Taking the Titanic Read online

  Nigel Bowen

  English Channel

  Wednesday, April 10, 1912, 9:30 PM

  I sat back in a huge velvet-covered club chair and told my fellow players that my luck at cards must have been left ashore: I’d lost every hand we’d played. Davies was delighted with my losing streak, and I could tell the others saw me as a rank amateur.

  I was even outdone by a friendly young sportsman with a thatch of white-blond hair, Philip Colley, who kept urging me to “Buck up!” and even said, “That’s the way, old chap!” when I managed a hand with two meager sevens. He again brought up the previous night’s murder.

  “Ghastly business that strangulation, eh?” he asked excitedly.

  “Just a streetwalker,” one of the other men noted dryly. “There’s plenty to take her place.”

  “Come now, old man,” Phil protested. “That’s rather cold. The poor creature deserves some pity.”

  As there was none to be found at the table, I quickly started to deal another hand.

  “The girl was found in a hotel room belonging to a gentleman,” Phil went on. “And it seems the proprietor gave the police a pretty clear description of the killer. A youngish chap, tall and bearded and—”

  Two cards flew out of my hand, causing all to look at me with surprise.

  “Looks like I’m still finding my sea legs.” I shrugged and hurriedly dealt on.

  We played for another few minutes until Mrs. Davies, a statuesque woman who looked after her husband like a hawk, came over and demanded that he escort her to their cabin. I was paying my losses just as Celia approached with Mrs. Minahan and Mrs. Sedgwick.

  “Nigel! Don’t tell me you were betting again?” Celia cried.

  As I hung my head in mock guilt, she playfully slapped my arm. Turning to the other ladies, she said, “He’s convinced he’s the world’s greatest gambler—despite very strong evidence to the contrary. It’s a wonder he’s ever able to buy me a nice trinket now and then—like this darling little diamond bracelet he just picked up in Dublin!”

  Celia lifted her wrist to show off the piece—but her arm was bare. She confusedly looked at her other arm, which was also naked.

  “Oh, my!” she cried. “But I could have sworn I put it on this evening!”

  “You were absolutely wearing a bracelet earlier, my dear,” Mrs. Davies assured her. “I noticed it—as I’m sure my husband did while gazing at you!”

  Old Davies, flustered at the jibe, tried to take charge. “Well, the blasted thing must have fallen off. I’ll have a look under the table.”

  Straining his aged knees, Davies bent down to look under the table, as did several of the others. Celia tittered away in worry.

  “I knew I should have had the clasp reinforced,” she said.

  I motioned a steward over and soon the search party had swelled to at least ten. But no bracelet was found—only a shilling and small box of tablets for the relief of those suffering from “excessive wind.”

  “Don’t fret, darling,” I said to Celia. “It’s only a piece of jewelry. I’ll find another for you.”

  “But where is it?” she cried. “Someone surely must have found it. I can’t imagine anyone being so cruel as to keep it!”

  The other ladies comforted Celia. Even Mrs. Sedgwick patted her arm.

  “It may still turn up,” I assured her. “Unless one of our fellow diners helped themselves to it between courses five and six!”

  I laughed a bit too loudly and several of the women looked at me askance.

  “Really, Mr. Bowen!” said Mrs. Sedgwick, indignant. “I think making light of your wife’s distress is in very poor taste indeed, not to mention your implication that someone of our class would resort to thievery.”

  With a toss of her head, Mrs. Sedgwick indicated that my gaffe had ended the evening. Taking Celia gently by the shoulders, she steered her out of the room with the others following. Phil gave me a good-natured pat on the back.

  “Going in, Mr. Bowen?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No, I think I’ll take a stroll and enjoy a cigar. And give my wife time to regain herself.”

  “Mrs. Bowen is pretty as a Ziegfeld girl! I hope you don’t think that rude.”

  I nodded my acceptance of his compliment and together we walked onto the deck. First class occupied the center of the ship, where there was the least roll; in fact, the ship barely seemed to be moving. But as we leaned against the railing and looked down, we saw that the liner was effortlessly plowing through the dark English Channel. Phil took out a lighter and held it up toward me. I pulled out my cigar case and, opening it, nodded up at the four smoke funnels that towered over us.

  “I’m told the original design of this ship was for only three funnels,” I noted. “The fourth was added to give the ship greater majesty. But it’s just an air vent.”

  As Philip looked up curiously, I quickly moved the diamond bracelet from my cigar case to my coat pocket.

  “I say!” Philip marveled. “Who would expect such deception on the Titanic?”

  Suppressing a smile, I leaned forward for a light.

  “No one.”

  Chapter 5

  Celia Bowen

  Celtic Sea

  Thursday, April 11, 1912, 8:00 AM

  “More people are getting on the ship? But won’t it sink?”

  Everyone nearby laughed, angering the little boy who frowned at all of us.

  We were enjoying the morning in the elegant and very private First Class Promenade, an enclosed deck area with Tudor-style wood paneling. An assortment of chairs faced out to sea, and though there was a nip in the air outside, the promenade was sun-drenched and cheerful. I thought it amusing how our dinner companions from last night had already formed something of a clique and hung together.

  “It’s not funny!” the child insisted, stamping his foot. “My dog, Ladybelle, is below deck and I don’t think she can swim.”

  I knelt down to the stern-faced boy. “All dogs can swim,” I insisted. “But there’s no need to worry; the Titanic is the world’s first unsinkable ship!”

  Unconvinced, the boy turned toward his father—a tall, bookish man named Herbert Vogel—who smiled at his child. “It’s true, Arthur. The Titanic could take on ten times as many people as she’ll pick up in Queenstown this morning and still stay afloat!”

  I wandered over to the window and then glanced down the deck where Nigel was chatting with a rather demure girl, Miss Emily Moore. From the pleased way she looked up at Nigel from her deck chair it was clear he was flirting. Her surprisingly elderly father, Langston Moore, was standing with them and openly glaring at Nigel. I wondered why Nigel was putting so much effort into charming the two when Mr. Moore had stated—over and over again—that he did not approve of card playing.

  “My dear, I was so touched by your distress at the loss of your bracelet.”

  I turned to see Mr. Davies standing at my side—or, more accurately, pressing against my side. I took a step back and did my best to smile in response to his leer. With his carefully swept back white hair and dapper morning suit, he looked as respectable as a judge—but I knew his type. And apparently his wife did, too, as I noted she kept one eye on him from across the deck.

  “That’s kind of you, Mr. Davies,” I said. “But I’m afraid I made far too much of the loss. As my husband said, it’s just a piece of jewelry and can be replaced.”

  He leaned forward again, so close I could smell the coffee on his breath.

  “Oh, I assure you, my dear, it can be very easily replaced,” he said, taking my hand in his. With a glance over at his wife, who was now animatedly telling a story, he used his other hand to quickly but forcefully squeeze my breast.

  I slapped him so hard his head smacked against the window we were standing in front of.

  I don’t know which of us was the more shocked. His face instantly went beet-red, and for a moment I had the idea he was going to fall to the ground. Shaking with anger, I staggered past h
im to the far side of the promenade. I didn’t know if any of the others had seen, and for the moment I didn’t care.

  “I say, are you all right?”

  It was the young fair-haired fellow, Philip Colley—wide-eyed with concern.

  “That old coot deserves to be tossed overboard!” he exclaimed with his fists clenched at his side.

  “Oh, Mr. Colley, forget what you saw,” I begged him. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “You did what any self-respecting woman would have in your position—but not one in twenty would have the nerve!” he said, looking at me with astonished admiration.

  “Mr. Davies forgot himself; it happens with men of his class,” I said simply.

  “Oh, he knew exactly what he was doing. Just because of his social standing he thinks he can take liberties!” the boy fumed.

  I smiled at his naiveté. “It’s the way of the world, Mr. Colley. Say nothing about it. My husband would not be pleased to learn that I’ve angered his chief card companion. Let it be our secret.”

  Despite his outrage he seemed delighted to be in my confidence. I held out my hand and, eyes shining, he took it.

  Together, we walked back down the deck toward the others. Mr. Davies had obviously collected himself. He now held a map and was making a great show of explaining the route we were sailing to his wife, Mrs. Sedgwick, and little Arthur Vogel. He did not look our way as we walked by.

  Just ahead, I saw Miss Moore start to rise from her deck chair. Nigel and Mr. Moore simultaneously bent down to help her up—and knocked against each other. Mr. Moore reared backward, and for the second time that morning I expected to see an elderly man fall to the deck.

  But Nigel reached out and firmly gripped the older man’s arm, righting his stance but jostling his coat in the process. Mr. Moore’s billfold flipped out of his open jacket and landed on the deck. Flustered, he huffed and started to bend over, but Nigel was too quick for him. He picked up the billfold and, first waving it in the air as though performing a magician’s trick, he presented it to the furious older man with both hands.

  Mr. Moore—frowning with greater hostility than ever—begrudgingly took the billfold. I watched as Nigel then smilingly held out one hand to Miss Moore and, with his other, thrust a wad of bills into his trouser pocket.

  Chapter 6

  Celia Bowen

  Celtic Sea

  Thursday, April 11, 1912, 1:00 PM

  “Funny that you’re missing a bracelet. I seem to have misplaced a very nice gold watch.”

  I was having a post-luncheon walk around the deck with my new protector, Mr. Colley, or Phil, as he begged me to call him. The ship was rocking slightly and we kept bumping into each other as we awkwardly moved along. After we had eaten, Nigel had insisted on another game of cards with the men. The other ladies had pleaded with me to join them in an afternoon of sewing and empty chatter, but Phil had rescued me with the offer of a stroll. I accepted so quickly the ladies’ eyebrows went up practically in unison.

  “Oh, dear,” I cried. “Have you reported it to the crew?”

  A strained look came across Phil’s face for a moment.

  “Well…no. I haven’t. I don’t think I will. Anyway, perhaps it will turn up at some point—along with your bit of jewelry, I hope.”

  I looked at him curiously. “But why wouldn’t you report it? Someone is bound to find it and turn it in. It’s a hope I cling to!”

  Phil chewed his bottom lip and looked out at the gleaming ocean water.

  “Well, you see…it’s from a lady friend,” he said with an attempt at extreme tact. “And—well, this is awkward—but, you see, her family isn’t aware of our…friendship. And there’s a rather personal message inscribed on the back of the watch. It’s all such a bother.”

  “Oh, how romantic!” I smiled.

  Phil turned to me with the earnestness that only a twenty-two-year-old college boy can express. “Yes, I thought it was. But now…”

  He looked at me with such lovesick eyes it took every ounce of restraint I had not to giggle. I pressed his arm.

  “You’re very, very sweet,” I said.

  He thrust his hands in his pockets, and we walked past the crowded gymnasium.

  “I suppose I have my nerve. Cursing out old Davies for making a pass at you, then I go ahead and make just as big a fool of myself,” he said miserably.

  I stopped him and said with as much sincerity as I could, “You’ve paid me a very dear compliment and at a time when I needed one. Thank you.”

  We stopped in front of the smoking room. The warm light of the interior made the outside deck seem rather cold. A roar of hilarity came from inside, and we saw Nigel seated across the room at the card table. His hands were thrown up in the air in resignation while the other men laughingly shook their heads at what was clearly his continuing bad luck.

  “Mr. Bowen, he…” Phil stammered. “Well, he certainly takes his losses with good humor.”

  “He’s certainly had a lot of practice lately!” I said with a tight edge in my voice. “If he keeps at it, we’ll be in steerage by the end of this voyage.”

  Phil’s brow furrowed. “Look, if you need…well, anything.”

  “What I need,” I insisted with a carefree wave, “is to do a better job of distracting my husband from the card table. And to make sure no more of my few good possessions go missing.”

  We had come to a hallway entrance and Phil opened the door with a thoughtful look.

  “It is odd that we both have lost a valuable early in the passage,” he noted as we approached the door to my cabin. “I suppose theft is possible. Of course, it would have to be a crew member. A few of them do look rather shady. But at least you and I can trust each other—that’s something!”

  He again looked deep into my eyes and I was afraid for a moment that he was going to try to kiss me. But he caught himself and pulled back with obvious embarrassment.

  “And your husband, too, of course,” he said with a strained smile. “That goes without saying.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That goes without saying.…”

  Chapter 7

  Nigel Bowen

  Atlantic Ocean

  Thursday, April 11, 1912, 2:30 PM

  “I lost another thousand dollars,” I announced as I entered the cabin. “At least I think so. I still find the conversion from pounds to dollars most vexing.”

  Celia’s back was to me as she was sitting at her vanity table. I began removing my day clothes, folding each piece neatly over the chair near the bed. Ours was one of the modest first class cabins. Besides the bed and vanity, there was a writing desk, a bureau, and a rather small sofa. But all was done in flawlessly carved and stained mahogany. Amid the opulence, my eye caught something glittering under the lamplight on the desk. I wandered over and, picking it up, I judged the weight—which was hefty—and turned it over.

  “‘Yes, You may call me Sweetheart. Yours, Lilith’.” I read the inscription on the back of the gold watch aloud with amusement. I then began singing the popular song loudly. “Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you! Let me hear you whisper that you love me, too!”

  “You seem to be as bad at singing as you are at gambling,” Celia said with a shudder.

  “Alas, that is my true singing voice,” I confessed. “But after last night and today, I’ve lost enough that I’ve firmly established my card-playing incompetence. And so tonight, the inexplicable winning streak starts.”

  I walked behind her and watched for a moment as she adjusted a bit of face powder. She glanced up at me questioningly in the mirror.

  “I think I prefer you as a redhead,” I said. “I also miss the Cockney accent.”

  “Coo’, but it took me ever so long to talk good ’n’ proper, guv,” she said, laying it on thick. “Also, that red wig itched dreadfully.”

  I again tested the heft of the watch. “Miss Lilith must be devoted to young Phil. She spent a pretty sum on this. Is he heartbroken ov
er the loss?”

  Celia shrugged. “He’s just a boy. I doubt his affections run very deep.”

  Turning around, she said, “By the way, don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve yet to return my bracelet, husband dear—nor have you given me half the spoils you lifted from Mr. Moore.”

  I went over to the bureau and fished the delicate piece out of a drawer. I tossed it across the room and Celia caught it without the slightest effort.

  “You’ve a remarkably steady hand, darling,” I said. “I’ve been impressed by it ever since you pulled a gun on me.”

  “I’ve still got that gun,” she remarked. “So watch yourself.”

  Sitting in the chair, I pulled off my shoes. “I have to admit I’ve had my doubts about this scheme,” I told her. “Posing as swells to rob the other swells aboard the world’s greatest ship. And yet it’s working wonderfully! Just mind you keep that bracelet out of sight—it’s our best defense against suspicion.”

  She reached under the bed and pulled out one of her great hatboxes. She parted the silken interior lining and slipped the bracelet inside. Without looking at me she asked, “Why are you staring at me?”

  I laughed at her uncanny perception. “I’m still trying to figure you out. I’ve so many questions. Why the elaborate disguise and accent that night? Why did you choose me as your accomplice? Why hasn’t such an extraordinarily beautiful woman been snapped up by some rich bloke by now?”

  “I haven’t asked many questions of you,” Celia volleyed back. “Such as why adopt the Bjornstroms’ name? And what were you really doing in that part of town the other night? An area, I might add, where a woman was murdered.…”

  I sat up straight as a board. “Do you…suspect me?”

  She paused for a beat and then shrugged. “I don’t see how you would have had the time.”

  “Hmm, I’d rather you thought it wasn’t in my character, but I’ll take what I can get,” I said. “It amuses me to speculate on your character. I have two theories on your mysterious identity. One: you’re an exotic spy, pursued by Scotland Yard because you’ve made off with top-secret documents from Parliament. Two: you’re a member of the Royal Family and, frustrated with your life of privilege and the tedious duties of your rank, you’ve opted for the glamour of a life of crime!”