Lucky Number 13

“Can’t wait ‘till we get to America,” Quincy Reid says. Quincy’s freckles and bright red hair make him look younger than his thirty-six years.

Alf McGowan lays his cards down on the small, rickety table. “Three Kings, chum.”

The two other players turn over their cards in disgust,

“That’s the third hand in a row,” Quincy complains. “They say the streets in America are paved with gold. If this keeps up, I’m gonna have to dig up a few bricks just to pay you off. You suddenly turn card sharp, Alf ?”

Alf strokes his jet-black beard, smiling impishly, a glint in his dark eyes. The forty-year-old welder’s craggy features and stocky build belie his playful nature.

Alf takes a long swig from his bottle of whisky. “Let’s see, I’m in steerage with you three louts,” he says in a thick Scottish accent. “We’re playin’ cards in a room so small that if we all stand up at the same time we’ll suffocate. If I was a grifter, Quince, do you think I’d be crossin’ the Atlantic on the Titanic with the likes of you? I’d be sippin’ cognac, lookin’ down the bodice of some duchess.”

The Titanic shudders.

“Now what do you suppose that was?” Quincy asks.

“The captain’s out to set a crossing record. Could be the engines protestin’ bein’ worked so hard,” Alf replies.

“I think they may have stopped altogether,” Quincy notes.

“Well, whatever’s goin’ on, it might be it’s worth lookin’ into,” Alf says.

Alf stands, nearly pulling the table along with him.

“You’re not gonna leave in the midst of a hot streak, are ya?” Quincy asks.

“Just gonna stretch my legs a bit. Maybe get another bottle.”

Alf stumbles through steerage, making his way up to the main deck.

Drinking down the remainder of his bottle, he walks toward the bow of the Titanic.

Several passengers and crew members are examining large chunks of ice that have fallen onto the deck. Two boys laugh deliriously as they kick a piece of ice back and forth.

A tall man in a gold-trimmed bathrobe with the cultured look of a gentleman moves next to Alf, looking curiously at the chunks of ice.

“That’s not a good sign,” he says.

“Depends on whether those big pieces of ice are for gentleman’s drinks, or if they came off of that big iceberg we passed,” Alf replies.

“The latter, I’m afraid,” the man says. Holding out his hand, he adds, “Hoyt Haven, by way of Richmond, Virginia, late of Southampton.”

“Sounds like ya come from money. Alf McGowan, late of me mum from Glasgow. I worked at the Royal Navy’s dockyard as a welder. Me and my buddy, Quincy Reid, just finished workin’ on the battleship Audacious. Thought we’d take our talents to the States.”

“I’m a Professor of European studies at the University of Southampton. Most of my money went toward this vacation. I’m going to see my folks in Virginia. It’s an expensive proposition. If I didn’t live on campus, I wouldn’t have any money at all. I’ve got a hypothetical question, Alf. I just heard one of the crew talking with an engineer about this. What does your experience tell you about an unsinkable ocean liner that scrapes an iceberg, and six of its fourteen watertight compartments start to fill with water?”

“My experience says a ship with that kind of a flooding problem would be in trouble,” Alf replies. “And since you’re a well-read man, you’ll remember that even Achilles was killed, and he was said to be invincible.”

The two men calmly stare at the ship’s bow. “She’s already starting to dip,” Hoyt notes. “I hope Captain Smith doesn’t live to regret canceling today’s lifeboat drill.”

Alf lifts his bottle, grunting when realizes it's empty. “Captain’s go down with their ships. We’re the ones who’re gonna regret it.”

“I think I’d better go change my clothes,” Hoyt says. “Perhaps something warmer.”

“And waterproof. I’m going to get another bottle of scotch.”

“I tell you I am feeling fine, Celia, “ says Winifred Graham.

“You’ve barely left the room for the past two days,” Celia Baines replies.

Seventy-three-year-old Winifred Graham may have arthritis in her limbs but comes from never-say-die Welsh stock. Two weeks ago, she buried her husband George Stamford Graham, one of England’s most noted steel moguls, and thought a leisure cruise to America on the Titanic would be the ideal tonic to lessen her loss.

Thirty-four-year-old Celia Baines has been Winifred’s nurse and confidant for eight years, matching her rural Norfolk upbringing perfectly with Winifred’s aristocratic lifestyle. But she is at a loss in getting Winifred to shake her fear of the future.

“If you’re going to stay in bed, at least get into your nightclothes,” Celia says.

“No. That is the point, my dear. I am staying dressed.”

Celia rolls her eyes. “You’re still bothered by that dream you had.”

“Not a dream, a premonition,” Winifred replies. ”I tell you, Celia, something is going to happen. I just want to be prepared.”

“Prepared for what? You’re not even sure what your dream meant.”

“…It was dark, pitch back. I was standing on ice, holding up my cane… Where is my cane, Celia?”

Celia moves to the side of the bed. Picking up the cane, she shows it to Winifred.

“Do not lose it,” Winifred says. “It is a key part of whatever is going to happen.”

“You there, Ensign!”

Ensign Lucien Payne turns to face an elegant-looking couple. Both are immaculately dressed in black, as if for a funeral. The man, who is stubby and a few inches shorter than the woman, sports a derby, a thick, but well-trimmed mustache, an expensive camel coat, a tailored suit, and a diamond stickpin on his perfectly fitted tie. The woman, who appears half his age, wears a beaded black dress under her mink coat. Her sharp blue eyes and sunny blonde hair indicate she may be an actress or a socialite.

Ensign Payne maintains a spit and polish persona. He is most adept at following orders and burying his personal feelings. Well-groomed with high cheekbones, a strong-cleft chin, and soft hazel eyes, he seems primed for command.

“What is the condition of the ship?” the man asks.

“We have incurred some damage to the hull.”

“Do not feed me the claptrap you have been telling the passengers,” Mr. X. says earnestly. “I am a member of the Board of White Star. I want the truth, man.”

“Six compartments have flooded. The ship will likely sink within two hours,” Ensign Payne replies.

“All right. You are now my attaché.”

“I have other duties, Mister…”

“You do not need to know my name. Captain Smith has agreed to let me have the services of whomever I need. I choose you.”

Austin McIntire shows his wife, Charlotte, another photo.

The thirty-two-year-old debonair dentist feels thrice blessed. He inherited a fortune from his late father, the Earl of Bixby, found success in his chosen profession, and now has married a beautiful, mannerly, young woman. When Charlotte walked into his dental office in Southampton, he knew his days as a bachelor were over.

Twenty-one-year-old Charlotte is a petite redhead with dewy light blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Although she considers herself shy, Charlotte had no problem expressing her feelings for the handsome romantic dentist with a twinkle in his eye.

“This is the stable,” he says.

“Beautiful. How many horses can it hold?”

“Six. And they are already there.”

Austin gives her another photo.

“I wanted to save the best for last. This is the downstairs parlor.”

“…That painting…”

“It is a Cezanne. And I have several by Klimt. See, I was listening closely when you told me what kind of art you wanted in your dream home. And I have books of poetry by your favorite female poets, Browning, Bronte, and Dickerson.”

“I cannot believe you did all this in a matter of a few months,” Charlotte says.

“The interior decorators are still doing some work. They will be installing the mirror above the bed while we are away.”

Lord Jordan Xavier Crothers looks into his wife’s eyes as they gracefully move across the ballroom floor.

Although he is considered by his peers to be boorish, unyielding, and dedicated to preserving his wealth and status, the silver-haired, mustachioed, fifty-two-year-old allows himself a smile. He knows he is fortunate that Catherine, his amber-haired, shapely, thirty-four-year-old wife has stood by him despite his neglect.

“I know I have not been much of a husband of late.”

“I understand that business takes precedence over family.”

“Not anymore, I swear,” he says. “I looked at our girls the other day. I barely recognized them. I do not want my daughters to be strangers to me. I know what that is like.”

Lady Catherine smiles contentedly. Her smile fades when she notices the other couples leaving the dance floor and hurriedly exiting the ballroom.

“What do you suppose is going on?” she asks Lord Crothers.

He turns, stopping a fleeing couple.

“Excuse me, Lord, and Lady Buxton. Where is everyone running off to?”

Lady Buxton stares pop-eyed at them.

Lord Buxton clears his throat. “Apparently, the unsinkable pride of the White Star Line is about to wind up at the bottom of the North Atlantic.”

Harold Bride frantically taps at the ship’s Marconi wireless set. The radioman barely notices Ensign Payne enter the radio room with two passengers trailing behind him.

The gentleman walks over to the radioman’s desk, thumbing through the messages.

Bride looks up, snatching away the messages. “What do you think you’re doing? Those are private.”

Jack Phillips, the ship’s other radioman briefly looks up, but seeing Bride has control of the situation, he goes back to transmitting messages.

“This gentleman and his wife are with the White Star Line…,” Ensign Payne begins.

“I know, they want to see if they’ve got any telegrams, or they want to send a message to their family.” Bride says. “I’m up to my ears in requests, Ensign. The wireless was broken last night. It’s only been operable since this morning, so we had quite a backlog of telegrams to send. I can’t send any more now anyway. If you haven’t noticed, the ship is sinking, so sending out distress signals is our top priority.”

Mr. X huffs. “This is not a time to be impertinent or insubordinate.”

Bride smiles apologetically at the couple. “I’m sorry, sir. The prospect of dying has made me a bit ill-tempered.“

“Let me see the distress message you are sending,” Mr. X demands.

Bride glances at Ensign Payne.

“Go ahead, Harold. Show him.”

Mr. X reads the message.

Titanic to Any Ship: Titanic Position 41.44 N 50.24 W. Require immediate assistance. Come at once. We struck an iceberg. Sinking.

“Have any ships responded?”

“No. And as far as I can tell, there aren’t any ships within four hours of us.”

Austin kisses Charlotte.

Distress rockets burst in the black sky overhead.

Holding his bride’s small hands in his own, Austin says, “I will see you in New York.”

Charlotte continues to cry. “Come with me, Austin. There is room in our boat.”

“You heard the officer, Charlotte. Women, and children only. It would not be fair for me to take a spot.”

“Fair? Do not talk about fair, Austin. This is our honeymoon. We have been married less than a week.”

“But we have known each other three hundred eighty-five days, fourteen hours, and fifty-four minutes,” Austin says. “And I have enjoyed every second.”

Austin gives her the dazzling smile she fell in love with, his eyes twinkling with confidence.

“We are going to have only good luck from here on out,” Austin says. “But next time we go somewhere we go by car, all right?”

Austin caresses her cheek with his hand, taking in her beauty.

The crowd behind them swells. A stout sailor next to the McIntyre’s says, “Please, Miss, get in the boat. We have quite a task ahead of us getting everyone off the ship.”

Charlotte steps into Lifeboat Number 13.

Austin waves at Charlotte, blowing her a kiss.

Charlotte bows her head, sobbing to herself. When she looks up, her husband is gone, swallowed up by the anxious, desperate crowd.

“C’mon ladies, quick as you can,” a bald steward says to Lady Catherine, her two daughters, and their governess, Veronique Pettibone.

Muttering in French, Veronique helps Lady Catherine and her daughters into Lifeboat Number 13.

“Stay calm, Veronique,” Lady Catherine says. Turning to the steward, she asks, “Is the ship really sinking?”

“It’s just a precaution. Nothing to worry about. There are other ships nearby. We’ll get you back on board as soon as this sorts itself out.”

“Why leave the ship for this rickety craft? Whatever is going on, I think we would be safer on the ship.”

“I’m just following orders, mum.”

“Keep an eye on my husband. He is liable to try and do something brave,” Lady Catherine says. “He has good intentions, but he is not an athlete. Remind him his daughters and I would like to see him again.”

“Don’t worry. He’s as safe as a babe in his mother’s arms.”

Lady Catherine is still wearing the extravagant light tan gown and wide hat she wore for dinner. She takes a seat in the lifeboat between her six and eight-year-old daughters, who reach out for the protection of their mother.

Known for her unflappable manner and elegance, Lady Catherine takes a deep breath to steady herself. She looks up at her husband, who stands on the deck looking unruffled, puffing a cigar.

Sitting behind the Crothers, Veronique checks her refined porcelain features in her compact mirror, then pats her blonde hair, making sure it is properly pinned in position.

The crowd pushes toward the lifeboats.

“Don’t crowd each other and don’t panic!” an Ensign shouts, displaying his gun. “Maintain some semblance of order and everything will be fine.”

Two other officers draw their weapons.

Ensign Payne pushes through the crowd, trailed by Mr. and Mrs. X.

“These people are from White Star’s front office, Ensign Lightfoot. They have to get on board.”

“The lady can go, but if I let this gent on board there’s gonna be a riot,” Ensign Lightfoot replies.

“I’m taking command of this boat, and I say he gets in,” Ensign Payne says curtly, pushing Lightfoot aside. “You have a gun. Use it if you must,”

“You realize, Lucien, that even if we fill each boat to capacity, we don’t have enough lifeboats to save everyone,” Ensign Lightfoot whispers.

“You keep that fact to yourself, Ramsey, or you really will have a riot. Do the best you can.”

“But… I don’t want to play God…”

Mr. and Mrs. X step into the boat. Ensign Payne follows.

The crew starts to lower the boat.

Using her cane to make a path for herself and her nurse, Winifred batters her way through the crowd.

A swarthy-looking man in a tattered leather jacket blocks Winifred’s path. She bats him over the head with her cane.

“Have you no chivalry?” she asks him.

“All I know is if I don’t get in a boat, I’m gonna be shiverin’ all right,” he replies, stepping aside.

“Step in, Celia,” Winifred says.

“But Mrs. Graham, it’s already being lowered.”

“Then jump, my dear.”

Closing her eyes, Celia jumps, landing in a sitting position in front of Lady Catherine and her daughters.

The crew continues to lower the boat.

The man in the leather jacket helps Winifred over the side.

“You sure you wanna do this? It’s a good ten-foot drop.”

“What is your name young man?”

“They call me Billy Buttons, ma’am.”

“Well, Billy, just make sure your aim is true.”

“I’ll hold ya steady ‘till you’re ready, ma’am.”

“God be with you, Mr. Buttons.”

“And you too, ma’am.”

“As the Americans say, “GERONIMO!”

Billy let’s go of Winifred. She drops into the waiting arms of Ensign Payne and Celia.

Some of the passengers shriek in horror as Winfred’s sudden addition makes the lifeboat list to starboard, nearly knocking them out. The ropes holding the boat strain as the crew struggles to balance the boat.

“No more foolishness, okay?” Ensign Payne says.

“I hardly think that saving my skin, old and wrinkly though it may be, qualifies as foolishness.”

Lifeboat Number 13 is quickly lowered to keep other people from jumping in.

The crowd pushes against Ensign Lightfoot and the other two officers. A man reaches for one of the officer’s guns.

Ensign Lightfoot fires a warning shot in the air. “Stay calm! Everyone will be safe if we do this in an orderly fashion!”

Frightened by the shot, the other officers turn their revolvers on the crowd.

Charlotte looks up, screaming, as two dead men’s bodies fly past the lifeboat, splashing in the dark frigid water below them.

With fresh bottles in their hands, Alf and Quincy make their way to the ship’s stern.

Alf looks forward. The Titanic’s bow is submerged. The ship’s stern slowly begins to rise vertically into the black night air.

Trying not to slide across the deck, the band continues to play, striking up “Nearer My God to Thee.”

“You think they’d play a real song, like ‘The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond,’” Alf says.

“Aye. That’s me dad’s favorite tune. I’d give anythin’ to be with him right now.”

Water rushes up the deck toward them as the Titanic’s stern rises in the air.

“Next time I see you Quince, you’d better have that tenner you owe me.”

“Might be a bit waterlogged,” Quincy replies.

Taking a last swig of whiskey, Alf winks at Quincy, jumping off the ship’s stern.

Alf surfaces. Looking around, he calls out Quincy’s name. There’s no trace of him.

Alf swims away from the sinking liner, hoping to avoid being drowned in its wake.

The screams of the other passengers echo in Alf’s head. He watches the Titanic’s lights go out. An explosion rocks the ship, breaking it in two.

The Titanic’s stern plunges into the Atlantic Ocean.

Hoyt swims toward an overturned lifeboat. Looking up, he sees the Titanic’s second funnel break free. It narrowly misses him as he frantically swims away from the ship. He struggles against the current as the pull of the dying ship nearly drags him under. Gasping, shivering, he hauls himself onto the lifeboat.

Ensign Payne surveys the survivors in Lifeboat Number 13. The only other man in the boat is Mr. X, whose self-interests make him dangerous and unreliable. Most of the thirty survivors are hollow-eyed, shivering children, nannies, and spoiled aristocrats.

He focuses his attention on a young, petite redhead who is sobbing uncontrollably.

Moving to her side, Ensign Payne whispers, “Please, Miss, try and get a hold of yourself. Think of the children.”

“She’s a newlywed,” Lady Catherine says. “Her husband’s still on the Titanic.”

“…I hope not…,” Ensign Payne says quietly to himself.

“Help the young woman out, Celia,” Winifred says to her nurse, who moves into the seat next to Charlotte.

Charlotte leans against Celia for comfort.

“Just think of home,” Celia whispers. “My Tim is back at Mrs. Graham’s estate putting up shutters and feeding horses. I bet you he’ll be down at the pub later hoisting one when he hears we’re safe.”

“My Austin is a dentist. We have yet to spend a night in our new home together.”

The stout nurse holds Charlotte tighter. “Just keep believing you will.”

The screams and horrific wails of the Titanic’s dying passengers sound in the distance.

“We must go back and try to save them,” Lady Catherine says.

“They are all doomed,” Mr. X. replies. “By the time we reach them, they will have frozen to death.”

“We have to try,” Lady Catherine insists, hugging her daughters. “Suppose it was your wife or mother?”

“I would say a prayer for them,” Mr. X responds. “Use some common sense. It is pitch black. We will never find them. All we will find is frozen bodies and debris.”

Mrs. X turns away from him, closing her eyes as if to shut out the world.

“You are not in charge here, you pretentious, pompous coward,” Winifred says, pointing at Mr. X. “Well, Ensign? You can either go back, or we women will take over and you men can go over the side.”

“I second that,” Lady Catherine says emphatically.

“Vive la revolucion!” Veronique adds.

Ensign Payne stares into the darkness, trying to keep the cries of the dying passengers from affecting him.

“The gentleman is right about one thing, “ Ensign Payne says. “It will be hard to find anyone.”

Winifred smiles at Celia. Recognizing that Winifred’s premonition is about to materialize, she shakes her head.

Winifred stands, raising her cane high into the pitch-black sky.

“If it is light you are worried about…”

The tip of her cane lights up, shining like a beacon across the water.

“It is the latest thing. A battery-operated cane,” Winifred says proudly.

The survivors share a guarded laugh.

“I must insist we move on, we could hit a submerged iceberg, and we all know how that could turn out,” Mr. X. says.

“Can you live with the cries of frightened, desperate people you refused to help for the rest of your life? I cannot.”

“I will sleep like a baby.”

Ensign Payne’s jaw tightens. “Pick up an oar, sir, we are going back.”

Lady Catherine guides the boat as Winifred and Veronique stand in the bow, looking for survivors.

Bodies, broken chairs, banners, and debris float by.

“As I said, a graveyard,” Mr. X grumbles.

“There, ahead of us! Someone is out there!” Winifred shouts.

Ensign Payne moves to the front of the boat.

Hoyt is sitting on an overturned lifeboat.

Ensign Payne pulls him on board.

A voice cries out nearby.

“Hey! How’s about throwin’ a line to a pished old codger?” Alf yells. “My arms is gettin’ tired!”

Celia consoles Charlotte, who continues to sob uncontrollably.

“Try not to worry, Charlotte,” Lady Catherine says. “It will be dawn soon. A ship will see us and rescue us.”

Mr. X lets out a stream of mocking laughter.

“No one is coming for us.”

Mrs. X gives him a nervous side glance.

“How can you be so sure?” Ensign Payne asks.

“Because this was all planned. But it was mishandled from the start.”

“Are you saying the sinking of the Titanic was planned?” Hoyt asks.

Mrs. X grabs her husband’s arm, but he yanks it free, blurting out, “Not the Titanic. The Olympia. The plan was to sink the Olympia for the insurance money.”

“Please…Stop,” Mrs. X begs.

“Last year, the Olympic, the Titanic’s sister ship, collided with the Royal Navy cruiser H.M.S. Hawke. A board of inquiry determined the collision was caused by the Olympic. It cost millions to repair the ship, money the White Star Line did not have because the ship was new. The Olympic had only made four Atlantic crossings, so it had yet to pay for itself. Our Board decided to sink the damaged Olympic for the insurance money.”

“Preposterous,” Winifred says.

“The collision left the Olympic with a slight list to port,” Mr. X continues.

“I noticed that last night,” Alf says.

“You’re so tipsy, I doubt you would notice if we were invaded by men from the moon,” Winifred huffs.

“I was sober as a judge last night, and I’m a welder. I know ships,” Alf replies. “As for being tipsy, mum, I’m not tipsy, I’m drunk. I’ve been drinkin’ all night and being soused kept me from freezing to death when I was swimming in that icy water.”

“Why are you confessing your horrible deed to us?” Veronique asks Mr. X.

“Because it will not go beyond this boat. The Ensign was right. Why should I die carrying the weight of guilt?”

Charlotte stands up, so angry that her body shakes. Celia holds her back.

The boat begins to rock.

“Please sit down, Mrs. McIntire!” Ensign Payne begs. “The last thing we all want is to end up in this freezing water.”

“You let my husband and thousands of other people die so your company can get insurance money?”

“Blood money,” Alf adds.

“No one was supposed to die,” Mr. X says. “The steamer Californian was only five miles away. The Olympic was supposed to receive a warning there were icebergs ahead. It was planned that the Olympic would hit the iceberg head-on. The ship would be damaged, but it would not sink. The passengers would be told the ship was sinking and there would be enough time to get everyone safely off the ship. The Californian was supposed to pick up all of the passengers after the Olympic sank. Then the remaining crew, those who knew the plan, would scuttle the ship.”

“Did you know of this so-called ‘plan’ Ensign?” Winifred asks.

“No. They must have known I would not go along with such a cold-hearted, greedy stunt.”

“Everything went wrong,” Mr. X mutters. “The Californian sent an ice alert, but the Olympics’ radioman failed to pass it on to the captain. I saw the message sitting with a pile of telegrams when I was on the bridge. The Olympic glanced off the iceberg instead of hitting it head-on, which caused her to sink much faster. When the ship was sinking, the radioman sent out a distress signal, but the Californian failed to respond.”

Breaking free from Celia, Charlotte rushes at Mr. X.

“You killed Austin!

“You should pay the piper for what you’ve done,” Alf adds.

“Agreed, Alfred,” Winifred says, raising her cane.

Lady Catherine turns to Veronique. “Take care of my daughters.”

“Cover your eyes, girls,” Veronique says.

Lady Catherine rises from her seat, pulling a hairpin from her hair.

“I’ve been hoping I would be around to see you get what you deserve,” Ensign Payne says.

Mrs. X. slides away from her husband. Aghast at what they’re seeing, the other passengers cower, looking away, as Ensign Payne, Winifred, Alf, and Lady Catherine bear down on Mr. X.

The boat rocks.

“Stop this! We’re not animals,” Hoyt shouts. “Think of the children!”

“I don’t wanna ruin a buddin’ friendship, Hoyt,” Alf says. “So, if you don’t want what mister high pockets is gonna get, you best sit down.”

The four angry passengers descend on Mr. X. He is buried beneath a barrage of fists and Winifred’s flailing cane.

Hoyt moves to stop the beating, but Mrs. X steps in his way, shouting, “Ship Ahoy! Ship Ahoy!”

The survivors of Lifeboat 13 are lifted aboard the R.M.S Carpathia one by one until only Mr. X remains.

Two of the Carpathia’s seamen look down into the lifeboat.

“What do you suppose is up with him, Kent?” the first seaman asks.

“Oy! Wake up!” Kent Clarke shouts. “Looks like he’s passed out, Clive.”

Mrs. X leans over the side of the ship. Looking down at her husband, she nonchalantly says, “I warned him about taking this trip. I told him it might be too much of a strain for his heart.”

Smiling, she walks away to join the others.

“If my misses looked like that, it’d surely be too much for my heart,” Clarke says.

The two men climb down the rope ladder and into the boat.

Clive Simmons studies Mr. X’s body, checking for a pulse.

“He’s a croaker all right.”

Clarke pulls Mr. X’s coat open. Spots of blood mar his immaculately pressed white shirt. A woman’s hairpin protrudes from his side.

“His neck is all bruised too,” Clarke notes.

“So, he was stabbed and choked to death,” Simmons replies.

Clarke picks up a piece of a broken cane.

“Add beaten to the list.”

“I seen this bloke before,” Simmons replies. “Yep, at the White Star office. He’s Joshua Creighton Allison, one of the company’s Vice Presidents. He’s the one who tried to blame my brother for the collision with the Olympic.”

“Your brother was the navigator on the Hawke, wasn’t he?” Clarke asks.

“Yeah. Killed himself over the guilt of it. Then the Board of Inquiry absolved him.”

“Might be a Board of Inquiry over Allison’s death. There were more than thirty witnesses. Somebody must have seen something.”

“Nah., He drowned.”

Simmons and Clarke quietly push Allison’s body overboard.