Titanic 2012: Curse of RMS Titanic

EIGHT

Declan Irvin slapped his best friend and colleague, Thomas Coogan on the shoulder where they stood amid the bustle and excitement of the Red Lion Pub in a back alleyway deep inside Belfast’s most notorious district. Declan pointed to a table in the back of the crowded ale house.

It’d been twenty hours since Coogan’s uncle, Anton Fiore, had been seen or heard from. At home, Anton’s wife, Thomas’ favorite aunt who’d kept the two young interns from starving these many months, sat weeping and terrified something awful had happened to Anton. She’d expected him home as usual when young Thomas and Declan had slipped past curfew at the teaching hospital where they were in residence doing their work for Queens University, to make their way to the Holland and Wolff shipyards to meet Anton.

For two years now while enrolled at Queens, the boys had watched in fascination as the largest seagoing vessel on the planet was being built; they’d seen the hull fashioned from Belfast iron ore laid and tested. Between classes and studying anatomy and physiology and an array of mathematical and scientific curricula, the young men had seen the ship go from a skeletal marvel to the most wondrous and largest man-made object in the world. It marked their time as residents here in the city and helped make that time fantastically exciting.

The sprawling shipyards were situated relatively close to the Mater Infirmorum Hospital grounds where they were in residence, and only the night before, Uncle Anton as Thomas called the shipyard watchman who had early on learned of his nephew’s fascination with all things Titanic, had boasted, “You do know I can get you lads aboard to see the interiors—that is if you should like.”

“Should like?” Declan had echoed. “Absolutely we should like, right, Tom?”

“If you’re sure you won’t get into no trouble, Uncle.”

“Bah! I’ll see to it you good fellas have as grand a tour as that Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews.” Anton winked and flashed his signature Cheshire cat grin.

“Ahhh, yes, the owner and the architect!” declared Declan, taking Anton’s surprise away. “Sorry, sir… I have studied the Titanic and Britannic from their inception, sir.”

“Well—those muckety-mucks’ve had their tour!” Anton laughed and it sounded like bells ringing.

Declan Irvin felt he had been adopted by Thomas’ aunt and uncle. They were wonderful people and wonderful with one another, as well and good to be around. But now the old gentleman had disappeared without a trace, and Aunt Fiore was destitute without him. Much to Declan’s chagrin, they had lost any chance of seeing the inside of Titanic, making the loss that much more painful still, but Declan dared not say so aloud.

There would be no other chance; the all but finished ship was to be launched the following day or so. Thereafter, the only way to see her was by ticket or signing on as a maid, purser, crewman, or stoker. Last chance to see her interior ballroom and state rooms, the rumored pools, spas, and the gymnasiums for first, second, and third class as well as reading and smoking rooms, cafes, lounges, saloons and bandstands, and multiple promenades. Last chance to walk her topmost deck, to look down from such a height from her bridge. How he wished to see all her shining brass fittings and teakwood floors.

Declan knew he couldn’t afford even a third-class ticket. Nor could he afford the time away from medical school to get a job waiting tables or stacking deck chairs aboard Titanic.

At first Declan had been angry at the turn of events—frustrated and annoyed. After all, Thomas had assured Declan that it was all set. Then just before midnight when they’d slipped curfew at the dormitory and arrived at Anton’s office, they found the small shack empty and Anton very much absent. For Declan, it resulted in a dashing of excitement, and for Thomas a gnawing fear beyond any disappointment that’d seeped into Declan’s heart. Where Declan was a devoted fan of all things Titanic, Thomas was devoted to his uncle.

Meanwhile, Thomas, who by now had lost all interest in the ship, was going on about his missing uncle. At the time, Declan assumed the old fellow had just been talking, or that he’d gotten his nights mixed up and had ambled home, but Thomas found his uncle’s watch still on his desk, and it was a time piece he’d never leave behind.

It was the first they’d begun to truly worry, and the worry only grew with the ticking of Anton’s pocket watch when Thomas confided that his Uncle Anton had promised the watch to him upon his death.

And so with each tick-tick-tick of the second hand, it played on their nerves like a constant drip. They’d waited for him, imagining him on his rounds even without his watch! But he did not return.

About then, Declan’s disappointment had gotten the better of him. “Your uncle set the time and his job is one of schedules, so where is he?”

“I don’t know!” Thomas replied.

Eventually, they had gone toward the ship and its gaping cargo hold, calling out Fiore’s name as they went. Thomas made a mantra of it, calling, “Uncle… Uncle Anton! Uncle, where’n Hades are you?”

“Where the deuce could he be?” Declan added again. “He’ll be sacked for this if they find us here.”

“You there!” shouted a man from the topmost deck of Titanic, so high up he might be God. The boys had to crane their necks to look up at a lone figure in dark shadow waving a lantern in what seemed an angry arc. “Disembark, the two of ye; out from here now! Go along… that’s good lads.”

Unable to see the man’s face, Thomas shouted back, “Is that you, Uncle?”

“It’s not Anton’s voice,” Declan assured Thomas.

Thomas realized this too and added, “Who’re you? Where’s my uncle, the watchman at the yards?”

“Tuttle!” shouted the man far overhead. “Pinkerton Agent, and I’m armed along with five other able men! Now shove off.”

“Bluffing,” Declan muttered to Thomas; Declan then shouted up to Tuttle. “Where’s the shipyard watchman—Mr. Fiore?”

“Brought you Pinky’s on and fired him, haven’t they?” asked Thomas.

“I’ve no clue! Likely left his post for a dram at the nearest pub.”

Two other Pinkerton agents sporting long guns materialized at the railing beside Tuttle. “Can’t trust Black Irish or any Paddy for that matter!” said a second agent from on high.

A third added, “It’s why we’ve been called on in the first place!”

“You take that back!” shouted Thomas, shaking a fist at Tuttle and the others. “My Uncle Fiore is not a Black Irish; fact is he’s French mostly, and he’s never left his post unattended! Takes it serious, he does!”

“We’ve reason to believe he’s aboard, Agent Tuttle,” added Declan.

“Not ’board Titanic, he isn’t,” shot back Tuttle from on high. “We can see everything and everyone coming and going from up here.”

“Then you must’ave seen the old watchman leave for his rounds—which direction did he go in?” pleaded Declan. “He could be hurt. Tell us which way’d he go so we might locate him.”

“Save your breath. He’s not the least bit interested, the bastard.” Thomas pulled his best friend away and the moment their backs were to Tuttle, the agent shouted for them to hold on, making them turn and again crane their necks to the light of the lantern far above.

“Hold on,” repeated Tuttle. “The watchman staggered off hours ago complaining of having gotten hold of some bad oysters, he said. Sick as a dog, he was, all bent over.”

“We’ll take his watch to the house for him then,” Thomas told Declan, the watch reflecting the lantern light even from this distance.

But on arriving at this witching hour to the Fiore home, they learned he’d never come home, and soon the hours brought on daylight and still no sign of Anton. It was then that they’d gone to the Belfast Police who so far as Declan could tell offered little hope and less help. Thomas pleaded until they turned him over to the Chief of Constables but to no avail so far as Declan could tell.

However, Thomas came out of the police department stationhouse with having been told of an eccentric American who’d come to Belfast to set up shop as a private detective. Someone had taken pity on Thomas, apparently, and had told him he might be in need of this man’s services.

After discussing the matter and finally getting Thomas’ aunt to take some laudanum and get some sleep, they’d gone searching for this man rumored to get results, this American-Irish named Alastair Wyland.

And now they’d found him this April afternoon at a card game with several rough-looking characters here inside the Red Lion Public House.

“Three,” said one man with a scar across his left eye, asking for more cards.

“Two,” announced another—a fellow with missing fingers on one hand.

The one who most resembled the description the boys had of a Mr. Alastair Wyland, a well-dressed dapper fellow with watch fob and wolf’s head cane, called for one card which precipitated a bit of banter and laughter.

The dealer, a man who looked as old as wood and as hairy as an Irish wolfhound laughed heartily and said, “So… going for an inside straight, eh? Hehehehe… it never works, son.”

“It is worth it just to hear you call me son,” replied Wyland, whipping the single discard at the old man. Wyland, frayed, grey scruffy beard and all, appeared in his early sixties if not older. Most assuredly, rough cut wrinkles spoke of years of experience with worry.

“Mind those long shots,” added the dealer. “You Americans. Risk-takers you are!”

“You are Mr. Wyland?” asked Declan, now standing over the poker table, making the four men nervous. In fact, it appeared everyone sitting here had fragile nerves and itchy fingers.

Wyland was more nervous than any of them, Declan decided, but he covered it well as a good poker player must. Wyland didn’t look up as the others had, instead sizing Declan up from the shadow thrown across the cards. “You’re in my light,” was all that Wyland said to Declan’s shadow.

Declan could see that Wyland was not looking for an inside straight but rather held two pairs. Sixes and eights.

Thomas, beside Declan repeated the question. “Are you Wyland or not?”

“Who might be asking?” the heavyset, well-dressed detective asked.

“We’re wanting to hire you. To find my friend’s uncle who’s gone missing.” Declan nudged Thomas to speak up on the matter, but before Thomas could go into it, one of the men at the poker table said, “It’s them two miners that disappeared, eh? Who’re you lads to O’Toole and McAffey?”

“What two miners?” asked Declan.

Thomas said to Wyland, “My Uncle Anton’s the watchman at Harland and Wolf—the shipyards.”

“Declan put in. “We were supposed to meet him at midnight last eve.”

“But he didn’t show up,” Wyland said, bored, “and he never came home neither. Wife’s worried sick—they’d had a row.”

“All true but how did you know?” asked Declan, eyes wide.

“Hear it every day sittin’ here, son.”

This made all the card players break into laughter.

“Look, this is no joke!” Thomas shouted, drawing Wyland’s eye. “We’re all sick with worry.”

Wyland looked around the table. “Three men missing just like that, all yesterday? Sounds like they found a keg, eh lads?”

Again everyone at the table laughed, one slapping hard against the wood, all except for one man, the old dealer. “Tim McAffey and Francis O’Toole are not the sort to up and disappear, keg or no keg. They are good men, both—stalwart miners! And no one’s more reliable than that big watchman, Fiore.”

“Like yourself McClain, I’m sure,” replied Wyland who looked at his pocket watch and saw that it was just past five, and that he’d been here too long. “Let’s finish the hand, shall we, lads? Then its time I find a meal.”

“Will you take our case?” asked Thomas, displaying fifty-dollars in bills. “It’s all I could collect, but I can get more.”

“One thing at a time.” Wyland continued with his game and his drink, and when the cards were laid out, everyone but Wyland groaned. The detective, known to have left America for Belfast, raked in his winnings. Rumors circulated about the man; why would anyone migrate to Ireland from America? It was not done except for the other way round. He was a secretive man, and in Ireland for fifteen years—the last three in Belfast—or so it was said. Most seriously, no one knew exactly where in America he’d migrated from, but it had been a number of years now that he enjoyed a reputation of getting things done here at street level.

Others said he did so with an iron fist and a swift gun. That and the fact he’d become a fixture in the neighborhood with connections to both police and lowlifes. This made him the right man to locate Anton Fiore as the local authorities had shown little interest in the missing man.

As Wyland now basked in his winnings, Thomas Coogan informed Wyland, “We wanted a real detective—a Pinkerton agent—but we couldn’t afford one.”

“Well now I’m no Pinky and never’ve been one,” replied Wyland, scooping up the last of his coins. “So you’re stuck with me is it?” Wyland stood and stuffed his pockets with his winnings, smoke encircling his head from a pipe he’d taken the time to relight. “I warrant it’s no coincidence your uncle, young man, has disappeared alongside these two miners. Who can tell me where the miners were last seen, and where they take their secret meetings these days.”

“I-I dunno nothing ’bout’ no secret meetings, but I’ll take you to the last place anyone saw McAffey and O’Toole,” said Missing Fingers.

“Where might that be?”

“Number 9 mineshaft; they’d closed it down, you see, but later sent those two in to inspect it. Odd thing is…” he trailed off as if picturing the odd thing.

“Walter, what odd thing?” asked Wyland, leaning into the table.

“They’d been inspecting, but strange thing is the lift, she come up alone by some accounts… but at least one man claims to’ve seen O’Toole come up. But the super, McAffey, he wasn’t with him.”

“What kind of a town is this?” asked Wyland. “You mean to tell me two men were sent into a questionable mineshaft, but no one was in charge of seeing they’d come out?”

“It was quittin’ time, and management don’t pay overtime.”

“Ahhh… makes perfect sense.”

“See the lift was up next day, so it’s a cinch they left outta there.”

“A cinch, eh? Take me to the shaft in question.” Wyland looked hard now at the two young men who had hired him. He opened his palm for payment. “You fellows don’t look like miners.”

“How would you know either way?” asked Declan, withholding the bills.

“Your hands… no coal under the nails, no discoloration of the skin.”

Thomas unconsciously studied his hands. “We are—”

Wyland stopped Thomas with a finger to his lips. “You are students at the university no doubt.”

“No doubt?” challenged Declan. “I suspect you are making an educated guess.”

“Your method of dress, and your politeness give you away—along with a slight scent of the dissection room—formaldehydes, I should say. Aside from this, you are disciplined but show no sign between you of ever having been in the military. Guessing that professors keep you in stringent line rather than sergeants.”

“How can you… how can he… Declan, he’s reading our minds!” Thomas appeared astounded.

“No, no—just quite good at reading our fingernails and ascots,” countered Declan. “The art of detection, correct Mr. Wyland?”

“True but it oft requires intuition and instinct as well as a trained eye. Come along, and we’ll see if the shaft or the lift will tell us anything.”