CHAPTER TWO
Van Helsing rose shockingly late for a man of his temperament. The wind-up clock on the nightstand said 10:30. A golden bar of early morning sunshine fell through the window and lay across the bed, warming his stiff legs.
Mein Gott! Van Helsing sat bolt upright, his back sore and his eyes crusty.
“Good morning,” John Seward said from the wicker armchair, a bit bemused, perhaps by seeing his mentor nearly blast out of bed. A book was open on his lap, one leg resting atop the other thigh; it was the Bible, for the only other book that Van Helsing had was in German. On the table, a cup of hot tea in a fine, delicate glass sat upon a saucer, thin wisps of steam rising into the air.
“About time you woke,” Seward said as he snapped the book closed, and sat it on the table next to his drink.
Van Helsing nodded, shamefaced, and replied, “Yes, I am terribly sorry. I feel as if I am putting strain on you and Art.”
John Seward dismissed that notion with a flap of the hand, “No, not at all. I am glad you slept well; we all need all the energy we can get. Anyway, Art and I got an early start, before sunup, and found six possible matches for Dracula’s boxes of native soil.”
“Good, good. Where is Art?”
Seward smiled, “Working his magic with the captain, seeing if maybe we can pry the boxes open. Searching was one thing, I had to goad Art for about an hour this morning to get him to go along, but opening them is something else altogether.”
Van Helsing got out of bed and shuffled to the wash basin. “Perhaps if we get Dracula out of the way early we can enjoy the rest of our trip.”
“We had better enjoy it; it cost too much money not to enjoy.”
Refreshed, Van Helsing went over to the sofa and sat down. “God help me, but I want to see him die, John, I want to be sure that he is true dead this time; and it would be of satisfaction to see him sent back to his master.”
“I think we all want that,” Seward said. Clapping his knees, he got to his feet. “What say we go and find our dear Lord Godalming?”
“Yes,” Van Helsing said. “Let me dress.”
***
Lord Godalming stood inside Titanic’s enclosed wheelhouse, waiting patiently for Captain Smith to finish speaking to the quartermaster, a small, thin man who stood at the wheel. It was roughly ten in the morning, and bright sunshine fell through the windows overlooking the outer bridge and the bow beyond.
Smith, a tall, imposing figure with a white beard and piercing blue eyes, clapped the quartermaster on his shoulder and uttered a hearty laugh. Looking at the man, Art was reminded of his father. Smith was like his father in many ways: Both were upright Englishmen of a different generation who bore themselves with implacable dignity. Sometimes, in the presence of men like that, Art had trouble believing that they were actually men and not statues come to life. They seemed...different. Mythical, even.
Captain Smith was different, however. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe Art simply viewed him differently. Art had known the old seadog since he was a child. He vividly remembered Smith visiting his father; vividly remembered the seaman taking him onto his lap in the parlor and telling him exciting stories of maritime adventure by the flickering light of a warm fire; remembered the misty look in his when Art told him that his father had died. Smith may have been a statue to some, but Art had seen what was underneath, and to him the old man was different.
Presently, Smith made his way over to Art and offered his hand. “Good morning, Lord Godalming. And to what do I owe the visit?”
Smith’s grip was strong and firm.
“I have a...a favor to ask you.”
“A favor?” Smith laughed. “Tell me what it is and I’ll see what I can do.”
Looking over Smith’s shoulder to make sure the quartermaster was minding his own business, which he was, Art said, lowly, “My associates and I need to search the hold of the ship. We are...”
He stopped. He had formulated his excuse in the night, but wasn’t sure if he could be convincing enough.
Smith regarded him quizzically.
“Do you remember Inspector Johnson?”
“Why, yes, I do.”
Inspector William Johnson was a mutual friend of theirs. He worked for Scotland Yard.
“Inspector Johnson has...sort of deputized us, you would say. There’s an opium smuggling ring in London and we have reason to believe that a shipment is onboard Titanic.”
“Opium?” Smith asked, shocked.
“We need permission to open some of the crates in the hold...to make sure there’s no opium inside.”
Smith considered for a minute. “It’s against White Star regulations,” he finally said, “but I’ve seen many men driven to madness by drug use. You have my permission.”
Art sagged, relieved. “Thank you, sir. I...”Art started, but was cut off by a soft rapping at the door.
“Enter,” Smith called, raising his usually placid voice, and the door opened, allowing in a blast of cold, salty air. A small, grim-faced man in a dark blue overcoat with golden rings on the cuffs and a white hat atop his head entered and blocked the doorway with his arms, as if he were trying to push apart the doorframe. Behind him, Art saw Seward and Van Helsing, faces red and most likely numb, peering into the bridge over each of the man’s shoulders.
“These men say they need to see you, sir; say they’re personal friends of yours.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murdoch, send them in.”
Murdoch’s eyes darted from Smith to Art, and back. “Aye, sir,” he said and removed himself from the doorway. Seward and Van Helsing entered, and Murdoch softly clicked the door shut behind them.
“Good morning, Captain,” Van Helsing said and shook Smith’s firm hand. Seward, with a low, “Sir,” was next.
“I was just telling the good captain about the opium smuggling ring,” Art said as if they had any idea what he was talking about.
“Yes,” Van Helsing said sadly, “a horrible drug.”
“Yes,” added Seward with authority, “opium has a terrible effect on the brain.”
“A shame it all is,” Van Helsing added, “I myself never saw reason for more than the occasional stiff drink.”
Smith nodded politely. “When this search is over,” he said, “I want all put back the way that it was found; I would like to avoid any unpleasantness on my final voyage.”
“You have my word as a man,” Art said.