Chisholm as we leave the street and follow a black slit of an alley. The sky is a thin blue line above us. After a minute, the brick walls of the alley give way to sheets of corrugated iron, which seem to press in on us from both sides. But what’s so strange are the sounds, which grow as we go deeper into the alley. The noises are almost human – groan and moans of unease, distress, fear. The ghastly sounds get louder, echo all around me, filling my ears. What do these noises remind me of? I feel a chill in my heart as I recall reading in a newspaper the words of another Titanic survivor, describing what she heard while huddled in a lifeboat. “A dismal moaning sound which I won’t ever forget; it came from those poor people who were floating around, calling for help. It was horrifying, mysterious, supernatural.”
In the near-darkness of the alley I see glints of red light on the ground. They’re wet and shiny. I realize that we’re stepping among glistening pools of blood.
“Watch your step; we’re among the slaughterhouses here. In places like this, the blood sometimes spills over from their drains and runs out along the alleys.” says Chisholm to me, again in the unfamiliar voice. “Those are the animals you can hear.”
I feel physically sick. Living creatures, waiting to be killed... the noises, this hateful place. But worst of all is Chisholm’s behavior, his strange accent. I realize that there is a hidden side to him. Right now, I have no idea at all why he is behaving like this, or why he has brought me here. I realize that I no longer trust Chisholm. In fact, right now, I fear him.
But despite all that, I remember my panic on the Olympic when I saw the icebergs. Panic doesn’t help. The feeling now is worse – but I can’t give in to it. Hold on, Agnes, keep it together. Keep stepping carefully, avoid the puddles of blood.
And suddenly we’re out of the alley, onto a broader street. It feels good to be back in the sunlight again. The neighborhood is still grim: directly ahead of us I see yet another crumbling tenement. But its ground floor is different from the others: I see a line of grimy, cracked bar-room windows. Above the bar’s doorway is a crude painting of a glass of dark, white-frothed Irish porter. Written above the painting are the words “The Black Velvet.”
We step inside. The floor is covered with dirty sawdust and the walls are gray with grime. The bar-room’s only occupant is a man who sits on the only chair, at the only table. I’m startled to see what covers that table. Dollar bills: hundreds of them. A fortune in cash, just sitting there on the table. The seated man is thumbing through the bills. Malone, our would-be attacker, nods a welcome to the seated man. Apart from these two men, the place is deserted: there’s no bartender. But then, Malone steps behind the empty bar. “On the house: it will be a pleasure. Would you like a whisky, sir, and a weak stout, for the lady?” Chisholm nods. A minute passes in silence while our drinks appear on the bar. I don’t touch mine, but then Chisholm gives me a glance, and I sip the white foam. I feel like it’s leaving a frothy mustache on my upper lip. Chisholm drinks the whisky, slowly and deliberately. Then he motions with his head towards the solitary man with his piles of money.
“Takings good this week?”
The man at the table speaks without looking up. “Pretty good, thanks. The Rhodes Boys.”
“I heard the Rhodes Boys wanted to go it alone for a while. Silly lads. Some pressure had to be applied, I heard.”
“You heard right.” But the man is concentrating on careful counting: he returns to thumbing through the dollar bills. We sit with our drinks looking across at Malone, who smiles, as if we’re now all friends together. I still have absolutely no idea what is going on. Then, after a pause, I hear Chisholm’s strange Irish voice again, asking, off-hand. “So, are you going to take me through to Jimmy? I guess he’ll be in the back room, as usual?”
Malone is torn, I can tell. He wants to please Chisholm, but at the same time he’s scared to disturb his boss. But all the same, he goes over to another door, behind the bar. He knocks on it timidly, like a child.
Two minutes pass, and Malone reappears, beckoning to us. Moments later, we are in a private room behind the bar, and Chisholm is shaking the hand of a smooth-faced man in his thirties. The room is as dirty and neglected as the bar was – but its occupant is younger, better-looking, than I would have expected for a gangland boss, and his business-like air contrasts with the sordid surroundings. His suit and groomed hair would not be out of place on Wall Street. But the bulging, ugly gold signet ring on his index finger, a display of ill-gotten wealth, would look too showy in polite society.
“OK Malone. You can leave us to talk now.” The door closes behind us, and as we sit at a table the man’s dark eyes flick between me and Chisholm: quick, intent, like the movement of a knife. He seems to be looking right through us. I feel afraid.
“Well thanks for calling in, fresh across from the old country. I hope all’s well there. But we’re not here to pass the time of day, are we?”
“I’ve a message, Mr Nolan, from over the water.”
The sharp gaze bores into Chisholm. Nolan’s silence is a command to tell all. Chisholm speaks.
“My message is from Black Velvet.”
A sharp intake of breath: a suspicious flash of those eyes. “From the grave, you mean? Black Velvet is dead.”
“That’s right. And he knew he might die. He told me that, if anything happened to him, he would like me to finish the job. So from now on, Mr Nolan, you might as well call me Black Velvet.”
“Well now, why would I believe that? You come in here, you make out you’re connected to the Gophers, you seem to be a supporter of the Cause, you know today’s password…”
“Yes. I do. I know every day’s password.” Chisholm’s blue eyes sparkle confidence: Nolan returns a gimlet stare, as if to test who will blink first. Then he sneers.
“Every day’s password, indeed. A cop could have put a gun to the head of one of our boys this morning and got that password out of him. So you’ll see why I’m a little wary of you, with your tales of Black Velvet. See, I heard that Black Velvet didn’t drown when the big ship went down. The rumor is, he died because he drank something that disagreed with him. Maybe the cops – or the British – killed him. Maybe they’re trying to infiltrate us. Infiltrate us right now, right here. And a man who tried to do that – we’ll know, we’ll find him out, he’d spend his last hours praying that he’d never been born. So – why should I trust you? Who’s to say that you’re not an Englishman, putting on a emerald voice? Or worse, some Ulster Protestant who’d like to see every true Irishman hung?”
There’s a tense pause. Then Nolan fires two more words. “So – you.”
I realize. He’s talking to me.
“Yes you, Miss. Raven hair, and eyes green as jealousy. White skin like fine Irish milk. Lips that I’d enjoy kissing. A County Clare girl, I’d say, by the look of you. Speak, colleen. Let’s hear your voice match your face.”
I feel Chisholm gripping my hand under the table. I don’t open my mouth.
“Well, Missie?”
Chisholm reaches into his pocket. Even now, he speaks off hand, casually. “Black Velvet gave me this.”
Something rolls onto the table, and Nolan picks it up. With a shock I see that he’s looking that the pen that I found at Sweynsey Hall. The pen’s monogrammed BV glints in his hands, and I see the surprise in those hawk-like eyes. He turns the pen around in his fingers, looking and thinking. But Chisholm keeps talking, in that relaxed tone, like he’s discussing the weather. “You see, Mr Nolan, I know that you have a shipment, which is due to be loaded onto a ship for England. I know that you now have the cargo ready to load, because Black Velvet asked me to contact you about it. The letter you received was from me.”
Nolan puts the pen down on the table in front of him. He looks up at Chisholm, showing his teeth as he smiles. “Now why would I be shipping a mystery cargo to England? I’m a New York businessman.”
“All you need to know, Mr Nolan, is that Black Velvet trusted me as his right hand.
He knew the English spies were onto him. So he said to me, when he got aboard the Titanic, that if anything happened to him, I was to carry on with our work. You’ve kindly obtained a cargo of supplies for us. That cargo now needs to be loaded onto an England-bound passenger steamer, in secret. Because if it were loaded onto a cargo ship, in the usual way, someone might think to check what’s inside the packing cases.”
“And the contents of these packing cases are?...”
“Well now, you know that already – because it’s your own people who have got the goods together for us, Mr Nolan. You’ve used your contacts within construction firms in Manhattan in order to get hold of these goods. Well done: it’s good to see so much support for the Cause.”
Nolan is listening carefully, as Chisholm carries on.
“Now, Black Velvet trusted you – so, I trust you. I trust you to organize the Gophers to pack up the shipment, and do all the necessary bribing of various officials and suchlike, down at the docks, so that no-one sees these cases being loaded. And I see in the room out there that you have the cash ready to make those bribes – the Rhodes Boys have paid their debts to you, like the nice lads they are.”
Nolan’s eyes half-close, like he’s shutting out his sight so that he can think. I hear a clock ticking, and the shouts of kids