The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (30 page)

Newbury reached for the glass. “My thanks to you, Mr Rutherford.”

“So, you were saying?” said Rutherford, trying his best not to sound impatient.

“The iceberg, yes.” Newbury drained half of the brandy from his glass, and then placed it back on the table with a satisfied sigh. “Well, I was in the first-class saloon when it happened, taking a whisky and keeping a watchful eye out for Ms. Karswell. I’d checked the passenger manifests before boarding, but I’d been unable to discern under which assumed name she’d been travelling. I myself was operating under an alias—one of the reasons my own name did not appear on those same manifests when the roll call of the dead was published later—and so there I was, scanning the faces of the other passengers, hoping to catch sight of her familiar profile and her startling red hair.”

Newbury was staring into the middle distance now, and Rutherford tried to imagine what the man was seeing: the sumptuous interior of that great vessel, filled with the bustle and murmur of people, each of them ignorant of the horrors about to occur.

“I felt the ship judder as it struck something, and then a few moments later the engines cut out and we shuddered to a halt. There were a few concerned glances between passengers in the saloon, but mostly people seemed content to carry on as they were, lost in their own world of polite conversation and unnecessary etiquette. I, on the other hand, being incessantly inquisitive, decided to head up on deck to see if I could ascertain what had happened.

“It was frigid out there on the deck, and in the moonlight the ice floes glittered like a carpet of sparkling diamonds. Beside us, the peak of an immense iceberg loomed out of the water, casting a dark shadow across the ship. It was so close that, at first, I assumed that we’d struck it, but as I approached the railings and peered over the edge, I saw that was not in fact the case.”

“Then what was it?” asked Rutherford, his voice barely above a whisper.

“A submersible,” replied Newbury, “a massive, cylindrical, underwater vessel, listing just beneath the surface of the waves. It was clearly drifting, derelict, and there was evidence of huge scars in its flank.”

“Scars?” asked Rutherford.

“Yes, deep parallel scratches in the metal. I had no idea what weapon could have left such a mark. It was clear to me, however, that it was the wreckage of this submersible that the
Titanic
had struck as she attempted to navigate the ice.”

“I don’t understand,” said Rutherford. “Why cover it up? Why did all the reports claim it was the iceberg that did for the ship?”

“Because the thing that had destroyed the submersible was still there, in the water, waiting for us,” Newbury replied, shuddering at the recollection. “We didn’t know that at the time, of course. The captain ordered the engines to be restarted, and the ship moved off again.”

Newbury reached for his glass and took another long swig of his drink. He looked pale, as if by forcing himself to relive those fateful moments he was once again stirring up powerful emotions he had long ago suppressed.

“Unbeknownst to the passengers, of course, the
Titanic
was at this point taking on more water than she was capable of withstanding. The engine rooms were already filling with water. We were doomed from that moment, even before the creature struck.”

“Creature?” Rutherford echoed, surprised.

“Indeed, Mr Rutherford. A beast of the sort you have never imagined, and you should hope that you will never meet.” Newbury met Rutherford’s gaze and held it for a moment, and the look in his eyes was so intense that Rutherford knew that he was deadly serious. After a moment he turned away.

“For a while I stayed there, huddled on the deck against the spray, watching the dark waters churn far below with the passing of the great liner. Everything seemed to return to normal, and I could have almost believed that I’d imagined it all, the vision of the drifting submersible and the tortured scream of rending metal I had heard as the ship had struck it. But then the
Titanic
began to list dramatically to the right, and it was at that point I realised she was going down. The engines cut again, and this time there was an outbreak of panic amongst the passengers below.”

Newbury smiled sadly. “The reports were quite accurate about this, I fear, Mr Rutherford. The whole affair was terribly mismanaged. First-class passengers, now startled from their dreary existence beneath, began to spill out on to the deck, pouring forth in a torrent of shrill chatter and evening wear. Some of them were wearing lifejackets and carrying their belongings—others were still dressed only in their finery.

“The crew were panicking now, too, of course, and were calling for women and children to take to the lifeboats. It came to me then that I had to find Miss Karswell. I had to ensure she took her place upon one of those rafts. She was a brave and stubborn woman—not unlike Miss Hobbes—and she would not volunteer herself for a place unless goaded, believing that she stood a better chance than most in the water and giving her own place up for another. I knew this because I knew her. The
Titanic
was sinking, however, and I would not allow such a remarkable woman to go down with the ship. I had to find her.”

“And did you?” asked Rutherford, crushing the stub of his cigarette in the cut-glass ashtray on Major Absalom’s desk.

Newbury nodded. “Yes. But I was too late. The press of people on deck was already proving untenable. I pushed my way through the chaotic morass of limbs, searching the crowds for a glimpse of her face. The lifeboats were being lowered and cast adrift, many of them only half full, but I knew she would not yet be aboard one of them.

“As I fought my way towards the other end of the deck I heard the very fabric of the vessel groan beneath me, and the ship lurched. I was nearly knocked from my feet by a sudden jolt, only keeping myself upright by virtue of the metal railing, which I grabbed at frantically to hold myself steady. When I looked up again, I saw her.”

Newbury took a deep breath. Rutherford could see that he was trembling, and so took up the bottle of brandy, refilling Newbury’s glass.

“Thank you, Mr Rutherford. I think I might indulge in one of your American cigarettes after all, if I may?”

“Of course.” Rutherford placed the open tin on the table beside Newbury’s glass. Newbury reached forward and took one. He studied it for a moment, and then pulled the ignition tab and took a long, deep draw.

“She was standing no more than thirty feet from me, a stricken look upon her pretty face. She looked entirely lost and alone, and I think perhaps more vulnerable than I had ever seen a woman look before, or since. It was the look of a woman who knew she was going to die, and was furious at her own impotence to do anything about it.

“It took a moment for her to see me there, still clinging resolutely to the railing, and when she did her eyes widened in shock and she opened her mouth as if to call to me. I pushed myself away from the railing, intent on fighting my way towards her, when the first of the tentacles came lashing out of the water, whipping across the deck just in front of me and sending me sprawling backwards across the deck.”

“Tentacles? The creature?” said Rutherford, appalled.

“Indeed so. The limb of some dreadful Leviathan from beneath the waves. It must have been as big as the ship itself, and as its limb thrashed and splintered the deck before me, I realised it was wrapping itself around the ship. I glanced round to see more of the thick, slimy proboscises flicking over the railings, curling around the funnels. Whatever the thing was, it had the ship in its clammy embrace and, as the deck lurched beneath me once again, I understood that it intended to drag the
Titanic
down into the watery depths.”

“Good Lord,” said Rutherford. “I had no idea. How did you get away? And what of Ms. Karswell?”

“I scrambled unsteadily to my feet. By now I’d realised that the ship was lost. Even before the beast had struck she’d been taking on too much water. Everybody was screaming, throwing themselves overboard in an effort to escape the thrashing limbs of the creature or make it to the life rafts, which were now spreading out in a concentric circle around the
Titanic,
cast adrift on the midnight ocean.

“There was no sign of Clarissa. Either she’d gone overboard, or she’d been caught in the devastation caused by the thrashing beast. I tried to find a path through to where I’d last seen her, but the deck was splintered and broken and proved impassable. The ship was being dragged down quickly now, tilting wildly, and I was left with little choice. I had to try my luck in the water. I could only hope that Clarissa had done the same.”

“Were you wearing a lifejacket?”

“No. I was still in my evening suit. I shed my jacket and threw myself overboard, hoping beyond hope that I could get myself clear before the ship was entirely submerged and I was pulled under by the current.”

“But what about the beast?” asked Rutherford. “Weren’t you afraid that it might try to drag you under too?”

Newbury shook his head. “No. The beast was too busy with the ship. That was the far greater prize. I was but a mote compared to the immensity of the creature and the ship. It would barely have noticed me as I splashed into the ice-cold water, gasping for breath.”

“Did you make it to one of the lifeboats?”

“I did. The women dragged me aboard, shivering and barely able to speak, and when I looked round the last thing I saw before unconsciousness took hold was an immense, cyclopean eye beneath the surface, glaring up at us as we rowed frantically away from the drowning ship.”

“So this creature—it was responsible for the damaged submersible? And so, indirectly, for the loss of the
Titanic
?” said Rutherford, barely able to comprehend the gravity of the tale that had just been laid out before him.

“One can only assume,” said Newbury, “but it seems the only likely explanation. One might even imagine that the submersible was left there purposefully, as if the beast had sensed our approach and had laid out its trap.”

Rutherford slumped back in his chair, shaking his head. That a creature so terrible might still exist out there in the ocean depths... no wonder the truth had been covered up. If it were ever to get out that monstrous things such as that were prowling the depths of the Atlantic ocean, no one would ever set foot aboard a steamship again. He wondered how many other vessels lost at sea had suffered a similar fate.

And then it struck him. Newbury had not told him what had become of the woman. “Ms. Karswell,” he said, urgently, “did she also make it to one of the lifeboats?”

Newbury glanced away, unable to look Rutherford in the eye. “No,” he replied, solemnly. “She did not. I searched for her on the rescue ship, and again when we returned to shore, but she was nowhere to be found. I hoped for many years that, somehow, she had found her way to safety, that she might find a way to reach me, but it’s been so long... and I’ve heard nothing. Not even an idle word in a report, or the slightest fleeting reference. And believe me, I’ve looked. No, Mr Rutherford. I fear Miss Karswell was lost to the icy depths when the
Titanic
went down, and the world is a much emptier place without her.”

“I’m sorry,” said Rutherford, unable to find any other words. He could see from the expression on Newbury’s face that the man was still deeply pained by the loss. But then... He felt in his pocket for the note. Could it be?

Newbury sighed. He took the ticket that Rutherford had given to him earlier, glanced at it again, and then cast it onto the table beside his drink. “I hope you can understand, Mr Rutherford, my less than enthusiastic response to your suggestion that I take a cabin aboard the
Argus.
What is it for, anyway? What’s the nature of the mission, that an old man like me might be dragged out of retirement?”

“Well, that’s just it, Sir Maurice. We don’t really know,” said Rutherford, failing to suppress a grin.

“I’m sorry?” said Newbury, perplexed.

“The ticket was delivered here this morning, addressed to you. It was in a plain manila envelope, and the only other thing it contained was this note.” He handed the folded slip of paper to Newbury. “We had no idea what it might mean,” Rutherford continued. “At least, not until...” he trailed off, watching the other man as he studied the note.

Newbury was silent for a long moment. “Well, I’ll have to go, won’t I?” he said, grinning broadly. Then he was laughing, and Rutherford could see the misty tears forming in the creases of his eyes. “Can’t see as I have any choice.” He handed the slip of paper back to Rutherford.

Rutherford beamed. “No, Sir Maurice,” he said, laughing. “I can’t see that you do.” He glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand, the single, neat line of copperplate written there in black ink, an invitation to an old friend:

ARE WE TOO OLD TO DANCE?

Rutherford hadn’t expected the house to be quite so impressive.

It was Georgian, and had probably once been a farmhouse, but sometime in the course of the last century it had been swallowed by the expanding girth of the metropolis. Now it was surrounded by regimented ranks of Victorian terraces, just another old house on the outskirts of London, a relic of a bygone age. That, he supposed, was progress.

He took a long draw on the stub of his cigarette and then flicked the still-smouldering butt out of the window. He was sitting behind the wheel of his car, the engine gently sighing as it settled after the long drive. He was tired and cold. He hoped the professor would offer him a hot drink, but in truth he was expecting a frosty reception. The whole situation was rather delicate. The professor had been a much-respected government agent. To have someone go poking around in his past, asking questions about events that happened thirty years earlier... Well, Rutherford knew how
he
would feel about it if it were him.

Rutherford stretched his aching neck and climbed out onto the pavement, locking the car door behind him. His breath made ghostly shapes in the frigid air as he tramped up the gravel path towards the front door. It swung open before he’d even had chance to mount the steps and an elderly butler peered out, his balding pate gleaming in the sunlight. “Good morning, sir. May I be of assistance?”