Murder Aboard the Titanic Read online

  We joined a host of others in the Second Class smoking room where Martin indulged himself in a highball, while I preferred a hot whiskey and water. I found out that Martin had spent a year at Cambridge as a theatre major.

  "Getting in was the difficult part," he explained. "But worth it. Studying in England is about the only chance one has these days to be taken seriously as an actor."

  This struck me as somewhat odd, considering that most British actors made no secret of their desire to go to America to be taken seriously as actors.

  "In New York, I hope to get a break on Broadway," Martin said, smoking a cigarette. "If that fails, I'll try to catch on with a theatre group touring the country."

  "I once dreamed of being an actor," I confessed. "But, sadly, those aspirations never got off the ground. I suppose it was never truly in my blood."

  "It's been in mine for as long as I can remember," Martin reflected. "My mother was an actress. She had bit parts in more than a dozen silent films. I used to hang around the sets, thinking of someday making it on my own."

  "Looks like you're well on your way," I surmised, and drank some whiskey.

  He drank a generous amount of his drink, and then asked, sounding fascinated, "Were you really with Scotland Yard?"

  "Yes, I most certainly was." I had previously mentioned it after confessing that I was a part-time novelist now.

  "I had a run-in or two with Scotland Yard," he nearly bragged, smoke billowing from his nostrils.

  "Oh..." I cocked a brow whimsically.

  "Nothing to be alarmed about, Drake," he said, chuckling. "Every once in a while, my buddies and I at Cambridge would go into London, drink ourselves into a stupor, and engage in some harmless pranks. It didn't set too well with your Scotland Yard."

  "I don't imagine it would have," I responded with unintended sharpness, recalling that public drunkenness and unruly behavior had in fact accounted for much of what came to the attention of Scotland Yard during my service.

  Martin seemed to sense my displeasure. "Sorry. Didn't mean to ruffle your feathers, old chap."

  Suddenly I felt rather foolish. This was no time or place to be judgmental. After all, he was no different than many other college youth sowing their oats, which often came at the expense and frustration of law enforcement.

  "You didn't," I said, trying hard to sound convincing. "What's done is done. I'd say those days are behind both of us now."

  "Agreed," said Martin, smiling contentedly. He lit another cigarette, and inquired, "Did you ever solve any big crimes or was it only the little ones?"

  I could feel the ship swaying slightly as I finished off my drink. "Mostly little ones," I told him, intentionally neglecting those crimes that others may well have considered big. "I'm afraid the biggest fish, so to speak, got away."

  Martin ordered another round of drinks and I feared that his curiosity and my desire to forget might well clash. This, of course, would be tempered somewhat by the effects of the alcohol.

  After the drinks came, Martin queried, "So who was this big fish? The King of England?" He chuckled to himself, obviously showing no reverence for His Majesty.

  "Actually, it was a serial killer who had his way with five poor women in Whitechapel more than two decades ago." The bile nearly rose to my throat, but managed to stay put—at least for the moment. "Surely you must have heard of the man referred to by many as Jack the Ripper." This didn't strike me as implausible even for one who was barely alive at the time the Ripper perpetrated his crimes, given the great interest the tale of the Ripper had generated over the years. Even Americans had been lured by the preoccupation with this psychopath and bloody monster.

  Martin's left brow shot up. "Yes, I've read accounts on Jack the Ripper and his dirty deeds." He put the cigarette to his lips. "But I could never truly separate fact from fiction. It almost seemed as if the Ripper was nothing more than a figment of the media's imagination, aimed at putting a monstrous face on the random killing of prostitutes..."

  My jaw tightened and my voice raised an octave when I said, "The Ripper may have been many things to many people, but I can assure you he was certainly as real as you or I am. The media didn't create him. Quite the opposite in fact. He used them for his own demented pleasure, just as he used his victims."

  Of course there had been some prostitutes killed at the time by perpetrators other than the Ripper. It gave the appearance to some that there was not one Ripper, but various psychopathic men preying on prostitutes and other women of the lower class of London's East End.

  The reality was that the Ripper's victims were mutilated in a way so as to leave his personal mark on them. It was almost as if he didn't want to leave any doubt in our minds that it was his handiwork.

  Martin eyed me with continuing skepticism. "If there truly was a Jack the Ripper, how the hell did he manage to escape the net Scotland Yard no doubt had around the city of London?"

  It was a question that had haunted me and the others who worked on the case all these years. Had the killer been one of us? Or was it someone who otherwise wore camouflage, real or circumstantial, to make detection unlikely?

  Had he quit killing out of boredom or lack of an adequate challenge?

  I wet my throat with more whiskey and responded unevenly, "His shortcomings aside, the Ripper was obviously a clever bloke, and damn lucky to evade capture." I finished off my drink in one gulp.

  I wasn't sure how much luck had to do with the Ripper escaping justice, but it was painfully clear that this madman had more than his share of good fortune in avoiding detection and apprehension.

  His voice was satirical when Martin said over the rim of his highball, "Well, if there is a bright side to the terror of Whitechapel, the Ripper is probably rotting in hell at this very moment."

  It was a reasonable hypothesis, I thought, given the years since the Ripper had last struck.

  Somehow that didn't seem to allay my lingering, affecting memories, even as I looked forward to the future and a date with America...

  * * *

  Audrey Strausman caught herself staring across the table in the First Class dining saloon on D Deck. The object of her attention was her new husband, Doctor John Strausman. An American, he was dashingly handsome in a three-piece navy suit that fit snugly on his six-foot-three, muscled frame. He had a full head of gray hair and a square-jawed face that featured intense raven eyes, a long, narrow nose, and a wide mouth.

  She had met John who, at forty-nine, was eighteen years her senior, just eight short months ago. He was a heart surgeon at London's West End Hospital, having previously practiced in Boston before his travels landed him in England. He had successfully operated on her father, Albert Strausman, last year following a massive heart attack.

  They had started dating shortly thereafter. Audrey had found John, or Jack as he preferred to be called, quite likeable from the very start. He had been the perfect gentleman, treating her with the respect and devotion that few other men had.

  Even her parents, who had been quite critical in her choice of men, had nothing but admiration for Jack, notwithstanding that he saved her father's life. When Jack asked her to marry him, they had given their full blessing. Albert Strausman had even gone so far as to make Jack a board member in advance in the family's banking business.

  As a wedding gift, the Strausmans had purchased the newlyweds tickets on the Titanic for a two-week honeymoon in New York. It was their second day on board and Audrey found herself marveling at everything in sight, not the least of which was her husband.

  When Jack noticed her gazing at him, he frowned. "Is there something wrong, darling?" He had stopped eating altogether, holding his fork and knife in midair, as if frozen in place.

  She colored, giving him a dazzling smile. "No, nothing at all," she gushed. "Forgive me if I can't take my eyes off the most wonderful man on this ship, who just happens to be my husband!"

  He took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the back of it. "Believe me any man on this ship would give anything to be in my shoes at this moment. Especially since that would mean they were wed to the loveliest lady in all of England—no, make that the world."

  Indeed she was lovely, he thought admiringly. Her long, blonde hair cascaded across slender shoulders in large curls, framing a heart-shaped face. Eyes blue like the ocean itself looked longingly at him, while her small nose was upturned ever so slightly, and her thin lips curved invitingly. She was wearing a lovely white dinner gown that flattered her small-boned, trim body, and high breasts.

  He had married her—his first marriage—because she had wanted this. He, in turn, had needed someone to stabilize his life. Have his children. Make him forget the darkest moments of the past...

  He knew it would be an uphill battle and it would take every ounce of strength for him to make this work and avoid hurting her in the process.

  But it was a chance he was willing to take. For both their sakes.

  And others.

  "Do you think we'll arrive in New York on schedule?" Audrey's voice was soft and had a touch of impatience.

  Jack resumed eating. "No reason to believe otherwise. If anything, I wouldn't be surprised if we arrived ahead of schedule." He downed his food with white wine. "Don't worry, darling," he assured her with a chuckle, "you'll have ample time to go to every store in the city, if you like."

  "Right now," Audrey whispered, "I think I'd be happy if we went to our room, Jack." Her face flushed with embarrassment at her eagerness.

  He noticed that she had put her fork down, her food only half finished, desire dancing in her enchanting eyes.

  "Are you sure?" he asked, feeling his own libido suddenly rise like hot air.

  She grinned. "I'm not really very hungry—for food." She flutte
red long lashes at him seductively.

  "Neither am I," Jack said with a glint in his eye. "Maybe later we'll have something more to eat."

  He called for the Chief Steward and congratulated him on the meal.

  Dessert was yet to come.

  * * *

  They undressed for bed in their stateroom on B Deck. Before that, they had kissed passionately for a full five minutes. Jack took in the sight of his young wife's naked body that looked as perfect and curvaceous as any woman he had ever seen.

  Not at all like those whores.

  He watched her sashay across the room and slide onto the bed and under the covers. He felt the desire grow in him like a cancer out of control. Taking several looping strides, he went to her, almost pouncing upon her like a leopard on its prey.

  She lifted to him, her need as fervent as his own. He could hear the rush of her breathing while their mouths searched out each other's, as if for some lost treasure.

  He peppered her face and neck with kisses, and then her breasts. They were full and round, the nipples red like fresh strawberries. He took one then the other in his mouth, and her body quivered with the touch of his tongue.

  "Jack..." Audrey implored, tugging at his body. "Come to me, please..."

  He lifted from her breasts and eyed her ravenously. "I need you," he groaned. "I want you."

  He fitted himself into her as the intensity began to build within him like fire. He heard a faint cry escape her lips. She tightened around him, urging him on.

  He suddenly tensed, feeling as if he was paralyzed...unable to move.

  It was happening again.

  He was starting to remember what he had hoped to forget...

  * * *

  They called her Mary Ann Nichols, or "Polly." He had watched her leave the lodging house at 18 Thrawl Street, Spitalfields. Keeping his distance, he followed as she staggered and stumbled drunkenly down Whitechapel Road. The early morning fog rolled in like the tide, making it difficult to keep sight of her.

  He picked up his pace, finally reaching her before they came to the street lamp on the corner.

  If she was startled by him confronting her, she masked it well. He guessed she was in her early forties, though she looked much older. Underneath a black straw bonnet with black velvet trim, were clumps of gray-brown hair. Her blue eyes were bloodshot. She seemed to be smiling at him, where he noted that at least five teeth were conspicuously absent. She was wearing a brownish-red ulster and a tattered black linsey frock on her short, stout frame.

  She laughed coarsely and put her hands playfully to the bonnet. "See what a jolly bonnet I have?"

  He nodded. "Yes, it is jolly."

  "Would you like some company tonight, mister?"

  "I would." He studied her up and down. She was not especially appealing, even by whore standards. But she would do.

  "My name is Polly," she said with anticipation. "What's yer name?"

  "Jack."

  "Money first, Jack," she said.

  Those were the last words she ever spoke before he sliced her throat. As she choked on her own blood, struggling to stay afoot, a surge of adrenalin rushed through him.

  Now the fun began.

  He raised the knife and drove it into her like a man possessed...

  * * *

  "What's wrong, darling?" Audrey said, while he was still atop her. Jack had a look of anguish on his face that she had never seen before. It was as if he was in a hypnotic trance and had been transported somewhere ghastly.

  "Nothing," he muttered after a moment or two.

  "Is it me?" she asked. Audrey was terrified that her husband might somehow be turned off by her.

  "No," he said glumly. "It's me. I'm sorry."

  He rolled off her, hating himself, but knowing it was best all the way around.

  "Perhaps it's this ship," Audrey suggested desperately. "Sometimes being out at sea can affect people strangely."

  "It's not the ship or the ocean," he assured her painfully. "I only wish it were." He stood, gazing down at his bride as she covered herself as though he were a stranger.

  He knew that in many ways he was.

  "Then what is it?" Her tone was one of confusion and hurt.

  Reaching for his clothing on the floor, he said, deliberately avoiding the question, "I need to go out for some fresh air."

  "Then I'll go with you," she bravely volunteered.

  "No." His voice was commanding. "Get some rest. I won't be out long." He had begun to perspire now and his blood pressure shot up, just like the other times.

  She turned her back to him, lest he see the tears streaming from her eyes uncontrollably.

  Jack dressed as quickly as he could, for an urge that had until very recently lain dormant for so many years, had once again made him its slave. It was as frightening as it was energizing. He knew he had to fight it, or at least try to, with everything he had. For to give in to this demon inside of him here and now could only destroy him and the woman who gave him her undying love.

  Feeling as if he had lost all breath from his body, his lungs burned like hot coals. He managed to escape the near suffocation of the cabin, where an uncertain destiny awaited.

  * * *

  Amy Erickson was a twenty-four-year-old Finnish seamstress. She had used every cent she'd had to purchase a Third Class ticket on the Titanic. She was going to America to work in her uncle's factory in Philadelphia. He had promised her room and board and a decent wage.

  It was all she could ask for after losing her husband more than a year ago to a barroom brawl. Before that they had both talked of someday going to America, the land of opportunity. But it had always seemed like just talk.

  Now she would go there for herself and her late husband's spirit and try to find the life they had both desperately longed for.

  This was on Amy's mind as she left the cafe where she had indulged in two hot lemonades and a game of bridge, before coming down with a mild case of seasickness. She planned to go right to bed.

  Wearing a heavy turtleneck, long wool skirt, and leather boots, Amy strolled briskly down the E Deck corridor. Her thick, brunette hair, enormous hazel eyes, and tall, slender body had always caused heads to turn. It was no different on the ship, as she passed by men who acted like boys in their overzealousness. Sometimes she would flirt with them, but not tonight. She felt too ill to notice those who looked her way.

  It wasn't until she had reached a mostly deserted, dark stretch of the broad corridor known as "Scotland Road" or "Park Lane," that Amy took note of the man approaching her. He was tall, well dressed, and wearing a hat. Her first thought was that he seemed entirely out of place.

  He smiled at her. "Good evening."

  "Good evening," she said, feeling uneasy for some reason. Perhaps it was his aristocratic American accent. Or the way he regarded her, almost like a vulture.

  He drew ever so near. "I seem to have lost my way on this great tug of a ship. Perhaps you could help me."

  As he blocked her path, she reluctantly came to a standstill. She could feel the effects of the seasickness seem to grow in intensity. Or was it this man that caused the knot in her stomach?

  "What do you want?" she asked nervously, her eyes darting around for others. She saw no one.

  He stared at her, tilted his head to the side, and then abruptly ran an icy hand across the side of her face. "My, you're a pretty one, aren't you?"

  There was something in his eyes, dark and menacing, that she knew wasn't right. She considered making a run for it, but decided that in her condition and with his long legs, she likely wouldn't get very far before he caught her.

  She forced a smile, and said, trying to suppress her fear, "I must go. My husband's waiting for me."

  His gaze narrowed sharply. "Then go!"

  She breathed a big sigh of relief and had taken three quick steps, when she heard him narrow the gap between them in two looping strides. Before she could turn to face him, Amy felt the blade rip across her throat. Even with blood squirting out and being unable to breathe, she found the strength to run.

  But he was too fast and too determined.

  He caught her easily. She felt the knife dig into her flesh again. It hurt too much to even scream.

  He stabbed her again and again.

  She managed to look into his eyes once more, hard and evil they were, before all went black.