Robert Walker - Titanic 2012

In unison, the detective and the young interns breathed a sigh of relief, and Wyland continued his history lesson as if nothing had happened. “As well, Harland & Wolff chairman William J. Pirrie became that same year a director of Mercantile Marine.”

“All rather chummy,” said Thomas.

“Inbred is what it is,” Declan replied. “And the public knows naught of it?”

“At a dinner party in 1907, held at William J. Pirrie's London mansion, Ismay discussed the construction of two huge ships—with a third to be added later—and the young author was in attendance to hear their plans; it gave him the insidious idea to make himself happy by fictionally sinking their plans before they’d begun if he could convince a publisher to take on his hair-brained novel entitled Titan. But back to the London party—it was all to do with competing, you see, with the luxury, size, and speed of rival cruise lines. These Olympic-class ships were to be known as the greatest and fastest liners afloat, intended specifically to beat out the Cunard Line for the Atlantic luxury passenger trade.”

“You make it sound so criminal,” countered Thomas Coogan. “It is called free enterprise… capitalism.”

“Not my point.”

“What then?”

“July 29, 08.”

“What about it?”

“The White Star owners, including Ismay, approved in principle the design plan for the Olympic class ships prepared by builders Harland & Wolff under direct supervision of Lord Pirrie, with the assistance of his nephew Thomas Andrews—architect of the ships.”

“Yes, all in the family.” Declan worked the lever to slow the platform here where the shaft narrowed about them.

“I met the author, Robertson, once—had a bright son named Stephen who was fascinated with law enforcement and the science of detection back in… in Boston. At any rate, Robertson showed me a duplicate copy of a contract letter dated July 31 stof that year; a letter signing off on construction in the Belfast shipyards for Olympic, Titanic , and a third sister ship at the time unnamed but to follow. In part it read ‘Ultimate decisions of design, equipment, and decoration are to be made by J. Bruce Ismay. The size of Titanic will be 882 feet 9 inches long, 94 feet wide, and 100 feet high to the bridge level. Final cost: £1,500,000 or approx. $7,500,000. New docks had to be built in Belfast, Southampton, and New York to accommodate the size of these ships. Harland & Wolff built specially strengthened slips to take their weight, and a new gantry under which these gargantuan ships would be built.”

“You tell a rambling tale, sir,” interrupted Thomas. “To the point, perhaps?”

“Thomas! Where are your manners?”

“I left them in the world above.”

“Ah, it’s no matter, Declan,” replied Wyland. “Frankly at my age, I know that the more sense I make, the less anyone cares to hear it. Or perhaps it was always that way!” He laughed at his own remarks.

“Oh but sir, please go on. I am something of a big fan of Titanic ; I wish to hear all of it.”

“Wellll now… as planned, December 16 ththe keel for the first ship is laid down at Harland & Wolff’s slip number 400 and Olympic construction begins, as you likely know; at any rate, this was quickly followed March 31 stof ’09 when Titanic ’s keel was laid down in yard number 401 and Titanic —”

“Yes, where Titanic construction began.”

“And now here we are today with Pinky’s guarding her and anarchists wanting to blow their precious plans to kingdom come. Now mysteriously three men who in one manner of another are associated with the yards’ve vanished. Gentlemen, it smacks of anarchy or monies to be had, and quite possibly blackmail.”

“Blackmail?”

“How so?”

“Suppose the three had devised a scheme to reveal all the fictional elements of Robertson’s book as fact? The hidden details of all that has gone on behind closed doors regarding Titanic and her sister ships?”

“It just sounds so far-fetched,” said Thomas.

“But think of it, Thomas—information like that, The Cunard Line would kill for

that kind of paperwork, the designs, White Star’s plans.” Declan nodded successively.

“It’s not as if we’re talking government secrets, envoys, and battle plans,”

countered Thomas.

“Oh but it is,” said Wyland.

“Have ye no imagination, Thomas?” asked Declan. “It makes sense in a world

where, more and more, information is knowledge, knowledge is power, and power

converts to money.”

“Makes no damn sense to me! Again, sir, you’re implying some dirty

underhanded dealings!”

“Easy lad!”

“Uncle Anton was in no schemes or dirtiness! I won’t have it.”

“But given the size of the powers they may have been going after, perhaps your uncle saw it as fair play perhaps, and not at all evil to involve himself since no Irishman good enough to burn rivets into the hull of this monster’s good ’nough to serve tables on her!”

Thomas fell silent, giving this some thought. “I know my uncle has a keen sense of justice.” Then Thomas’ nose began twitching uncontrollably. “Gawd, that’s a putrid stench, isn’t it?”

“You’re right about that!” agreed Alastair even as his own nose began to twitch.

“That smell,” began Declan. “Worse than the dissecting room, eh, Tommie?” “Smell of death for sure.”

“Coming up the shaft.”

“How far down does this damn thing go?” Wyland was having second thoughts about the wisdom of coming into this inky black hole when the platform hit bottom and tilted sharply, hanging there. The jolt knocked Thomas into Declan and the boys fell; Wyland had grabbed onto a railing and kept his feet.

“What’ve we hit?” asked Declan.

“Most likely whatever it was fell earlier from the rock ledge.” Wyland trained his lantern over the side of the lift, dust raining round them even as the two lanterns illuminated a black torso—a dead man. “I believe we’ve found one of the missing men,” he calmly said.

Thomas rushed to Wyland’s side and held the second lantern over the body. “It’s not my uncle—too tall, too thin… besides it must have been here for weeks… if not months.”

“But how then… I mean anyone coming down the shaft had to’ve…” began Declan, shaking his head.

“Not here,” countered Wyland. “First off, no one wanted to come down; there’d been a cave-in here. Secondly, judging from the position of the body, it had to’ve been placed here—or perhaps dropped here.”

Declan worked to bring the lift up a foot, then two, trying to get it straightened out and hovering above the blackened body. “Never seen such absolute decay; not even our oldest corpses at the medical school look this bad—and trust me, they are vile.”

“I’ve seen a lot of dead men,” said Wyland, his gaze grim. “But nothing like this.”

“Who could it be if not O’Toole or McAffey?”

Wyland shone his light on a helmet nearby with the name McAffey across it, and he indicated stitching on the dead man’s blackened shirt, Tim M. it read, no doubt stitched on by a loving wife.

Using his wolf’s head cane to offset a serious limp, Wyland carefully made his way to a kneeling position over the body. Leaning in for a closer inspection, he snatched out a a handkerchief and placed it over his nose against an odor reminiscent of sulfur. “We’re bound to involve the police, have an inquest, have the body autopsied. Either of you boys want to find the nearest phone?”

“Back at the mining office—’less there’s a police call box closer, but without a key…”