Chapter Text
It felt strange to be traveling alone. Most of the trips he took these days were to his daughter's piano concerts and his wife always accompanied him to those. But Charlotte got terribly seasick whenever she set foot on a ship, so she refused to come with him. And since the department absolutely insisted that he be the one to meet with the chief of police in New York City, here he was.
It also felt strange to be traveling in first class. Ever since Polly had married a professional violinist, he had found himself more and more in the company of high society. He always felt terribly out of place around them and were it not for his daughter and son-in-law, he would have preferred to keep his dealings with high society strictly professional. Whether fortunately or unfortunately, however, the Kerberos had no second class accommodations and it would have been highly embarrassing for Whitechapel’s chief inspector to be traveling in steerage, so first class was his only option.
The woman sitting next to him in the dining hall was as high society as one gets: impeccably dressed and a fervent gossip. Only her lack of a husband made her unusual. She was probably a widow, Alfred thought, though certainly not a recent one given the deep green color of her dress. Another woman was supposedly assigned to their table as well, though there had been no sign of her just yet. He felt terribly uncomfortable sitting there, not least of all because he couldn't shake the feeling that the man in the white suit at the table next to theirs was staring at him.
“Ms. Franklin, what a rare treat to see you up here so early,” said his dining companion, who had earlier introduced herself as Mrs. Wilson. She continued as the newcomer pulled out a chair and sat down. “Don't make such a face. I'm doing you a favor. I mean, I get it. I've traveled by myself for years now. I know sometimes it's preferable to seek solitude over company, but I also know how fast one is judged, and there are already rumors circulating. Is it true that you're a doctor?”
So this was the female doctor. Alfred had heard the rumor already. While he wasn't one to gossip himself, he tended to pay attention when rumors were floating about. There was always a kernel of truth in them somewhere that might prove to be useful later.
“My focus was... is on the human brain,” the woman, now identifiable as Ms. Franklin, said.
“Fascinating,” said Alfred. “I’ve heard that there has been significant study in that field in Austria at the moment. Are you familiar with that?”
“I presume you’re talking about Dr. Freud,” said Ms. Franklin. “I’m familiar with his work, though that isn’t my area of focus. Dr. Freud studies what people think. I am more interested in how people think. The biological side, if you will.”
“I see,” said Alfred. It wasn’t a subject he was keen to explore. He had seen many a human brain down in the autopsy laboratory, but he had never given much thought to how those lumps of organ tissue functioned. He was more interested in the thoughts people had - what drove a man to become a criminal, most especially. He’d read Cesare Lombroso’s Criminal Man and found it intriguing, though he wasn’t sure how much credence to lend to his theories. It seemed however, that he would not find a debate partner in Ms. Franklin.
“They let you cut up brains?” Mrs. Wilson asked.
“Women in England are allowed to study, not practice,” Ms. Franklin replied.
Mrs. Wilson began to ramble on about the others in the room, comparing their lots in life to Ms. Franklin’s. She seemed to know a good bit about the other passengers on the ship, more than he did, certainly. Alfred filed that bit of information away, might it prove useful later.
Mrs. Wilson and Ms. Franklin were engaged in a conversation that Alfred was only half paying attention to when a young man burst through the door. Alfred shot to his feet while the man shouted in a language Alfred did not understand. His first instinct was to arrest the young man. But he was not an officer on this ship and he wouldn’t have known what to do with the man once he was in custody. Alfred stood there pondering how to react when a group of officers - ones who did work for the ship - came through the same door that the young man had entered through just moments earlier, and dragged the young man away. The crew of this ship had things under control, it seemed. Alfred was relieved to see it. Though this was a work trip, he hadn’t planned on being on duty during the transit.
As Alfred sat back down, Ms. Franklin stood up. “I’m sure you can do without my company,” she said, before rushing up the grand staircase.
“Where is she off to? She hasn’t eaten yet,” Alfred remarked.
“Who knows,” Mrs. Wilson replied. “She’s a strange one, that Ms. Franklin.”
“That she is,” replied Alfred, before taking a sip of tea. Across the room, he noticed the man in the white suit looking his way. He was definitely staring, confirming Alfred’s earlier suspicion. Alfred studied him, wondering if perhaps the man had seen him before and the staring was simply an act of recognition. He didn’t look familiar, though Alfred had met so many people in his duties as inspector that it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that they had met before.
“Would you excuse me?” he said, getting up from his seat. No use wondering. He would go ask the man himself.
As he approached the table, he noticed the priest sitting next to the man in the suit say something under his breath to his dining companion. It was a language that Alfred did not speak, though different from the one the man who burst through the door spoke. Italian, perhaps? The man’s dark features certainly made him look Italian, though he could really be from anywhere along the Mediterranean coast.
“Pardon me,” Alfred said to the man in the suit. “It seems you appear to recognize me from somewhere, though I don’t recognize you. Have you had many dealings with the London Police?”
The priest muttered something again, which the suited man seemed to ignore. “I’ve never been to London. I was just admiring your…beard,” the man in the suit said, gesturing at his own clean-shaven chin.
“I see,” he said, though he did not actually see at all. “Well. I’m here, I think it best to introduce myself. Alfred Hillinghead, Chief Inspector, London Police, Whitechapel division. And you are?”
“You can call me Ángel,” the man in the suit replied, though he did not get up to greet Alfred. Either the man had never been schooled in manners, or he was too wealthy to care. Judging by the suit he wore, it was probably the latter.
“Ángel. Pleasure meeting you.” Alfred instinctively went to tip his hat, before remembering that he was indoors and accordingly hatless. “And your friend here?” he asked, gesturing at the priest.
“My brother. Ramiro.”
Alfred nodded, though he felt a bit confused. They didn’t look like brothers. Perhaps one of them had been taken in as a child.
“Well. It was a pleasure meeting you both. See you again at dinner.” Alfred decided he had had enough of socializing with the upper class for now. He wasn’t terribly hungry in any event. Perhaps the ship’s library would have something interesting to occupy his time.
As he made his way up the stairs and out of the dining hall, he shot a glance over his shoulder to see if Ángel was watching him. He was. It occurred to Alfred then that while he hadn’t seen the man before, he had seen that look. It was a look that Henry used to give him. Ashamed, Alfred turned away and dashed up the stairs.
***
Most of the passengers were angry. Furious, even. Alfred could hear them out in the hallways, cursing and pacing about. All of them were dead set on getting to America. And earlier that afternoon, the ship's captain had taken them off course.
Alfred was not nearly as perturbed. Traveling to America had not been his idea in the first place and he wasn’t the one paying for it. If the department really wanted him in New York, they would pay for another ticket, no questions asked. They wouldn’t be happy about it, but that was out of his control.
There was another reason Alfred wasn't anxious to get to New York: Henry. Statistically, the odds of running into a specific person in a city the size of New York were low, but Henry had a way of showing up at places Alfred was required to be.
Four years ago, Henry's work had somehow caught the eye of the one and only Joseph Pulitzer. The famed newspaperman had offered Henry a job that paid nearly double what he'd been earning at The Star. Henry would have been a fool to turn it down, and Alfred told him as much. Henry promised to write of course, and he did - at first. But life had a habit of getting in the way. Eventually Henry's letters became fewer and fewer, as did Alfred’s in return.
Then came the letter in which Henry wrote that he'd met someone. Alfred tried telling himself that he wasn't hurt by it. They hadn't seen each other for nearly three years at that point and there was no realistic chance of Henry returning to England. Still, Alfred couldn't help but feel dejected, almost betrayed somehow. Even Charlotte noticed that he wasn't himself.
Alfred didn't know what he would say when he saw Henry again. If he said anything at all.
The din in the hallway suddenly grew quiet. Alfred rose from his perch on the sofa and made his way to the door to reconnoiter the situation.
The other passengers were lining the sides of the hallway, murmuring to themselves. At one end of the hallway, Alfred espied Ángel and his alleged brother Ramiro. They didn’t seem to notice him. At the other end of the hallway, Alfred could hear the murmuring get even quieter, followed by the faint sound of footsteps a little further away.
He didn’t need to wait long to see what was going on, as the Captain soon rounded the corner, followed by a posse of crew members. He was wearing a heavy black overcoat, one clearly not meant for peacockery, meaning that he was intending to go somewhere. Not on board the ship, or else there wouldn’t be such a fuss. They must have found the Prometheus, the missing ship that everyone on board had been talking about.
Alfred stepped into the center of the corridor as the Captain and his posse approached. “Captain, if I may,” Alfred said, “I'm an inspector with the London Police. I believe you could benefit from my assistance if you're headed to the Prometheus.”
The Captain nodded. “I think that's wise. Follow me.”
Alfred ducked back into his cabin to quickly grab his jacket, then fell in step behind the Captain and his crew. It was then that he noticed Ms. Franklin was also following along.
“Ms. Franklin,” he greeted her. “I assume you’re coming along to provide medical assistance.”
“Yes,” she replied, though from the way her voice wavered, she wasn’t expecting to perform any services for the living. “And you?”
“Forgive me for not introducing myself at breakfast,” Alfred said. “I am the chief inspector with the Whitechapel division of the London Police. Maritime investigations aren’t part of my usual repertoire, but I may be able to deduce what happened on that ship, with a seaman’s assistance.”
They had just about reached the end of the hallway when one of the crewmen, a young man, possibly younger than Polly, stopped. The young man said something to the Captain in German. His eyes were trained elsewhere however, namely, upon Ramiro.
The Captain responded to the young man by coming back to address Ramiro himself. “What’s your name?”
Ramiro looked at Ángel and exchanged words with him in their shared tongue. He appeared to be nervous; Alfred wondered if that was the result of a language barrier or for other reasons. If Ramiro didn't speak English, Alfred doubted he would find out anytime soon.
“Your name?” the Captain repeated.
“Ramiro. Padre Ramiro,” Ramiro responded.
The Captain looked towards his crew, then back at Ramiro. “The Prometheus has been missing for four months. I don’t know how many passengers are still alive, what they’ve gone through. But I’m sure it will comfort them to see you.”
Ramiro glanced at Ángel again, the look on his face indicating to Alfred that he had not understood a word the Captain had just said. Language barrier it was. Ángel nodded slightly at the Captain before whispering something to his brother. Despite not receiving an assent from the priest himself, the Captain rejoined his companions at the end of the hall and started towards the lower deck. Alfred followed in stride.
Ramiro moved quietly in his soft shoes and heavy robes. It was not until they had started down the stairs that Alfred even noticed he had followed.
“Si vis me sequaris,” Alfred said to Ramiro, as the priest came up next to him on the staircase. Alfred hadn’t spoken Latin in many years, and his learnings were more scientific than liturgical, but he hoped that his pronunciation and grammar were nevertheless good enough for the priest to understand him.
Ramiro nodded, though he seemed slightly confused. Perhaps he was not aware that most detectives were required to take a course in Latin as a prerequisite to the position. Ramiro’s lack of knowledge wouldn’t surprise Alfred. Alfred almost never spoke with members of the clergy as part of his investigations, due to the privileges they held with their constituents. Only in the most dire of circumstances did they ever contribute something useful to Alfred’s police work.
“Nos simul manere possumus,” Alfred added for extra reassurance.
The Captain led them down to an inset on the ship’s lower docks, where two crew members were already waiting. A single row boat was stowed to one side of the open room. It struck Alfred as strange that a ship of this size would have only one row boat for its crew to use. Then again, as he’d already admitted to Ms. Franklin, Alfred knew very little about ships. Whitechapel did not abut the river Thames, though even if it had, the waterway was so aplomb with activity that it had its own police force dedicated solely to it. The Thames also stunk to high heaven most days, so Alfred saw no reason to venture near it. His only experience with ships were the trips he made across the English Channel to holiday in France, and those were always brief.
A few of the crew members exchanged words with each other in German, before lanterns were handed to the two men who had been waiting for them. The crew members then maneuvered the row boat to the ship’s edge and lowered it so that the lip of the boat was level with the room’s floor.
“Get in,” the Captain directed. Ms. Franklin got in first, followed by Alfred and Ramiro, the two new crew members, a crew member with a large port wine stain on his forehead, and finally the Captain himself. The remaining crew steadily lowered them into the water.
***
The first thing Alfred noticed about the ship, besides the fact that the lights were all off, was the smell. The Prometheus reeked heavily of salt - not a pleasant smell like one could get from the deck of the Kerberos, but a saltiness so heavy that you might think you were at a meat locker. His first glance of the inset confirmed his suspicion. The seaweed hanging from the rafters could only have been put there by a storm, a fearsome one at that. It was a wonder that the ship was still afloat.
“Why is nobody here?” Ms. Franklin asked.
“Someone sent the signal,” said the Captain. “There have to be survivors.”
Alfred wasn’t so sure. Ms. Franklin was right, there did not seem to be any signs of life aboard this ship. Probably swept overboard, if the seaweed was any indication. As for who had sent the telegraph, Alfred supposed there might be a way to send an automatic signal. He had never seen such a thing before, but with the speed at which technology was advancing these days, he supposed it could be a realistic possibility.
The rest of the ship was covered in just as much seaweed as the bottom deck. For water to have reached all the way up to the ship’s helm, it must have been a storm unlike any Alfred ever wished to see. The ship had to have taken on a lot of water as a result. But where did that water go? Alfred wondered to himself.
Their search of the ship led them down to the ship’s dining room. It looked much like the one aboard the Kerberos, except all of the furniture had been overturned or broken. The others called out in various languages. Alfred didn’t bother. There was no way they would find any survivors here. Alfred decided to head back to the row boat. He doubted he would be of much use there, but he certainly wouldn’t be of any use on this abandoned ship.
Alfred had just exited the dining room when he heard two loud bangs. He immediately turned on his heel and ran back to where he had left his companions, fearing one of them had just been injured. Hopefully the injuries weren’t too serious, as they had not brought any medical supplies with them - a terrible oversight in retrospect. He heard two more bangs as he ran down the grand entry staircase.
Alfred held his lantern aloft. Across the room, he could just make out the figures of his five companions. Everyone was upright, which meant they would not have to carry anyone back to the row boat. But that did not explain the pounding.
Cautiously, Alfred made his way across the room. As his companions came into view the light of his lantern, he could see Ms. Franklin squatting on the floor. Ahead of her was a piece of furniture, which Alfred realized was a cabinet the closer he got.
Suddenly, Ms. Franklin abruptly stood up and jumped backwards. Alfred quickly closed the remaining steps to his companions to see what it was they were all examining. Making his way to the Captain’s right, he could see a boy, who couldn’t have been any older than 12. Unlike nearly everything else on the Prometheus, he was not covered in seaweed. And he certainly didn’t look as if he’d spent four months locked in a cabinet.
Something strange was going on.