The Titanic Enigma (27 page)

‘That may be the names they gave you.’

‘What are you saying?’ Fortescue was utterly exasperated.

‘The woman, her name’s Frieda. The bloke, he’s called Charles and he’s as English as you are.’

‘They’re Swiss!’

‘So they says.’

‘Billy.’ Fortescue could feel his patience draining away. ‘I’ve really had enough drama for one day.’

‘They are trying to steal something from you.’

‘Look, just stop!’ Fortescue’s temper had finally snapped.

‘But . . .’

‘I said stop!’ He realized he was yelling and looked along the deck left then right. A man was walking a dog about fifty feet away. Fortescue’s voice had been swept
about by the wind and the man was oblivious to them.

He looked down at Billy and the boy could see the fury in Fortescue’s eyes.

‘It’s true,’ Billy persisted.

Something snapped in Fortescue. He could simply not accept that the woman he had made love to last night was deceiving him. The boy must be lying deliberately.

He raised his hand to strike the boy and at that moment a door opened behind him a few yards along the deck. He reacted quickly, glanced round, lowered his hand just in time. An
elderly couple, both wrapped up in overcoats, slipped past him. The man was wearing an old-fashioned top hat which he lifted a fraction from his head as he passed.

Fortescue offered a brief ‘Good morning’ and turned back to where Billy O’Donnell had stood and caught a flash of jacket as the boy slipped out of
sight.

Fortescue was in mental turmoil; the events of the past few days had suddenly caught up with him. He had not realized what a creature of habit he was. Out of the
environment he was so used to – the laboratory he shared with Rutherford, his apartment, his small circle of friends and the remnants of his family in Surrey – he felt utterly
lost.

Who was he to believe? How could Frieda and Marcus be anything other than what they appeared to be? Should he believe the word of Billy? Until now he’d had nothing but
admiration for the boy and his talent, but in all honesty should he really have trusted a kid who skulked around the ship, admitted stealing as a pastime and whose uncle was a
thug?

But then again, he was here on this ship for a reason, a deadly serious reason. He should never forget that. He was not John Wickins, he was not a barrister, nor was he a
schoolteacher with a rich father in America. He was Dr Egbert Fortescue, a researcher at Manchester University, but he was also Egbert Fortescue the co-discoverer of a priceless
secret.

The previous evening someone had snooped around his cabin. He was sure of that. There could be no doubt that if the secret was known to enemies of England then his life would be in
danger and forces would have been mobilized to find and steal his work. That much had been made clear to him during the briefing session immediately before leaving Manchester. And now, of course,
there was even more at stake, for he had moved onward with the endeavours he and Rutherford had started. He had reached far beyond accepted theory.

Pulling himself up from his armchair, Fortescue walked over to the bed, crouched and put the combination into the safe. Dragging out the metal boxes, he removed his briefcase
containing his notes.

Placing the papers on the desk, he added to them the work he had been doing during the past three days at sea that dealt with his new revolutionary discoveries. He pulled up a chair,
removed his jacket, folded back his sleeves and began to write.

It took him almost an hour to make a fair copy of what amounted to twenty-seven pages of notes, then he spent a further thirty minutes double-checking every expression, every plus
and minus sign and every set of parentheses.

Fortescue stood up, collected together the copy of the entire set and placed this in the inside pocket of his jacket. Then, sifting through the original collection of papers, he
carefully separated out random pages to create two neat piles on the desk. Both of these contained pages of equations and numeric descriptions, but each only told a part of the story. The substance
of each interwove, but he had parted them, a mathematical expression here, a line of notation there. He then placed the right-hand pile in his briefcase, slipped that into its metal box and
returned it to the safe beside the isotope box before spinning the combination lock. He gathered up the second heap of notes, found a couple of elastic bands and a large envelope in the desk
drawer. Securing the papers into a small bundle, he placed them in the envelope, strode to the door and out into the passage.

It was the obvious and logical way any sensible person would protect their work, he mused . . . Make a copy to keep on one’s person, separate out the original into two random
collections and hide these in different places.

It took no more than a couple of minutes to reach the main reception. The purser’s office stood close to the Grand Staircase. It was a small room with a hatch opening onto the
reception area. The window was unmanned. Fortescue rang the bell and a few moments later a young man in a white uniform appeared. He was out of breath, his face ruddy.

‘Apologies, sir,’ he gasped. ‘Had to deliver a parcel to one of the gentlemen on A-Deck.’

Fortescue put the envelope on the sill. ‘I would like this package placed in the hold.’

‘Certainly sir.’ The young man looked at it then checked a logbook opened on the counter. ‘Okey dokey . . . I can put this item . . .’He tapped it. ‘. .
. into Security Box . . . Let me see . . . 19A . . . AS, in cargo hold number 4. How does that suit?’

Fortescue shrugged. ‘I don’t mind, just so long as it is safe.’

‘Couldn’t be safer, sir. Now, if ever you need to retrieve the item, just drop by. If I’m not ’ere, tell them Security Box . . .’

‘Yes . . . 19AS, cargo hold 4. Very well, thank you.’Fortescue placed a sixpence on the counter and walked away.

*

Back in his cabin, Fortescue called for the steward, and while he waited he wrote a brief message on a piece of ship’s stationery: ‘Please join me for
luncheon. Yours, John.’ He then slipped the note into an envelope. When the man arrived, Fortescue handed it to him.

Twenty minutes later the reply came back.
I thought you would never ask!

*

Frieda looked enchanting. She was wearing a pale-blue dress, her hair up in braids. He saw her seated at a table before she spotted him and he remembered her face in
the dim light of her cabin very early that morning.

‘You look more beautiful every time I see you,’ he said as he reached the table and took her hand in his.

‘Oh, goodness, you know all the right things to say.’ She beamed at him. ‘So what have you been up to? Sleeping, like me?’

He felt a spasm of anxiety, but smiled nonchalantly. ‘I couldn’t. I was up on deck to see the sunrise.’

‘Goodness me . . . I didn’t realize!’

‘It was almost a religious experience,’ Fortescue went on. ‘If you happen to believe in such things.’

‘John!’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend . . .’

‘I shall pray for you.’

He nodded solemnly.

The waiter approached and they ordered: shrimp followed by lobster for Frieda; salmon and steak for Fortescue. The wine waiter poured each of them a glass of Château Lafite
1909.

‘So tell me more about working with Georges Méliès.’

‘You’re really interested in this?’

‘I am. I think he is a genius.’

‘I do too. Well, where do I begin? What do you want to know, John?’

‘Oh, I don’t know . . . How does it all work? How does he make “the magic” happen?’

She took a sip of wine and replaced the glass decorously. ‘Méliès is a genius, but he is also a dirty old man!’

Fortescue had a mouthful of wine, swallowed it . . . just . . . and guffawed. ‘I imagine it comes with the artistic temperament. ’

‘Quite so . . . at least that’s what the other ladies at the studio said to convince themselves. But, look, don’t get me wrong . . . he is a sublime
artist.’

‘And, to be honest, I cannot blame him for his good taste,’ Fortescue commented.

She looked at him under lowered eyelids. ‘You are an agent provocateur, Mr Wickins.’ And she beamed.

The food arrived and they ate in silence for a while.

And what about you, John? Seeing as we are playing twenty questions.’

‘Oh, Good Lord, Frieda. As I told you and your brother the other night, the last thing you want to know about me are the details of my profession. I would far rather create the
impression of an artistic son of a wealthy industrialist . . . life as a lawyer is so deathly dull I simply refuse to discuss it.’

‘Very well, but what about your love life?’

Ah, well, admittedly, that has been slightly more eventful.’

‘Oh?’

‘But I do not wish to talk about other women when I’m in the presence of the most beautiful of the species I have yet encountered.’

‘John Wickins . . . you are positively incorrigible . . . do continue!’

As the wine started to take effect, Fortescue found himself letting loose the suspicions Billy had engendered. He became once again transfixed by this young woman who seemed so
interested in him. He wanted to believe in her, he wanted to be seduced.

And seduced he was. The main course arrived, was consumed; dessert followed, then brandy and a champagne for Frieda, and soon they were walking as though in a dream towards the lift,
where a young attendant stood at the controls and smiled at them benignly. From there they were in the corridor leading to Frieda’s cabin. They stopped, kissed, their tongues probing and
exploring. Into the room, and onto the bed; clothes shed, skin touching skin, their breath mixing, bodies melding. They found each other and were lost to the world.

Fortescue awoke. It was dark and for several long moments he could not recall where he was. He had never slept so deeply and now he felt groggy. He pulled himself
up in the dark and heard noises, a confusion of voices, someone shouting instructions. Then it all came back to him – the lunch, Frieda. He put a hand out across the bed. He was alone, the
bedding ruffled. He fumbled for the electric light switch, found it, flicked it on and shielded his eyes.

‘Frieda?’

No reply.

The room was decorated in what the brochure had called Georgian style. He could see recessed alcoves, paintings of neo-classical beauties and spear-carrying Adonises. The floor was
covered with a rich green carpet, the bedspread a lush red weave. He stood and dressed quickly. The sounds outside were growing louder, closer, but he could not make out a single word. Then he felt
a hard jolt and a spasm of panic shot through him.
What the hell was that?
Another violent judder. It seemed unimaginable that a vessel this size could be shaken by anything . . . but it
had . . . twice in the space of a few seconds. He felt a vibration stutter across the floor, gripped the ornately carved bedstead and headed for the door.

A woman rushed past him in the corridor. He walked quickly towards the reception area close to the Grand Staircase. A group of passengers had gathered there. He approached the
closest person, a man in a dinner suit pulling on a lifejacket.

‘What in heaven’s name is going on?’

The man turned, his face flushed with excitement. ‘Hit an iceberg, old boy. Not supposed to be too serious.’ He glanced down at the lifejacket. A precaution
apparently.’

Fortescue said nothing, spun on his heel and headed for the door leading out to the deck.

A small group of First Class passengers had gathered on the main promenade. A member of the crew was talking to them animatedly. Some people were in their nightclothes; others were
still wearing dinner suits and gowns. One of the group, a large man in a top hat and smoking a pipe, headed towards the bow. Fortescue started to follow him, passed a bulkhead, and there it
was.

The
Titanic
had pulled away from the iceberg. Fortescue could feel the ship turning tightly to port. The iceberg floated now a hundred yards to starboard, but it still
looked massive, towering over the gigantic vessel. The slopes of the ice mountain were jagged, the lights from the ship illuminating its bladelike edges, frozen rivulets, and the pits and channels
in its blue-tinted ice. Between the ship and the iceberg the water churned black. Fortescue went over to the rail and looked at the water. He could see dots of white, flecks of
detritus.