The Company of the Dead Read Online Free Page B

nightdress leaned over the purser’s desk. Behind the glass the purser’s face was a glazed veneer of sweat.
    “Madam, may I be of assistance?” Wells interrupted.
    “This... fellow ,” she indicated the purser with long, outstretched fingers, “cannot find my jewellery box.”
    The purser began to splutter a response. Wells raised a hand to stop him. “Why on Earth would you want your jewellery box at this hour, madam?” he asked gently.
    “Because I am not leaving this ship without it.” She spat the words out with venom.
    “No one is leaving the ship.”
    “Have you been on deck, sir? They are uncovering the lifeboats as we speak.”
    “I’m sure it’s just a precaution, madam,” he replied, echoing the steward’s lie.
    The woman paused to examine Wells’ calm mask. He held it together. They might still be saved. All of them.
    She turned to toss the purser a final scowl and swept out of the small office.
    “Thank you, sir. It’s been like that ever since they started waking the passengers.”
    Wells nodded absently. He reached under his jacket and withdrew the crumpled journal. “I represent Mr Ismay. This contains all my notes, ship modifications, everything. It must be secured in the ship’s safe. I must find Andrews and I don’t want the damn thing lost in all the confusion. Is that clear?”
    “Crystal, sir,” the purser replied, accepting the book carefully.
    Relieved, Wells slipped from the room.

III
    Wells pushed past the growing queue. The banshee’s cry of venting steam struck his ears again, louder now, rattling the teeth in his jaw.
    It was less crowded on A deck. A few people wore dressing gowns. The majority were still in evening wear. Colonel John Jacob Astor stood by his wife, Madeleine, outside the entrance to the first-class lounge. A young couple, clutching each other like honeymooners, were comparing notes with one of the stewards. The man was describing how he’d been woken by an unusual scraping sound at around half past two.
    “It sounded like a huge nail being scratched down her side,” he said, demonstrating with an outstretched hand.
    Some of the passengers were dismayed at the delay. Others looked excited by the prospect of an adventure at sea. Wells smiled at those who smiled at him, hoping fervently that he, too, would have stories to tell when they arrived in New York.
    If they arrived in New York.
    He tried to cast the bitter thoughts from his mind as he climbed to the top of the stairs and stepped onto the boat deck. The evening had grown colder. Earlier, the deck had been desolate and silent as he watched the iceberg drift by. Now, crowds thronged the open promenades. Children clung sleepily to their mothers’ coats, or ran about the boat deck laughing, pursued by their nannies. Men in dinner jackets stood quietly in small gatherings, smoking and peering out to sea.
    He approached the port-side railing as if in a dream. Noise swelled up from below as the passengers lined the walkways and gazed up at the lifeboats. He could hear music: Wallace Hartley had assembled his fellow musicians by the gymnasium and they were playing “Oh, You Beautiful Doll”.
    He could sense the slight list of the floorboards beneath his feet and it was almost too much for him. He’d wanted to prevent all of this; had come aboard specifically to stop this from taking place. He felt dizzy, nauseated. A tide of fear rose in him.
    He’d seen the iceberg with his own eyes. What could possibly have gone wrong?
    He peered out over the still waters. They were drifting in a field of ice. He stared at the small icebergs, the growlers, the field ice that dotted the flat, coal-dark sea. To the north and west an unbroken field stretched out to the horizon. He tore himself away from the railing and worked his way along the promenade towards the second-class stairs.
    “Jonathan,” a voice cried out. “Thank God it’s you.”
    He turned and saw her standing a small distance from the crowd. A