The Stowaway

A stowaway on the Atlantic steamer La Guillette has embarked on a killing spree. But will the killer be found before the ship reaches Le Havre?

At last the crowd was drifting away. For four nights had we festered in the unbearable heat and sickness of Rio de Janeiro, that city of constant frenzy and hysteria. We were provided with the best accommodation available at such short notice whilst we waited for the seas to calm. In that sort of heat one needs all the liquid nourishment possible, and although the water was often as warm as the air around it, the company also provided us with an endless supply of fine wines that I, admittedly, did too often overindulge in.

 

            But now we were moving at last out onto the open ocean. As I watched the people on the quayside from the ship's stern, I noticed a certain fatigue and weariness about them. They waved and blew kisses with almost no enthusiasm as if deeply preoccupied with some great concern. It was probably due to the heat. Anyhow, it bothered me very little �" I was glad that in two weeks time we would see Le Havre once again and that shortly afterwards I would be reunited with Elsa in Rouen. Homeward bound at last I watched the Corcovado mountain until it was a speck on the horizon and then went to my cabin.

 

The ship was as sumptuous as any and was certainly worth the ticket price. La Guillette  was launched back in '87, although it has recently been refitted in a more appropriately modern style. Her two funnels belched thick, black smoke emanating from the burning, fiery furnaces that scorched the crew's faces and blackened her insides as they roared, ever hungry for more fuel.

 

The first three days passed without incident. One quickly establishes a routine on these sorts of voyages that can become quite difficult to get out of. I would be up early for a half hour in the gymnasium before getting changed and meeting Mr. and Mr.s. Bacon in the canteen for breakfast. Then I would visit the wireless office for any news or personal messages before returning to my cabin to write and then to nap. Late, in the afternoon I would get up and go to meet Mademoiselle Tirand, the beautiful but scandalous daughter of my business partner, whom I had picked up upon arriving in Rio. She had travelled there with her uncle despite my protestations that the journey was far too long and arduous for someone like herself. We would walk the length of the promenade deck before dining with Mr. and Mr.s Bacon again in the dining room.

 

But all of that changed on the fourth morning. I rose and went to the gymnasium as normal. It was much quieter than normal, there was only one other man there, which  meant I had free run of the all of the equipment. As such I must have somewhat overdone it as I left sweating profusely and feeling exhausted. Still, I returned to my cabin and changed before proceeding to the canteen. Unusually, Mr. and Mr.s Bacon were not there before me. I smiled. Mr. Bacon's profession as a watchmaker in Portsmouth often caused us to joke about his unnecessarily-precise timekeeping. But my smile was stopped as a server passed me Mr. Bacon's extremely ornate calling card on a silver platter. For such an eloquent and outspokej man it was the brevity of the message that struck me first. 'URGENT MATTER. WOULD APPRECIATE YOUR ASSISTANCE GREATLY'. I waved away the server who was nor in the process of pouring my coffee and quickly left the canteen.

 

I was certain that their cabin number was 2192. The numbering system on La Guilette  was incredibly arbitrary and extremely unhelpful, although the crew seemed to know the exact location of every individual cabin. I caught the purser on the stairs who officiously directed me down onto the second floor and towards the stern. I found the correct corridor quickly although it was difficult to see the numbers on the doors. The dark, dingy corridor did not at all befit the luxury suites that this section of the ship housed. The dark, purple wallpaper was etched with an intricate and winding floral design and the dark wood of the doors made each entranceway look like the opening of a dark cave or crevice. As I approached the room, the first officer of the ship emerged, doffing his cap in greeting. He was a tall, stout, bearded man who spoke with a rumbling, gravelly voice.

            'We would of course much appreciate your discretion in this matter Mister...'

            'White' I replied.

            'Mister White,' he repeated. ' We don't want to create a panic.' He nodded again and strode off back down the corridor. I knocked on the door.

            'Come in', came the slightly anxious reply of Mister Bacon. 'Ah, Albert', he spoke again as I entered the room. The two oil lamps in the room forbid my eyes from seeing the darkest corners of the room and lit only one half of Mister Bacon's lined and weary face with a flickering orange light.

            'What is it?' I asked approaching him. He moved closer and lowered his voice.

            'It's my wife. She thinks she saw a stowaway'. A small shriek emanated from a chair behind Mister Bacon, facing the wall.' She returned here after dinner as usual while I went out onto the deck with Monsieur Roland. She was just about to get changed when he appeared. Walked right in through the door. He walked over to her, threw her to the ground and held her down with his foot, whilst he did this'. He lifted one of the oil lamps towards the right hand wall, and there written in the deep red hue of what looked to be lipstick were three barely decipherable words. Most of it was illegible but I noted in the diary what I could make out:

 

                         Q U ? ? M A                        P R ? ? ? N D A                     D O ?

 

The words had clearly been written in a hurry. No doubt the stowaway feared capture. 'I came back from the upper deck', Mister Bacon continued, ' and heard crying from the room. I sped up and ran into the room to find it looking like this, as if ravaged by a thief'. Again he gestured with his arm and moved the lamp around to show me the furniture and clothes that lay strewn across the floor. 'And worse still, I find my wife still lying on the floor, naked. She says she cannot remember what happened and for that matter I'm not sure I want her to remember. She is still quite distraught as you can imagine'. He led me across the room to face the chair from which the noise had earlier emanated. There sat Mrs. Bacon, covered with a blanket, white as though she had seen a ghost. Beads of sweat poured down her forehead and her eyes did not look up to meet those of her audience. Instead they started into the middle distance, staring emptily at the wall. It was certainly not the chatty, sociable Mrs. Bacon I knew. 'There's not need to worry now dear. The first officer will have alerted the captain by now and the entire crew will be scouring the ship for him'. She looked up at her husband and nodded, weakly.

            'Is there anything I can do to help?', I asked, my eyes transfixed by the pale Mrs. Bacon.

            'Veronica will probably not be fit to go out today, so if you could arrange for a server to bring us some food here this evening it would be very much appreciated.'

            'Certainly', I replied. I shook Mr. Bacon's hand and exchanged smiles with his wife, before making my way to the dining room. As I walked back up the corridor by which I had arrived, a sudden fear struck me. The dark spaces suddenly seemed likely to reveal a deadly marauder stalking undetected through the corridors in search of whatever it was he wanted. Indeed his motivations were incredibly unclear. Mister Bacon certainly had not mentioned anything being taken. And it seemed unlikely that he had been disturbed. One could only assume that his motivations were much darker. I shook my head to stop myself filling the dark corners of the corridor with the face of this frightening character. His image was everywhere �" in the floral designs of the wallpaper, in the shapes of the carpet. I stopped, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Why was I getting myself so worked up? I did not normally frighten this easily. And this face I was seeing, who was it/ I had no idea what this stowaway looked like. It was probably just some native hoping for a new life in Europe. I opened my eyes and carried on towards the dining room, mocking myself for my moment of hysteria.

 

            I climbed the spiral staircase and entered the dining room. It was one of the most opulently decorated rooms on the vessel. The white wood panelling on the walls gleamed as though newly polished as it reflected the light from the heavy, drooping chandeliers. They looked so weighty, it was a wonder the ceiling did support them. The immaculately-dressed servers glided across the veneered wood floor, permanently in a perpetual state of business. As I walked across the huge expanse of room, dressed in my black morning suit,  the servers glanced up at me, frowning upon this invasion of their domain. I walked over to the Maitre d' who was standing at his counter as he permanently seemed to do.

            'Good Morning' I said.

            'Good Morning, Sir' he replied.

            'Would it be possible to arrange for an evening meal to be sent to the Bacon's cabin this evening?', I asked. He looked at me disdainfully.

            'We do not normally offer room service till after hours, Sir'.

            'I understand that', I countered, ' but I would advise you that this is a very delicate situation of which the captain has been notified'. The Maitre d' looked up, offended by the suggestion that the captain had not kept him up to speed. His lips tightened into a thin grimace.

            'I am sure that the captain would have sent me a message if...'.

           

            The clattering sound of a dropped platter and a scream that came from the corridor just off of the dining room arrested his attention. Eyes wide he set off towards the source of the commotion followed by his army of servers. I followed at a pace and was soon out in the corridor itself. As the crowd of servers that had swarmed towards the incident momentarily parted, I saw the cause of the noise. A lone chambermaid stood motionless, a silver platter and tea set at her feet. In front of her, across the corridor from an ajar door lay a tall, well-dressed man in a black suit, his starched collar dyed red by the scarlet smile that curved around his throat. His eyes pointed towards a jagged blood-stained piece of glass lying on the thick beige carpet, the spilt red liquid around it seeping into the weave and the fibres of the wooden floor that lay underneath.

 

            My first thought was to find the stowaway. He must still be near. I sprinted up the corridor towards the far end, my eyes inspecting every doorway and passageway. There was no sign of him. I continued until the double doors that barred the way with a sign in French that indicated that beyond this corridor lay the cargo bay. I hurriedly twisted the knobs and pressed my weight against them to no avail. They were locked shut. There was no escape. The stowaway must have been somewhere in between the party of worried onlookers t the beginning of the corridor and myself. I turned and started to make my way back towards the dining room, walking slowly this time, looking for the killer, beads of sweat starting to form on my brown in trepidation.

 

            I stepped nervously down the corridor, assessing every possible shape and movement, looking for any possible hiding place, searching for any sign of this perfidious character. Doors came and went, passageways revealed no secrets and then, before I knew it, I looked up to see the crowd of servers and fathered, anxious passengers standing in front of me. My eyes were led immediately from the pale, frightened faces of the onlookers to the door of the victim's cabin, still half ajar. My feet followed my eyes and before I knew it I was entering the cabin. There was no light in the room and my shoes quickly met with something hard on the floor. I paused, rummaging in my jacket pocket for some matches and lit one, holding it up yo my eyes. The flickering light of the match kept the room out of focus, but from the depths of the darkness came a word carved into the wall, tearing the wallpaper and cutting deep into the splintered wood below. HELP. I spun around in search of the culprit, sensing movement behind me. My eyes were drawn to the open silhouette of the bathroom. I stepped into the doorway, lighting another match as the first started to burn my fingertips. The large, oval window was wide open, staring out into the night the line between sea and sky impossible to distinguish. I checked around the room, ensuring that the stowaway was not behind me, before peering out of the window. To the right was one of the winch lifts that the crew used to clean the bright, white hull of the ship, and just beyond that, a few decks below, was an open window. At that moment the warm glow of an oil lamp lit the room behind me as the first officer entered the bathroom. He joined me at the window, his face filled with fear.

            'That window opens out from the cargo bay corridor',  he whispered with a grimace. 'I thank you for your intervention Sir, but this is now a matter for the crew to deal with. If you could vacate the cabin and return to the dining room or the lower decks  and try to continue your voyage as normally as possible, the staff and I would be very grateful. Needless to say the company apologises unreservedly. However, this is now a very serious matter and the last thing the crew need is a panicked and frightened ship full of passengers'. I nodded and made my way out of the cabin quickly. Two burly members of the crew were already attempting to move the corpse so that the corridor could be reopened to passengers. The crowd had obviously gone, presumably dispersed to other areas of the ship. Seeing the blood, congealed into the weave of the carpet made me feel quite nauseous. No doubt the adrenaline of it all was not helping as my stomach burned and avid rose in my throat. I returned directly to my room. I did not write. I got undressed and got straight into bed, dimming the lamps a little so that I could nap for a few hours.

 

            My head was filled with those strange and vivid dreams that are common in the state between consciousness and sleep. Images of the murdered gentleman mingled with those of the pale face of Mrs. Bacon and the gnarled, shady, imagined face of the stowaway. The faces merged to form a sickly, inhuman looking form whose dark eyes stared deep inside me, delving into my mind and my body, agitating every nerve and sinew. Then the face started to change again, its outline burning red, becoming thinner and more feminine. The eyes burned orange and the short dark, curly hair of Mrs. Bacon grew, turning the colour of the deepest, most-attractive flames. Suddenly the eyes turned a familiar green and out of the dark face that instantly recognisable nose grew, forming perfectly upon the rosy, peach face that had now appeared. The image of Mademoiselle Tirand appeared above me, hovering over my face. Slowly the rest of her slim, shapely body formed, clad in the scarlet dress she often wore to dinner. I stared longingly at her knowing that, as the daughter of a long-standing business partner, she was forbidden. Suddenly, she opened her mouth. It opened to full width but then for a split second kept going, opening unnaturally wide. She paused, staring at me with her mouth wide open and then screamed my name at the top of her voice. I leapt up blinking and sitting up in my bed to find her leaning over me. The lights were still dim.

            'Albert, are you alright?', she started at me, eyes wide with anxiety.

            'Yes, certainly Camille. I was just having a bad dream'. In the shadowy darkness of the room her perfect silhouette slid to sit next to me on the bed.

            'I was worried about you. I waited up on the deck for twenty minutes. I was starting to get cold, so I came down to your cabin and your door was open. You were shaking whilst you were asleep so I thought I had best wake you up.'. Her soft, velvety voice was a soothing, healing sound, like listening to a babbling brook or a lone harpist.

            'It has just been a very taxing day, my dear. I imagine you have heard about events on board?'

            'Yes'. Her face became anxious again, the soft smile she had previously wore on her deep, red lips disappearing from her face. 'It's all very concerning. Hopefully they will find whoever is responsible soon and we can get on with enjoying the voyage'. I nodded.

            'Indeed. Well if you wait in the corridor I will get changed and we can go straight up on deck for our walk'. She looked down at the heavy bedclothes coyly.

            'I was thinking we could stay here for a while'. She raised her head an inch or so and shot me a glimpse of those green eyes. I frowned to question her proposal, but before I could speak she pressed her ruby lips against mine and swung her body around on top of me. Her soft hands caressed my face as she kissed me tenderly, the satin touch of her flame-coloured hair brushing against my cheek.  For a few seconds I was in heaven. But then in a flash, my mind was consumed by a host of other images. Sitting in the drawing room of her father in Rouen as he told me of the scandalous rumours that were being exchanged about her. Shaking hands with her father when we first agreed to work together as partners. Drinking with her father opposite the Cathedral. Working, talking, relaxing, debating with her father. The immorality of our actions repulsed me and I grabbed her by the shoulder and tried to push her away. She refused to move and so in one final attempt to free myself from her lips, I pushed her away with all my strength. I pushed her clean off of the bed, towards the door and into the darkness at the far end of the room. There was a clatter and a thud and then silence. I sat upright again, shivering, perhaps with anxiety, perhaps because of the excitement of it all. My breathing seemed to throb around the room, heavy and wheezing inhalations that regularly shattered the silence. I pulled back the covers and picked up the oil lamp on the bedside table as I made my way towards where she had fallen. I saw her legs first. Her long, shapely legs, splayed at an awkward angle on the floor. Then I moved the lamp, making her red dress come into view, and then her face, obscured by her fiery locks. I leant down towards her and pulled back her hair to find her lifeless eyes staring back at me. It was only then that I noticed the unusual angle of her head, bent towards her right shoulder at an extremely unnatural angle. I glanced back towards the bed and instantly recognised what had happened. She had tripped over my travelling chest at the foot of the bed and fallen upon the side table that now lay in pieces at her side, her soft neck having met sharply with the table edge. My shivering intensified and I let loose those ruddy strands of hers, concealing her face once again. Without thinking I stood and opened my travelling chest to empty it. My hands shook as I took out my spare clothes and then mechanically turned and picked up Camille to place her in the chest, locking it shut and then sitting on top of it, my breath wheezing. I had to get out of this room. I stood up and quickly put my clothes on. I straightened my bow tie before my legs marched me out of the door and into the corridor.           

           

            As I walked my mind was a blur. I saw not the wallpaper or the carpet of the corridor but other images. Images of people, places, strange animals that I was sure I had never seen. I saw letter and what looked to be numbers and shapes. Colours flashed from right to left and from top to bottom. I needed to sit down. I headed in the direction of the smoking room and found myself in a dark, leather chair in a corner of the smoky, panelled room.

 

            I coughed loudly and woke up. My throat felt sore and raw and my head was throbbing. The uncomfortable warmth deep inside my abdomen reminded me of what I had just done. I was a murderer. Me. An honest, respectable businessman. A charitable donor. A good and loyal friend. A murderer. A killer. I had killed the daughter of my business partner. A sudden swell in my oesophagus made me leap for the door that exited onto the promenade deck. I ran for the railing and let out of a burst of sickness into the ocean. I wiped my sweating brow with my handkerchief and stood up straight. The chilly Atlantic wind cooled my perspiring face and I let out a long, sighing breath. I steadied my shaking legs and retook control of them, walking gently towards the stern of the ship. The cool wind had helped rid me of the terrible nausea, billowing inside my suit jacket and cooling every muscle to the bone. At the stern of the ship I leant over the railing,, peering down to the frothing, white water that stretched like a tail back towards the quayside in Rio. The agitated water spread from the propellers in strong ripples visible even in the darkness of the night thanks to the large, bright moon that hung overhead. The ripples grew as they travelled and would continue to grow before crashing against some coastline somewhere with tremendous fury.  I looked up at the sky, the moon and the stars, burning millions of miles way but still visible to us on the Earth. What a burning that must be.

 

            A footstep behind me alerted me to the presence of another. At first I thought it was the first officer, come to ask me about the dead girl in my travelling chest. But then I realised. I was alone on deck. It was  much later than I had realised and all of the passengers had returned to their cabins. It had to be the stowaway. I could hear his breathing, his deep, heavy breathing, reminiscent of a person nearing death. His footsteps brought him closer to me, closer enough that I could hear the fabric of his clothes rubbing against itself as he moved. As I felt his breath on the back of my neck I turned at great speed to confront this demon.

 

            The face that looked back at me was framed by fire, its bright complexion complimented with two orbs of the deepest green. My eyes focussed as Mademoiselle Tirand smiled back at me, her arm outstretched to touch mine. I hit it away, the familiar burning returning to my stomach and insides.

            'How? What? You are... I ki... Who are you?,' I exclaimed. She frowned and then raised an eyebrow before smiling curiously.

            'It's me. Camille, you silly thing. Who did you think...'

            'Get away from me!', I barked. ' You are... you are dead! Killed! Murdered! Stay away!'. I pressed myself against the railings, straining to get away from her, this thing.

            'Arthur, I don't unders...'

            'I killed you! I murdered you! I did! I'm so sorry! But it's true! You cannot be here!'. My heart beat like one of the tribal drums peddles by the natives in the streets of Rio. That ongoing, uncontrolled, non-rhythmic pounding, tearing through my chest. The ship's whistle blew, drawing my attention up to the smoke pouring from the twin funnels. I thought again of the coal-fired furnaces, the red-hot burning coals, that inferno that raged deep in the abdomen of the ship. I felt it. Burning. Deep. Pain. I felt the sickness rising again, my legs trembled as I clutched my stomach, the image of the dead , murdered girl spiralling in front of me, first through living, spritely eyes and then through dead, lifeless balls of jelly. Then her head started to move, jolting from its normal position atop her shoulders to that sickening, unnatural angle against her right shoulder blade. Faster and faster, her eyes widening perhaps through anxiety, perhaps through pain. An arm shot out to reach me. To grab me. To grasp me. But before those soft hands met my body I was away. Unknowingly I had climbed backwards up the railing and let myself fall from the deck. Down I tumbled, staring always upwards towards the moon, the stars burning bright, the trail of smoke etched onto the indigo sky and the burning face of Camille. Then I hit the water.

 

            The icy Atlantic extinguished the burning inside me, instantly rushing into my lungs. I glanced towards La Guillette, already steaming off into the distance. The cold water froze my insides, creating a new burning sensation that travelled around my body. The water tasted strangely pure. I could not taste the salt of the sea. A blue film crept over my vision, turning the moon, the stars and the wispy smoke of the steamer bluer and bluer, darker and darker.

 

            La Guillette docked its white hull first at Le Havre and then  upriver at Rouen. The tragedies aboard were well reported.

Author's Note

All feedback appreciated!