Guggenheim smiled. ‘See you there, my friend.’
Fortescue nodded and strode on, bemused.
What looked like the invitation to the soirée had been slipped under the door, but there was something else; he sensed immediately that someone had been in his cabin while he was out. It was not the steward with the food. If he had received no reply, he would have either left the tray outside or taken it back to the kitchen.
The cabin looked almost exactly as he had left it, but there were some subliminal changes that had triggered his suspicions. He checked the safe under his bed, flicked through the combination and opened the door. The boxes were there. Using a letter opener from the desk, he gingerly unlatched the smaller container holding the isotope. It was untouched and he quickly flicked back the latch and locked it. Then he checked that his precious briefcase was there too. Everything was in order. There was no copy of the combination number anywhere — and there was no way to open the safe without it.
He had left nothing else of value in the room and taken his latest notes with him. He locked the safe again and straightened up. Glancing at his desk, he could tell his fountain pen had been moved a fraction of an inch and a piece of blank paper shifted slightly from where it had been when he left the cabin half an hour earlier.
He stood rigid looking around the comfortable room. He was pretty sure nothing else had been moved. But what did this mean? His instincts told him someone had intruded upon his privacy. Furthermore, they must have either been a skilled burglar or else they had obtained a copy of his key. Most importantly, there had to be a reason for it. Someone must know who he was and why he was aboard. They must have been watching him, studying his movements. He would have the locks changed first thing the following morning.
A knock at the door jolted Fortescue from his darkening thoughts. He turned, swung open the door and saw a young steward he had noticed last night at the restaurant.
‘Your dinner order, sir,’ the steward said. He had an earnest face, warm brown eyes, a continental accent. Fortescue guessed he was Italian or perhaps Spanish.
‘Thank you. On the table, please.’ He slipped the young man a sixpenny piece as he left.
Leaving the food for a moment, Fortescue glanced down at the invitation he had picked up and placed on his desk. It came in an elegant cream envelope with his name in green ink and written in a feminine hand. He sliced it open, took out a single piece of paper and read:
Dear Mr Wickins,
Please do come to our little gathering at the Verandah Café at nine o’clock this evening. We will be offering drinks and providing entertainment for our new friends aboard ship.
Cordially yours,
Frieda and Marcus Schiel.
24
The Verandah Café was usually a communal area for all First Class passengers, but on the first afternoon of the voyage, the beautiful and charming Frieda had befriended the Captain, Edward Smith, and persuaded him to have it put aside as a private function room for her planned event on Saturday evening
The cafe was an elegant place to eat and to meet fellow First Class passengers. Long and narrow with windows looking out to the port side of the Titanic, the opposite wall was lined with large mirrors and doorways leading to another set of rooms and the kitchens. It was perhaps the least formal public area, one of the few places where children could play, but during Saturday afternoon a great deal of work had been done. The tables and chairs had been stored away, the doors out to the deck were closed and someone with a modern eye for decoration had decked out the room with great swathes of coloured silk that draped from the ceiling to produce an effect reminiscent of a Bedouin tent. Oil lamps covered with brightly painted shades hung suspended from wires traversing the low ceiling and the wooden floor was covered with small pieces of coloured paper shaped as flower petals.
Fortescue was one of the last to arrive and was immediately taken aback by the scene. A young waiter in White Star Line uniform approached with a tray of champagne glasses. Fortescue selected one and brought it to his lips just as loud music burst across the room. He had not noticed the ship’s band grouped together at the far end close to the deck exit and the music they were making was like nothing he had ever heard before. To his ears it sounded absolutely cacophonous. One of the band was singing. The words made little sense to him.
‘What do you think, Mr Wickins?’ It was Frieda at Fortescue’s right elbow.
‘Wonderful,’ he replied. ‘Your people have a done a fantastic job with the decor, Fräulein Schiel.’
‘Please, I think we have moved beyond surnames. Unless you address me as Frieda I shall be most offended.’
Fortescue smiled and sipped his champagne. ‘Then it must also be John.’
She nodded. ‘What do you think of the band?’
‘Extraordinary.’
She detected his tone and laughed out loud. ‘It is the very latest thing I brought the sheet music on board especially. It’s called “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” by a man named Irving Berlin. I’ve given the musicians a whole ream of ragtime music; they were a little bemused, I must admit… But it’s so dilly.’
And what does “dilly” mean?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Jazz lingo, John…’
He nodded. ‘I guess it’s part of your job to teach yourself “Californian”.’
‘I’ll get you dancing to Mr Berlin before the night is out.’
He raised his glass and she tugged his arm, pulling him over to a small gathering close by. Frieda made the introductions.
‘Lucy, Lady Duff Gordon and her husband, Sir Cosmo Duff Gordon.’ She waved a hand towards a middle-aged couple. The husband looked very formal in a stiff evening suit, but his wife had a lightness about her and a sparkle in her eyes. ‘Lady Duff Gordon owns the most wonderful shop in the world,’ Frieda went on volubly. ‘I went there last year on a visit to London, Mr Wickins. It is Maison Lucile of Mayfair.’ Fortescue gave her a blank look. ‘Lingerie,’ she added with a cheeky grin.
Next in line were a shy couple, newly-weds from Rome who seemed completely overwhelmed by the evening. They said ‘hello’, in heavily accented English.
‘This is a man you may already know, Mr Wickins,’ Frieda said. ‘Mr William Stead. Mr Stead… Mr Wickins.’
‘Good evening,’ the man said stiffly and looked Fortescue up and down.
‘Mr Stead is a famous journalist. And I only learned from him this evening that he is a very serious spiritualist.’