Short, Page 4

  If it were only mere enjoyment I felt, it would be so much simpler. But my feelings ran much deeper than that.

  "Are we going to see each other once we get to America?" I asked straightforwardly. "Or does it all end when the Titanic docks in New York?"

  He looked surprised at the question. "Most men I know prefer to be the aggressor in any worthwhile relationship."

  "I'd say you were very much the aggressor this evening."

  Henry scratched his face and smiled sheepishly. "Can't argue that point, can I?" He sighed. "Nor am I prepared to make any promises that I may not be able to keep."

  I pouted. "Well at least you're honest."

  "I'm afraid not entirely," he said with a catch to his voice.

  "What does that mean?"

  We were interrupted by a steward who told us sharply and without explanation, "Everybody on deck with life vests on at once!"

  "Have we collided with an iceberg?" I asked him, my pulse quickening.

  He looked at Henry, then me, and said after a moment or two, "Yes, I'm afraid so."

  "But how?" Henry asked.

  "It doesn't really matter now, does it?" the steward replied tonelessly. "I suggest you head up on deck without delay." Then he sped off to tell others.

  "This is incredibly unbelievable," muttered Henry, shaking his head.

  "I have to go to my cabin," I told him.

  He grabbed my arm. "You heard the steward—everybody on deck."

  "Not until I check to see if Kathleen has been told."

  Henry did not try to talk me out of it.

  When we arrived at my cabin, we found Kathleen lying on her bed casually reading a book, apparently oblivious to the happenings elsewhere.

  "Aye, there you are! I thought you'd gotten lost," Kathleen said with feigned distress. "If you hadn't come back by midnight, I expect I would have gone to look for you. Obviously, Mr. Patterson must have taken good care of you. I can't wait to hear all the intriguing details."

  I hated to dampen what should have been a delightfully girlish chat were Henry not present, but I had no choice. I told Kathleen about the iceberg and the orders to go up on deck.

  "And just as me book was gettin' interesting," she whined. "You don't suppose we'll be saying our goodbyes before daybreak, do you?"

  "Not if we keep collective cool heads," Henry said unevenly. "Now let's go!"

  He had suddenly established a take-charge attitude, which I both respected and sorely needed.

  I changed quickly into some warm riding slacks I'd purchased in London, a sweater, high button shoes, and a woolen coat. Kathleen was more conservative in her cold weather attire, settling for a woolen dress, my shawl, and low boots. I lent Henry a heavy cardigan sweater I had purchased for my father. Appropriately, it was a perfect fit and obviously more useful for him at the moment.

  Although I kept telling myself this was not a doomsday forecast, my stomach continued to do somersaults. I brought my Bible with me that I had taken from home a year ago and never seemed to find the time to read. Kathleen grabbed two oranges, stating half jokingly, "It's the only things I have that are perishable."

  * * *

  On deck, it was a mass of confusion bordering on hysteria, as people braved the frigid temperatures, squeezed into life jackets, saw their lives flash before them, and waited for orders.

  "Have you seen Douglas yet?" I asked Henry.

  "He's up here somewhere," he said confidently. "Probably trying to get an exclusive interview with Captain Smith himself."

  The night was darker than dark, but still quite calm. There was no visible sign of the iceberg that had brought the mighty Titanic to a screeching halt. This perhaps gave us all a false sense of security.

  It didn't last for long, for we were ordered up to the boat deck. Women and children were to be the first ones loaded into boats. The Titanic was apparently sinking.

  "Do they really expect us to survive in the middle of the ocean in rowboats?" Kathleen asked skeptically as we looked over the rail, the water seemingly miles below.

  "Doesn't look like we have a choice," I told her, though I was equally apprehensive.

  Henry continued to be the one source of courage amongst us. "Believe me we'll be much more likely to survive in rowboats than on a ship that has obviously lost the confidence of even the crew."

  At least Henry had used the term we, I thought. Since men were to be the last to leave the ship, it occurred to me that they were also at highest risk to never leave the ship. The mere thought of never seeing Henry again after tonight was terrifying. I tried hard to turn my attention elsewhere. I knew that no one's safe passage to New York was assured.

  * * *

  The boats were slowly filled and lowered to the sea one by one. When Kathleen was told she would be the last person to enter a boat, she hedged.

  "I won't go without you, Judy!" she declared.

  "Don't be silly," I said. "You have to."

  She persisted. "You're my first American friends. Wouldn't it be a pity if I made it to your America and you didn't?"

  The officer intervened. "I'm afraid you can't pick and choose your boat, Miss. You must go when your turn comes."

  "I'll be all right," I tried to assure her. "There are more boats..."

  Reluctantly, she accepted the hand fate had dealt us. We hugged, promised defiantly to reunite in America, and I watched her climb into the boat.

  Henry took my hand. "Don't worry about her. That fierce Irish blood will get her through any obstacles she'll face in the future."

  What about our future? I wondered. Would there be one? If we survived this ordeal, would he want a future with me?

  There was no time to ponder such thoughts amidst the confusion and real uncertainty of the moment.

  As the boats continued to fill and become fewer, more and more men were overcome by fear and cowardice and rushed the boats. This usually proved to be futile, largely due to the threat of being shot.

  "Why do they waste such time and energy?" Henry said with disdain. "Any man who would seek to save himself before women and children is not much of a man."

  Did that mean he was willing to sacrifice himself? I suddenly became terrified and began to shiver. Henry noticed.

  "Tell me we'll both make it," I pleaded.

  "I can't," he said. "But we'll give it our best effort, won't we?"

  He gave me a chin-up smile and warmed me with his body so close to mine. I secretly wished he would kiss me but, quite understandably, he seemed too preoccupied with the moment at hand.

  Only two boats were left. It was my turn to enter the first—number 4—along with several other women and children.

  Henry walked with me as far as he could. For the past twenty minutes there had been an eerie silence between us—almost as if there were no words that could suffice for what had happened and what would.

  "Well," he said with a sigh, "it looks like this is where we say goodbye."

  "There's one more boat," I said on a wing and a prayer.

  "And I intend to be on it," he assured me. Just as quickly, he began to sound more pessimistic. "I can't say it hasn't been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Judy."

  I felt tears well up in my eyes. "We'll surely see each other again—"

  He smiled courageously. "Of course we will. Now why don't you give me a great big hug?"

  I embraced him, holding him for dear life, not caring about others looking on curiously and perhaps with empathy.

  Henry whispered into my ear, "I told you earlier that I had not been entirely honest with you. It only seems appropriate that I am now..." His breathing quickened. "I fell in love with you, Judy, the very first time I laid eyes on you. Nothing that has happened since then has changed those feelings, other than they have intensified, if that's possible."

  I pulled back and stared into his face, trying to digest his heartfelt words. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I was afraid to even tell myself before now." He sucked
in a breath, looking away and back again. "I just wanted you to know—"

  "Then you must know that I feel very much the same way," I said, crying shamelessly.

  He nodded reluctantly and kissed me on the mouth. Neither of us seemed to want to pull away. Henry finally did. He took my hand, kissed it, and placed it on his chest. I could imagine his heart beating erratically, matching my own.

  "You better go now," he said courageously. He checked me from saying anything more.

  Our eyes locked for a long moment, and then I bit down on my lower lip and turned away from Henry, lest I break down completely. I quickly moved toward the deck chairs, which served as stairs, looked back, and could no longer see Henry.

  By the time the lifeboat dropped to the sea, it was apparent that the Titanic was going to sink into the depths of the ocean.

  I never saw Henry again, to my deep regret. It was almost as though what we had never existed. Yet it had and for that brief moment in time I was more thankful than I could ever express in mere words.

  * * *

  In the course of the ship's fateful journey I had found friendship, love, and tragedy. I would never know what fate might have had in store for us had Henry survived the Titanic. I strongly suspect we would have had the most wonderful life together I could imagine. I do know that a big part of me went down with him on that cold early morning of April 15, 1912.

  Precisely nine months later, I gave birth to a baby boy. I named him Henry after his father, ensuring that what we had seemingly so long ago would live on for years to come.

  A postscript to this story. Kathleen became one of America's best-known designers and my best friend for more than half a century. Douglas also survived. He went on to find great success as a novelist and reporter and won the Pulitzer Prize for an article on a maritime disaster years later involving another famous ocean liner—the Andrea Doria.

  As for me, I was never to marry, feeling no other man could ever suffice after giving my heart and soul to Henry Patterson. Instead, I chose to concentrate on a career in teaching, raising my son, and enjoying my grandchildren and great grandchildren. Where I achieved my greatest comfort was in the memories of my fairytale romance aboard the Titanic where a few precious days of happiness were able to extend over a lifetime.

  # # #

  The following are bonus excerpts of the bestselling Jack the Ripper historical thriller novel

  DARK STREETS OF WHITECHAPEL

  By R. Barri Flowers

  Chapter One

  July 15, 1887

  Dear Detective Marboro and the rest of my would-be captors:

  You will pardon me if I find it hard to suppress my laughter at the so-called leads as to my identity. I can assure you that you are as far away from that as when I claimed my first victim approximately a year ago.

  Indeed can you be so certain that I am not, in fact, one of you in blue?

  I should think that everyone would applaud my ridding the streets of these low life harlots of the night. But apparently even many of you have a vested interest in the survival of this decadent profession—both financially and physically.

  Don't bother trying to catch me, for I am far too clever.

  Not quite ready to call it quits just yet, I'm afraid. Having too much fun watching these whores squirm and writhe as I slit their throats...and other parts of their anatomies.

  Yours truly,

  Jack the Ripper!

  Chapter Two

  New York City, July 1888

  It was a hot and muggy afternoon in this burgeoning metropolis surrounded by the waters of the Hudson River. Horse-drawn carriages of one type or another negotiated the streets fraught with clumps of manure, street vendors, and others trying to make their way to and fro. Men with side whiskers, walking sticks, tailored suits, and top hats conducted their business on the sidewalks and in the many shops and dining establishments lining downtown Manhattan. Women in hooded cloaks, long elegant gowns, petticoats, and stylish hats and boots browsed the stores on the arms of their husbands or alone. Even the growing numbers of homeless, unemployed, and disadvantaged in New York City had reason for optimism.

  It was the dawn of the modern era with the recent invention of the telephone and phonograph and significant improvements in medicine and transportation across the Atlantic. By the turn of the century there would be gas-powered vehicles, mass market phones and photography, and electronically driven passenger elevators.

  With an influx of immigrants, cheap labor, crowded tenements, unionization, corruption, exploitation, and racketeering, a fresh wave of crime and criminals was sweeping the city. It wasn't uncommon for murderers, street gangs, pickpockets, thieves, rapists, muggers, and prostitutes to perpetrate their offenses at any given moment.

  In the city's public and private hospitals, many victims of such crimes were treated and released. Others with more serious conditions often faced difficult operations with long and agonizing recoveries.

  Such was the case of a female mugging victim, who suffered multiple fractures and internal injuries. She was rushed by carriage to a private hospital, where the attending surgeon went to work immediately to save her life. It took several painstaking hours before that task was satisfactorily accomplished. Like an artist painting a magnificent landscape, the surgeon was flawless and competent in his execution, taking great pride in his skills with the knife.

  When it was all over, the patient was moved to recovery. The surgeon fully expected her to survive the ordeal.

  He then turned his attention to other weighty thoughts.

  * * *

  In the parlors, dance halls, whorehouses, back streets and alleys of Manhattan's red light district, prostitutes plied their trade to a steady diet of sex hungry male customers.

  The smell of sulfur tainted the air and gas lamps were little more than props in the dark of the night.

  He waited in the shadows as she stumbled out of the dance hall. He knew she served men drinks and her body. He'd not had her himself, but had watched her tease and flirt with others before taking them to one of the rooms upstairs.

  She staggered down the street, wearing a low-cut red evening dress trimmed with black lace, displaying an ample amount of cleavage. Her blonde hair was in a bouffant with a few tendrils on her forehead. She was somewhat taller and leaner than most of the whores he set his sights on. He imagined her to be in the mid-twenties, though she looked considerably older with a weathered face that he attributed to sun exposure and poor eating habits.

  He followed her as she crossed the street and headed down another. It was darker and empty of other pedestrians. Nevertheless he eyed her with caution, relying on his senses more than sight to guide him.

  There did not seem to be reason for suspicion that he could detect.

  She was his for the taking.

  She must have heard him, for she stopped and looked around, alarmed. He ducked into the shadows. She saw no one and continued to move more briskly than before.

  He picked up his pace behind her, closing the gap with elongated steps. He was practically upon her now, adrenaline pumping blood into his veins like morphine into an addict.

  She stopped and turned abruptly, facing him. "Now you wouldn't be followin' me, would ya, mista?" Her accent had a Scottish tilt.

  He could smell her strong perfume.

  What began with fear seemed to be replaced by anger. "Cat's caught your tongue, has it? I ain't got all night, you know—"

  He studied her for a moment longer, then said calmly: "I would like to pay for your services."

  She regarded the man curiously, guessing he was in his mid to late twenties. Tall and sturdy, he had a full head of jet-black hair and thick raven sideburns. His eyes, set slightly apart, were dark and ominous. His nose was long and narrow. A slight grin rested on his wide mouth, suggesting confidence and cunning.

  He was wearing a Cimmerian frock coat, over a like colored waistcoat, and silver-white shirt with an onyx cravat. A gold watch hung on
a chain across his dark trousers. In his hand was a black medical bag.

  She recognized him from the dance hall. He had been observing her there, but had been careful to keep his distance.

  She forced a smile on her face and said cheerfully: "Well, why didn't you say so?"

  "I'm saying so now." He regarded her expressionless.

  "So you are, love." Her eyes glistened like diamonds. "But not at the dance hall. No reason to share me money. Follow me. My place is just around the corner."

  He had a better idea. "No...in there—" He pointed to a narrow, dark alleyway.

  She looked at him with uncertainty. "You sure? It'd be much more comfortable at my place."

  "I'm sure," he said, inclining his head for her to lead the way.

  "Whatever suits your fancy." She walked down the alley slowly, feeling him right at her footsteps. "A doctor, are ya now?"

  "Yes." He sensed her hesitancy.

  "What type?"

  "A surgeon."

  "What's yer name, love?"

  "My friends call me Jack."

  She turned around and flashed him a nervous, but soft smile. "May I call you Jack?"

  "You can." He noted a trash bin at the far end of the alleyway, between a warehouse and a clothing factory. "This is far enough."

  She licked her lips and tried to keep her cool. "You always carry your bag around when you want to be with a lady?"

  "Yes."

  "What's in it?"

  He smiled disingenuously. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

  She could not stop shaking. "So what is it you have in mind?"

  "Nothing unusual, I can assure you."

  He pulled out a few bills and stuffed them into her cleavage, then backed her against the wall of the factory. Setting his bag on the ground, he opened it to an array of surgical knives.

  Before he could remove one, he heard the voice above him shout: "If you pull that out, Jack, I'll have to shoot you!"

  He looked up squarely into the barrel of a revolver. The whore was holding it, aimed right between his eyes.

  "What do you think you're doing?" he asked as if she hadn't a clue.

  She rolled her eyes at him. "I should think it would be obvious by now, Jack. I'm keeping you at bay till the coppers arrive—" She kept the gun leveled at his face, as she glanced nervously down the alleyway and saw policemen rushing towards them, guns drawn. Favoring the doctor more calmly now, she said: "Afraid you picked the wrong whore this time, Jack the Ripper!"