The Titanic Secret (Isaac Bell 11)

Bell wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly. “Wife?”

“That’s what he said. Her name is Adeline and she lives in a boulder.”

“I suspect she lives in Boulder,” Bell corrected absently, his mind running through implications, “not in a boulder. It’s a town in Colorado.”

“That makes more sense,” the girl said so brightly that he suspected it had been a truly perplexing issue for her.

“Was Wallace able to book passage for us back to America?”

“Oh, that. Yes. Yes, he did. It’s right here. Hold a tick.” Although the wire was static-charged, he could hear her searching through papers on a desk. “Found it. He has you on the SS Bohemia, a freighter owned by Bougainville Shippers.”

Bell wasn’t familiar with the line, but it mattered little. “When and where?”

“Um, next Wednesday at two from Southampton. Berth 26. That’s away from the Ocean Dock. And, besides, the hullabaloo should be long over by then.”

Bell wrote the date and time in his journal, ignoring her prattle, and said, “When Joel checks in next, I want you to tell him to meet me at the docks with at least ten men who should be expecting trouble. Can you do that?”

“I sure can, Mr. Bell. Joel will be calling in the morning. I mean, Mr. Walla—”

“That’s fine, Miss Bryer. Just make sure he knows to meet me and bring some guys. Okay?”

“Okay, Mr. Bell.” She paused, calculating. “Maybe I can come with them and we can meet.”

“That’s not a good idea. It could be dangerous, and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Wow. You sound so sure of yourself. Have you really done all the things Joel says you’ve done?”

“Not even half,” Bell said. “Good night, Miss Bryer.”

He found Brewster in the room he’d share with Vern Hall. It was a quaint space with smoky oak furniture, hand-stitched bedspreads, and portraits of Queen Victoria and the nation’s current monarch, George V, on the walls. Brewster was working on his journal. Hall was tucked under a mound of quilts and as still as a statue. Or a corpse.

“How’s he doing?” Bell asked.

“Same,” Brewster said as he glanced at the frail figure of his oldest friend. “Not a peep out of him.”

“We should leave him here,” Bell said softly, as if he were musing to himself rather than making a suggestion. He was testing for a reaction.

“Maybe we should,” Brewster said. “He’s not looking good, and we have a ways to go.”

“We do,” Bell agreed, “and we have a destination. The freighter Bohemia, Southampton Dock, Berth 26. We sail on Wednesday at two.”

“Can we make it?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. And I’ll have men there waiting in case there’s trouble.”

“Think there will be?”

“Gly’s no fool,” Bell replied. “He was smart enough to ambush us in Aberdeen, and I suspect he knows we’ve come south and are likely here in Newcastle since it’s England’s largest northern city. He can guess our next moves because he knows we want to leave for the States.”

“And that means he knows we’re heading to Southampton?”

“That’s the most logical port.”

Brewster went quiet for a moment before asking, “Are you going to tell me what happened back on the train with Alvin and Johnny and Vern?”

“The boys are all heading next door for a few pints at the pub before we eat. I’m going to wash up and I’ll meet you there. And explain everything.”

“But it wasn’t Vern. Right?”