Page 53 of Murder on the SS Leviathan
Waking, Cecile’s foremost thought was whether there was something in the little room resembling a chamber pot. Her next was how thirsty she was. Strange how one could wake up both with the need to pass water and the desire to drink some. Sadly, opportunities for both appeared absent.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but she’d been overcome by a great weariness—by an overwhelming wish to close her eyes and forget, for a little while, all that assailed her.
The room—dark and warm, its walls lined with piping—was the very same that Mr. Lopez had brought her to during the tour. At first, she’d placed her head on her knees, but it had been more comfortable to lie curled on the floor. The canvas bag and blanket were still in the corner and, after some consideration, she’d used them for a pillow.
Stretching out her legs, she winced. They’d grown stiff.
How long had she been here?
Impossible to tell, since there was no natural light. The noise of men shovelling coal, and the hissing, clanking, roaring clamour of furnaces and engines turning giant propellers continued, relentless.
If she returned to England, what would her life be? In some ways, similar—each day passing like the one before; years of repetition, without change. A timelessness, of sorts, except that she would grow steadily older.
And she would think of him always—her Lance—and wonder what might have been. The way he’d spoken of bringing the railway to remote regions of Argentina, she’d seen how passionate he was, to achieve his goal.
Passionate in other ways too.
Nothing ordinary there.
And, when she was with him, she felt far from ordinary too, as if anything were possible.
Was she going to walk away from that?
Whatever had occurred between Lance and Lucrezia, she ought to give them a chance to explain. She’d deal with the situation when she had the facts. Life wasn’t a fairytale in which everything was perfect. People said and did things they regretted. They made mistakes.
Hadn’t she made her own?
I need to tell Lance how I feel, and find out if he wants the same. If it’s possible to make each other happy, it’s worth fighting for.
And I must speak with Lucrezia. Perhaps things won’t always stay the same, but our friendship is too valuable to throw away.
Tears accomplished nothing, and it was foolish to waste time on remorse.
As to what happened next, that was up to her to decide—but, she wasn’t going to turn her back just because it seemed the easiest thing to do.
Kneeling, she folded the blanket neatly again. Whoever it belonged to must have been working all this time, but they’d return, wouldn’t they? The least she could do was to leave things tidy.
Pushing the bag and blanket back where they’d been, she noticed the little wooden box, tucked into the corner, beneath the lowest of the pipes. How meagre the bundle of possessions was.
The room was clearly someone’s refuge. That alone was reason to respect their privacy, but it gave her a sense of kinship too.
Pulling the box forward, she saw it had suffered rather a lot of damage. There had once been a proper lock, but the wood was badly singed and the lower half of the metal plate was missing.
What was in it, she wondered? Keepsakes most likely.
It was wrong to pry, but she couldn’t help her curiosity.
Opening the lid, she saw she was right. There were several small items which, no doubt, had sentimental value to the owner: an old medal on a frayed ribbon, dated 1859; a large, iron key that didn’t look the sort to have a place on a ship; a lock of silvered hair and a woman’s comb; and, at the very bottom, a photograph.
The day on which it had been taken must have been bright, for the three figures standing in an olive grove squinted against the sun. The girl, smiling shyly, looked no more than fifteen; the men either side were some twenty years older.
They were a handsome trio—siblings without doubt, each with the same slant to their eyes and dark, glossy hair. The girl wore hers in a pigtail over one shoulder; the gentlemen’s moustaches spoke of the likeness having been captured at least a decade before.
They appeared from another age, and yet there was something so familiar…
Standing, Cecile brought the image closer to the bulb set in wire mesh upon the wall. In the dull, yellow light, she saw what had been before her all along.
Cold fingers clutched at her heart.
