Furrows carved into the captain’s brow. “Details, man,” he said.
Futrelle provided them, leaving out only that Alice Cleaver had helped herself to the cash on Crafton’s dresser, some of which may have been payoff money Ismay gave the blackmailer, Futrelle surmised.
“I sympathize with this woman,” Ismay said, and his concern seemed genuine enough. “But it’s not our place to judge. In any case, with these mitigating circumstances, she’ll probably get off.”
“I don’t think so,” Futrelle said. “Not with her past. Can you imagine the sensationalist press having at this? ‘Baby Killer Kills Again-on the Titanic!’ There’s some nice publicity for you.”
“Good Lord, man,” Ismay said, “there are children entrusted to her care, even as we speak!”
“She’s pledged to leave the Allisons’ service, upon reaching port.”
“Mr. Futrelle-why do you want to see this woman go free?” the captain asked.
“Because it’s the Christian thing to do. I realize this is a British vessel, but we’re in the middle of the North Atlantic, gentlemen. We’re a jurisdiction unto ourselves, out here. Let’s serve justice, not serve this girl up to corrupt New York coppers and hungry yellow journalists. Let’s give this unfortunate girl the opportunity my country gives anyone: a second chance.”
“I don’t see how we can,” Ismay said, obviously wishing he could, wringing his hands. His bleak expression indicated he’d begun to gather the extent of the devastatingly bad press guaranteed his ship if this came out.
“Whatever you decide,” Futrelle said, “I’m going to advise that you destroy that packet of blackmail documents.”
Ismay laughed once, without humor. “Damn it all, man! Earlier you were adamant that they not be destroyed.”
“Earlier I thought they’d be needed as evidence.”
“They are evidence,” the captain reminded both men.
“Precisely,” Futrelle said. “And into the hands of the police, those New York police I mentioned earlier, you will have placed defamatory material on the cream of your First-Class passengers. Have you read this material, gentlemen?”
Ismay avoided Futrelle’s gaze. “We, uh… glanced at the distaseful tripe.”
Captain Smith said, “We didn’t dignify the bilge with a close examination.”
“Well, if you had, you’d know that, at the very least, some of those involved will be embarrassed… others, like Major Butt, a fine man, would be ruined.”
Captain Smith reared back; his eyebrows were climbing his forehead. “Sir-would you have us sweep this entire affair under the carpet?”
“Why don’t you dump it to the bottom of the sea?”
Ismay was amazed. “Including the two corpses in our cold-storage hold?”
Futrelle nodded. “Exactly what I’d suggest.”
Captain Smith said, “Sir, you were the one who warned that these men, however vile, had associates, families….”
“Mr. Crafton died of a heart attack, in his sleep-natural causes. Mr. Rood, apparently despondent over his friend’s death, drank rather too much and took a spill on deck, taking a fatal fall. Dr. O’Loughlin fills out the reports, you bury the bodies at sea, and… if you can trust the handful of crew who know about this unfortunate situation… sit back and wait to see if the White Star Line gets sued by any family members for negligence. If they do, settling with them will be a small price to pay for the large embarrassment you avoid.”
Ismay’s expression-a mixture of confusion and irritation, mixed with dismay-melted into blankness; but his eyes were moving with the rapidity of his thoughts.
Captain Smith wore the faintest frown and his eyes moved not at all-unblinkingly so-but it was clear he too was considering Futrelle’s suggestions and the various ramifications.
A knock at the door prompted the captain to say, “Come!”
Second Officer Lightoller stuck his head in. “Sir, my apologies for interrupting, but even if we begin our inspection immediately, we’ll be seriously late for church services.”
Rather dismissively, Smith said, “Well, then, cancel the boat drill.”
“Sir?”
“It’s just a formality, after all; we’ve got a calm Sabbath day at sea for our passengers, and we won’t interrupt it.”
Lightoller didn’t seem to like the sound of this order, but he said, “Yes, sir,” and disappeared.
Captain Smith stood. “Mr. Futrelle, I appreciate the manner in which you’ve aided us in this unfortunate matter. Mr. Ismay and I will take your suggestions under advisement.”
Futrelle rose. “I would appreciate it if you’d inform me of your decision. We should, as they say, get our stories straight.”
“We have another full day of travel,” the captain said. “Mr. Ismay and I will discuss this further, and you’ll have our decision tomorrow, by mid-afternoon.”
“I hope at the very least you follow my advice to burn those blackmail documents-including that torn list found in Crafton’s cabin.”
Ismay and Smith exchanged glances, then the captain said, “I believe you may be assured of that, sir.”
Futrelle sighed heavily. “I admit I’m relieved-not for myself; the documents aren’t so damning in my case. But you’ll do a great service to a number of people undeserving of such aspersions.”
Ismay stepped forward. “Mr. Futrelle… I apologize if I seemed rude. This has been an unusual situation, to say the least, and we do appreciate your generous counsel.”
“Do I assume correctly that you’ve changed your mind about commissioning me to write a murder mystery on the Titanic?”
“That is a fair assumption, sir,” Ismay said wearily.
And the White Star director offered his hand, which Futrelle shook; then the mystery writer and the captain shook hands, and the meeting was over.
With the boat drill canceled, church began on time-eleven A.M.-and though there were several pastors aboard, Captain Smith himself conducted the nondenominational Christian service himself. Held in the First-Class Dining Saloon, it marked the only occasion when Second- and Third-Class passengers were allowed into the First-Class area.
This rare instance of Titanic democracy meant that, present in the same room at the same time, were the Astors, Maggie Brown, Dorothy Gibson, Ismay, the Allisons with their children and nanny Alice, “Louis Hoffman” and his two cute boys and even the smelting-works lad, Alfred Davies.
And, of course, the Futrelles.
Captain Smith made a fine fill-in pastor, reading psalms and prayers, including “The Prayer for Those at Sea,” leading hymns accompanied by Wallace Hartley’s little orchestra.
Afterward, Futrelle-moving quickly to the rear where the Second and Third Class had been seated-managed to talk briefly to both Hoffman/Navatril, and Davies, filing out.
To the former he whispered, “You are in no danger of discovery if you do as I suggested previously, and on leaving this ship, promptly disappear.”
Hoffman gratefully clutched Futrelle’s arm and whispered, “God bless you, sir.”
“Good luck to you-and your boys.”
To Davies, Futrelle merely said, “I’ve passed your information along.”
The strapping lad seemed concerned. “I seen her sittin’ up front. She’s still with them kids, sir.”
“Only until crossing’s end. All is well.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“I do.” He patted the boy’s shoulder. “See you in the promised land, Fred.”
Davies grinned his crooked yellow grin, which suddenly seemed almost beautiful to Futrelle. “See you in the promised land, sir.”
The tranquillity, the reflection, of Sunday-morning service was already dissolving in the clatter of dishes and silverware and the scraping of chairs and tables, as stewards rushed to set the room up for luncheon at one. The noon siren prompted Futrelle to temporarily abandon May-who was on her way back to their suite-so that he could hie to the Smoking Room, to see how he made out in today’s pool.
The figures for yesterday’s run-though Futrelle came up a loser-were impressive: 546 miles.