Page 19 of Murder on the SS Leviathan
With some effort, Cecile maintained a passive expression.
Mr. Lopez was just getting into his stride. ‘We are seven hundred and eighty feet from aft to stern and almost ninety in breadth, with four giant screw propellers, powered by a similar number of steam turbines, enabling the ship to cut the water most smoothly.’
’How men do love to boast of size…’ Though Lucrezia spoke softly, her words were distinct.
Mr. Robinson smothered a cough, while Ambassador Barbosa frowned. Mr. Lopez, at least, seemed not to have understood.
Cecile, meanwhile, willed herself not to blush. She was not entirely without comprehension of male physiognomy, and the mechanics of what occurred between the sexes to keep the human race thriving.
Lucrezia pulled her fur stole more snugly about her throat. Her next comment was whispered, allowing only Mr. Robinson and Cecile to hear.
‘You would think their days at sea would give them more humility. If Mr. Lopez isn’t careful, he’ll awaken the ship’s namesake to emerge from the waves. I doubt it will take time to admire the dining salon wallpapers before dragging us to the deeps in its serpent clutches.’
Cecile suppressed her laughter. Lucrezia was so wonderfully irreverent. Yet, the breeze seemed to have grown colder and the waves gained a darker hue, as if the sea monster of the ancients were indeed only just beneath the surface, awaiting its moment to bring retribution upon arrogant mortals.
‘It’s all quite fascinating, Mr. Lopez.’ Cecile interjected as the engineer drew breath. ‘Might we see the turbines you’ve so interestingly described?’
Mr. Robinson jumped in. ‘I think the ladies may be feeling the wind’s bite, standing so long in one place. The engine rooms will be a degree warmer.’
Mr. Lopez gave a curt nod but did not look displeased. ‘Please to follow me—and, Mr. Robinson, you will help the senhoras, yes.’
On that score, Mr. Robinson appeared most willing, offering his steadying hand as they stepped through an inconspicuous door and, thankfully, out of the chill.
Within, the staircase was confined. Had she and Lucrezia been wearing crinolines, in the fashions of two decades before, they would have become stuck at the outset. However, their comparatively narrow skirts allowed them to pass easily enough.
Still, the descent required care. Lit only by the dull glow of electric lamps, the edge of the steps was difficult to discern. Walking ahead, Mr. Robinson was patience itself.
Cecile had no doubt that, should she stumble, he would catch her. Fleetingly, she imagined falling into those strong arms. The thought was not disagreeable—but she hastily checked herself. Until she was certain that he’d played no part in Senhora Fonseca’s death, her sensibilities demanded that she remain aloof.
Behind her, Lucrezia muttered in Italian—on the state of the walls against which they brushed. The stairwell, not being intended for passenger egress, was lined with pipes and, from the aroma, they must have been coated in grease.
At last, they emerged through a lower door into a passageway. Immediately, a wave of warmth enveloped them.
‘Is better, yes?’ Mr. Lopez called from the front. ‘Just remember, please, not to touch anything.’
Considering the pungent smell of oil, nothing was further from Cecile’s mind. She assumed they were well below the water line, since there was no natural light. The passage was illuminated by the same subdued glimmer, the electric bulbs giving off a slight hiss within their glass casings.
The way continued close, with barely room for two people to pass. The vibration that had hummed quietly beneath one’s feet on the upper-class decks was much more evident. Here, not only the floor but the very walls and pipes and chains and valves—all that she could see around them—seemed to throb with the mechanical workings of the great ship.
As they progressed, the heat increased, as did the beating, clanging din until it grew quite deafening. They came forth upon an open platform, the floor beneath them of meshwork, looking down onto a great space below.
Mr. Lopez had to raise his voice over the clamour. ‘Our stokers shovel almost a thousand tonnes of coal a day to keep us at speeds of almost twenty knots—and there are one hundred and eighty furnaces to feed.’
Beside her, Lucrezia loosened the fur from her neck. ‘It is like the Inferno of Dante. Too scorching! Too noisy!’
Looking over the railing onto the hundreds of men below, she gave a low whistle. Most were stripped to the waist, their skin blackened with coal dust and soot, and gleaming with perspiration.
‘It is rather warm.’ Cecile fanned herself with her hand.
‘Hellish!’ Mr. Robinson tugged at his collar. ‘Pardon my French, ladies. I suppose the men must get used to it, being in the thick of the heat. I don’t suppose they get much respite, since the furnaces have to run day and night. Backbreaking work, and dangerous.’
Cecile didn’t doubt the truth of that—but she found it mesmerizing, nonetheless. There was a relentless rhythm to the men’s labour, as if their movements were in time with the pistons pushed endlessly by the furnace’s steam. As quickly as coal was brought forward from the stores, it was shovelled into the furnaces.
And here were they, in their fine clothes, looking down from on high, watching as one might observe bees in their hive, or ants busy in their endeavours.
Another wave of scorching heat passed up to the elevated platform and Cecile swayed.
Someone grasped beneath her elbow, and a hand clamped firmly round her waist.
