Fateful (21 page)

“No!” I cry out. George stares at me, bewildered by my reaction. A few yards distant down the hallway, I see that Myriam is equally confused. “You can’t. You—you just can’t.”

Mr. Marlowe says, “Why don’t we take this up with the captain?” He stands taller, adjusts his suit until he looks more like the wealthy and powerful man he is. “The dog is mine and I wish to keep it.”

Maybe George recognizes him then, but he doesn’t back down. “Good God, do you care more about what’s to become of your dog than the man who died here tonight?”

If they throw “the dog” overboard, two men will die tonight. The horror of the murder I witnessed doesn’t take away from the fact that Alec has to be saved.

“I’m truly sorry.” Mr. Marlowe’s voice breaks on the word, and my heart hurts as I feel how much this pains him. He’s a good man, one who would never fight George on this if the stakes were any less than his son’s life. “But—I must insist on speaking to a higher authority before you do anything rash.”

“Rash!” George looks furious, as well he might. “I’m not waking up Captain Smith; he’ll have the lot of us thrown overboard. But there are other authorities aboard this ship. And we’ll let them decide what’s to become of the animal.”

I look down again at the red wolf, deep in drugged sleep on the floor. He might be drowned before he wakes.

Chapter 18

THEY TIE THE RED WOLF AS IF HE WERE A HOG FOR slaughter and throw him in a wooden crate.

“You won’t touch him,” Mr. Marlowe declares. “Not if you want your job on this liner in the morning.”

George’s temper is no better. “I follow the rules aboard this ship, unlike some. When we’ve heard from Mr. Andrews what to do, it’ll be done. If he wants to give you your damned dog back, he can. But if he’s sensible and wants it drowned before it can do any more harm, then that’s the way it has to be, and all your money and influence won’t change it.”

I wince as the stewards roughly hoist the crate and take it—I don’t know where. As badly as I want to follow him, to protect Alec, I know it’s impossible. Shivering with cold and the aftermath of shock, I can only hold out one hand in useless protest as they take the crate through a passageway and the door swings shut behind them.

Mr. Marlowe removes his jacket and drapes it across my shoulders. Only then do I realize that I’m still in my nightgown, with my curls hanging loose past my shoulders. “You did your best,” he murmurs.

I turn to him and see, for the first time, that there is a dark red shadow across his eye, which is beginning to swell. “Mikhail?” I whisper. He nods once.

Mikhail overpowered Mr. Marlowe at the door of the squash court and released Alec, in the hopes that he would kill someone. Alec had warned me that Mikhail’s silence might mean a new plan, but I didn’t suspect this.

“Come along then,” George says stiffly. He bears his own wound without a flinch, even as he uses his injured arm to open the door. When I follow Mr. Marlowe, he stares at me. “Tess—I mean, Miss Davies, what has this to do with you? Shouldn’t you go back to your cabin? It’s been a devil of a night.”

I stop short, uncertain how to answer.

Mr. Marlowe rescues me. “She has been considering taking employment with our family. I’m pleased to see such initiative in looking after our interests, Miss Davies. Please accompany us.”

It’s as good a lie as any. George frowns a bit, but he raises no further objection. I glance over at Mr. Marlowe, who gives me a nod. Really I ought to go back to my cabin, but there’s no chance of my sleeping more now. When I do return, the first thing I’m going to have to contend with is an interrogation by Myriam, who is obviously aware that something’s up. Facing the captain or first officer or whoever “Mr. Andrews” is seems easy by comparison.

Besides—I have to know, as soon as possible, what’s going to become of Alec. If Mr. Marlowe can talk or bribe his way out of this, we can get the crate back, let him wake up in a bed for once, and look toward the future.

If Mr. Marlowe’s fortune and influence fail him, Alec will either be drowned in his sleep or transform in the crate to be revealed as a monster before the whole world.

We walk out onto the deck in first class, headed somewhere I don’t recognize. Is it just the strangeness of this night playing tricks on me, or is the air much colder than it was before? The rest of our trip has been pleasant and temperate, but suddenly the air has a bite. Maybe it’s just fear playing tricks on me. Making me imagine what poor Alec would feel if they drop him off the ship, into the bitter chill of the north Atlantic, to die.

Our footsteps seem so loud in the hush of the night. On the dark, endless ocean before us, I glimpse a spur of white—a little ice, nothing more.

Mr. Marlowe isn’t at all well, I realize. His gait is unsteady, his stare unfocused. I take his arm. “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’ve failed him.” Mr. Marlowe closes his eyes for a moment, as if trying to block out the horrible truth, and I have to guide him along our way. I’m not sure whether the blows from Mikhail now blackening his eye have dazed him, or if he’s simply numb with shock. The situation is dire enough on its own, but he may be hurt. We should ask for a doctor, but not now. We have to face the gravity of what has happened tonight, but not now. Now we have to fight for Alec’s life.

“Where are we going?” I ask George. “Which officer is Mr. Andrews?”

George looks at me, somewhat awkwardly. We’re friendly, and yet we’re caught on opposite sides now. The worst of it is that I can’t blame him for what he’s doing; knowing only what he knows, he can hardly do anything else but protect the passengers. “Mr. Andrews isn’t an officer at all.”

“You mean he’s only a passenger?”

“Only a passenger! Hardly. Mr. Andrews is one of the senior designers for the White Star Line. He designed the ship we’re sailing on now.”

“That’s quite impressive,” I say, meaning it. “But why are we talking to the ship’s designer, of all people?”

“First of all, he’s the second most senior representative of the White Star Line aboard the
Titanic
. The most senior representative is J. Bruce Ismay himself, and if you think I’m waking up Mr. Ismay after midnight, you’re mad.” George touches his scratched arm—it’s still bothering him. We might all be at the doctor together, afterward. “More than that, though, Mr. Andrews—he’s sort of the person we all turn to. He settles arguments among the crew, deals with tricky situations. You can trust his judgment.”

I hope that’s true.

George is the one who knocks on Mr. Andrews’s cabin door; by chance, he’s still awake. When we walk in, he’s wearing a brocade evening robe over pajamas, but he receives us as politely as though this were high tea. “Please, everyone, take a seat.” Andrews has a light Irish brogue, and a broad, kindly face. When he smiles at me, I find myself smiling back despite everything. “I take it you’ve come for advice, Mr. Greene. Now, what’s all this about?”

“Mr. Marlowe brought a dangerous dog aboard, and it got loose tonight and killed one of the stewards. Bit a couple of other fellows, myself included,” George says. This is untrue—George was clawed, not bitten, though I can see how he might be confused from the shock of the fight. Nor did Alec bite anyone else. But all that pales next to the fact that a man is dead. “It ought to have been restrained. Now I can’t see keeping it aboard ship. Ought to be thrown overboard, if you ask me.”

“It’s my property,” Mr. Marlowe says. “It’s my responsibility. I’ve offered to pay all damages. The dog is mine, and I want it returned to me safe and sound. Tonight.”

Mr. Andrews’s eyes flicker over me, and I know he’s wondering what on earth I have to do with this situation. I can’t explain, but I say, “We oughtn’t to kill it. Not if there’s any other way. Should we, sir?”

“It is a deadly beast and must be put down. However, despite your commendable caution, Mr. Greene, we cannot throw it overboard,” Mr. Andrews says. “The dog must be tested for rabies.”

“Rabies?” George goes white. That would be the worst possible outcome of a dog bite—though he can little suspect how much worse it would’ve been had Alec actually bitten him. Then again, maybe not; rabies is fatal.

“I’m certain the dog’s not rabid,” Mr. Marlowe says.

Mr. Andrews says, somewhat tersely, “We must think of the injured men first. You realize the dog will have to be destroyed for the rabies test. I’m quite sorry, but that’s all there is to it.”

I think fast. The
Titanic
might contain nearly every luxury known to man, from steam baths to a squash court, but I’ll bet anything there’s no veterinarian on board. “We can’t do the test until we reach New York City, though, can we, sir?”

“No, we can’t.” Mr. Andrews looks at me and Mr. Marlowe sympathetically, understanding that—however unlikely it might be—we are together in this. “Would it comfort you to keep the dog with you until we reach port?”

“It would, sir.” Mr. Marlowe is already breathing easier, and I know why. When we reach New York, he will procure some stray and have it tested for rabies instead. “After the dog is tested in New York City, I will turn over the report to the White Star Line, and of course to the injured men directly.”

“That seems reasonable,” Mr. Andrews says. “Mr. Greene, do you agree?”

“Reasonable, aye, sir, but perhaps not sufficient.” George shakes his head sadly as he looks at his torn sleeve.

“I think he scratched you,” I venture. “Not bit.”

“You might be right, and it’s glad I am of it, but that’s not much consolation.” Now that the immediate rush of fear has passed, so has his anger—but not his resolve. “If that dog of yours broke out once, he could break out again. What if he were to bite someone else? I couldn’t have it on my conscience, sir.”

Mr. Andrews bows his head slightly, considering this. The argument is shifting against us, and Mr. Marlowe and I look at each other in alarm.

Just then, there is a knock at the door. I expect some other minor ship crisis, arriving on Mr. Andrews’s doorstep to be resolved. I never expect Mikhail to walk in.

Although I manage to stifle my gasp, Mr. Marlowe goes quite pale. I clutch his hand. Mr. Andrews doesn’t notice; he’s too busy dealing with his new guest. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t believe I have the honor of your acquaintance.”

“Count Mikhail Kalashnikov, at your service.” Mikhail pulls out his card. “Though we have not been introduced, a few simple inquiries will confirm that I am the representative of a large organization. An organization that is a major shareholder in the White Star Line.”

My God. Alec told me the Brotherhood had power, money, and influence, but I hadn’t realized until now—they’re part owners of the ship itself.

“I heard of this unpleasantness,” Mikhail says silkily. His dark eyes rake over me, and I remember that I’m wearing no more than a thin nightgown and Mr. Marlowe’s coat. “It is best if I take charge. My organization is prepared to make full restitution to the injured parties. A physician on board will be assigned to tranquilize the wild animal until we make port.”

“You, take charge?” George doesn’t like the sound of this. “I’ve never heard of you before.”

Mikhail smiles his thin, unnerving smile. His teeth are too large for his mouth, too white amid the dark spear of his beard. “Then perhaps we should wake Captain Smith. I assure you—he has heard of my organization’s role in the White Star Line. He will confirm my orders.”

“I don’t doubt it,” mutters Mr. Andrews. “Mismanagement has plagued this project from the beginning.”

“Shall I pass your concerns on to Mr. Ismay and the rest of the leaders of the White Star Line?” Mikhail says. “If they hear that one of their designers likes to slander them on transatlantic crossings, perhaps they will reconsider whom they employ in future.”

This dismays Mr. Andrews not one whit. With spirit, he says, “If you think I could get no other work as a designer after building many of the finest and most elegant ships ever launched, you’re sorely mistaken, Mr. Kalashnikov. And if you think I’m the only White Star employee who ever grumbled, this must be your very first day aboard a ship!”

Mikhail stares, clearly unaccustomed to having anybody stand up to him. I like Mr. Andrews as much as I’ve ever liked anyone on only five minutes’ acquaintance.

Mr. Andrews continues, calm once more, “As it so happens, before your arrival, we had already reached an agreement that the dog must be tested for rabies, which can only be done ashore. So it remains onboard for the duration of our journey. If a physician can keep it tranquilized, and I have Mr. Marlowe’s word as a gentleman that this will be done, then the dog may as well be kept alive for the rest of the voyage. It may in fact be better for the purposes of the test.”

“That’ll do,” George says quickly. Though I can tell he still has doubts, he didn’t really want to kill someone’s dog in front of him, even if it did something terrible. Myriam has found a kind man.

“Entirely acceptable.” Mr. Marlowe rises to his feet. His movements are stiff; his eye is blackening quickly. Mikhail must have hit him hard. “Thank you, Andrews. You dealt with this situation handsomely.”

“Comes with designing a ship, sir. You take responsibility for all her operations—even the unexpected ones.” A flash of humor brightens Mr. Andrews’s face as he shakes his head, but then he frowns. “Quite a bruise you took there. In the struggle with the dog?”

“Yes,” Mr. Marlowe says hurriedly. “That’s it.” I can almost feel Mikhail’s smirk.

Mr. Andrews continues, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get a bit of sleep tonight. If possible.”

“Aye, sir. Thank you, sir. It’s good to know we have you to turn to.” George hurries out, with a nod in my direction.

Mikhail doesn’t look nearly as pleased, as well he might not, but Mr. Andrews isn’t the main focus of his attention. Mr. Marlowe is. I take Mr. Marlowe’s arm again, unsure whether I want to protect him or want him to protect me. In any case, we all walk out on deck together.

George hesitates before leaving us. “Good God. Tess, I’ve got something for you.” Stiff from his injury, he nonetheless fishes in his pocket and hands me a bit of crumpled paper. He leaves a bloody fingerprint on one corner. “A Marconigram. It’s irregular for anybody in third class to get them, so I said I’d walk it down to you. Forgot in all the insanity.”