Depth of Deception (A Titanic Murder Mystery) (3 page)

Callum rose from the back-numbing guest chair as he looked at his watch again. He hated to sit still and started to pace about the underwriter’s bullpen’s puke-green carpet. He smirked. He hoped that Winthrope would upda
te the new building’s décor. It
s 1960's styling was twenty years out of date.
Hope they get rid of that ship too,
he thought as he looked at the framed picture of the
Titanic
sinking. Callum winced at the sight. Like hanging a horseshoe upside down, surely it must be bad luck to have a sinking ship on display. Still, as a freelance investigator Callum understood why Winthrope wanted it there. It was a little-known fact that in 1912, a New York client sent a desperate telegraph in the middle of the night to a broker here in London to insure the RMS
Titanic
for £1 million. Respecting the urgency of an established client, the request was processed quickly. Later the next day, that broker learned that the
Titanic
had perished and that the insurance request was made as it was sinking. The portrait was there as a reminder of their folly. Callum remembered that
whenever
something out of the ordinary came into the office, Percy Winthrope always reminded his brokers to
‘look for icebergs.’

As he continued to pace, Callum Toughill caught his reflection in the mirror near the coat rack. He grimaced.
Time for another haircut.
He liked it shaved military-style. He was still in good shape for a man in his forties, and liked wearing fitted tailored suits to show off that fact just enough. The whole appearance made him look intimidating to the people he was investigating, but deep down he took extra pride in having come a long way from
the mining town in Scotland where
he’d grown up. He had all but lost the brogue in his accent. Unless he got angry. Or drunk.

"
Sorry to keep you waiting, mate,
"
Percy said in his familiar Northern Irish accent as he entered the bullpen briskly. Percy Winthrope was one of the few men who could wear a bow tie on a regular basis and not look like a dolt. As usual his suits were as grey as his demeanor. Callum grabbed his briefcase from the floor next to the uncomfortable chair and followed Winthrope into his office. As he dropped some papers next to the ashtray on his desk, Winthrope grumbled,
"
Things have been chaotic around here."

"
Don’t fret it, Mr. Winthrope,
"
Callum said as he held out a file folder.

"
What’s that?
"
Winthrope asked.

"
My preliminaries on the Bolshar art claim,
"
replied Callum. Then, noticing the confusion in Winthrope’s face he quickly asked,
"
Isn’t that why you called me in this morning?
"

"
My apologies,
"
huffed Winthrope.
"
I had no time to go into details over the phone. I need to pull you off that case.
"

"
Have I done something wrong?
"

"
Good heavens, no!
"
retorted Winthrope.
"
You’re one of the best investigators I know… which is why I need to reassign you to another case.
"

"
What of the Bolshar art claim?
"

"
Someone else can take over. Have a seat, Callum.
"
Winthrope gestured to the chair across from his desk.
"
Can I offer you some coffee?
"

"
No!
"
Callum paused and cleared his throat.
"
No, thank you. I’m eager to know about this new case.
"

Winthrope peered over his glasses at Callum, then took out a handkerchief and began polishing them as he spoke. It was a nervous habit that Callum had observed over the years. It was something Winthrope did when he was trying to choose his words carefully.

"
Have you heard of the murder of…
"
Winthrope paused.
Was it nerves or dramatic effect?
Winthrope put on his glasses before he continued,
"
The murder of Agatha Gilcrest?
"

Callum arched his back and felt the muscles tighten in his jaw. He needed to be sure he heard correctly
.
"
Did you say Agatha Gilcrest?
"

Winthrope nodded.

"
As in the old woman murdered in Scotland seventy-five years ago?
"

"
Precisely.
"

Did he know about it?
He knew of the case but it was forbidden to utter the name ‘Agatha Gilcrest’ in Toughill’s home. The case was the very reason Callum Toughill was unable to pursue his true dream of becoming a police of
ficer like his grandfather who
had been a police detective at the time of the murder. He was later disgraced and forced to resign.

Once, as a young boy, Callum could see that his grandfather was miserable and asked about it. The usually cheery old man became cross and snarled,
"
Not something I care to discuss in this lifetime, I shall take the burden to my grave.
"
And that was the end of the discussion. It was a moment Callum never forgot, and
he
never dared to mention it again.

When Callum announced that he was going to pursue a career in law enforcement, his grandfather forbade it. All of his relatives, even ones he only saw at baptisms and funerals, felt the need to contact him and chastise him for opening such horrible wounds in his dear
,
sweet 'granda'.

Callum eventually relented, but not because of family pressure. He woul
d have gladly proven them wrong;
however, when the 'truth'
of the past reared its hideous fangs, along with the sneers of his would-be superior officers, Callum came to a sobering realization. It was clear the police force he so wanted to join was not going to be fair. The sins of the father are inherited by the sons. Being an insurance investigator was the closest vocation he could find without carrying a badge that would be forever tarnished through no fault of his own.

"
Yes I know of it,
"
sighed Callum.

"
Forgive me,
"
replied Winthrope.
"
It was a rhetorical question. I’m well aware of your family’s history…. And your grandfather… Jack?
"

"
John. My grandfather John,
"
added Callum dryly. He then leaned in.
"
What is it about this case that interests you?
"

"
The infamous brooch that was stolen,
"
Winthrope said as he retrieved a photo from a nearby folder and held it up for Callum to see. It was a crescent-shaped silver
brooch with twenty-two diamonds. S
ome
were
notably large ones at the thickest curve of the jewelry. It was elegant and stunning. Winthrope continued,
"
As you know it was never recovered.
"

Callum nodded.

"
What you don’t know is that it may have been on the
Titanic
when it sank.
"

Callum looked at Winthrope with confusion. He knew Winthrope had a mild… no,
severe
obsession with the
Titanic
, but this seemed preposterous.
"
Are you serious?
"

"
Very much so.
"

"
And how do we come to this revelation seventy
-odd
years after the fact?
"

"
We, here at Lloyd’s
,
have been privy to the possibility for some time,
"
Winthrope said
as his hand patted the thick file folder.
"
Some years ago, a lost claim turned up with an original date of 1912 and a description of this very brooch. The name on the slip was smeared with water and we were never able to make it out.
"

"
Why does Lloyd’s care about it now after all these years?
"

"
As we speak, there is a court battle raging on over the salvage rights for the wreck of the
Lusitania
. We have received word that Dr. Ballard, a renowned oceanographer, has received more funding and the support of several countries to locate the wreck of the
Titanic
. We need to ascertain if that brooch really was on the
Titanic
and how it got there. This may even help prove your grandfather’s case.
"

Callum sighed. Any clues were long gone. The trail was cold… seventy-five years cold. He had little reason to believe this would work.
"
Aw Percy, I wouldn’t know where to start.
"

"
You can start by reading through this file. Look for icebergs.
"

Chapter
III

RING!

Edward Hoffman ignored his phone, as well as the arthritic pain in his joints, as he dipped the fine-tipped brush into the oil paint and mixed it into the other hue on the palette, trying to get the right shade of blue. He carefully applied it onto the canvas.
It’s not quite right yet. Needs a touch more white to lighten it.

RING!

Who would be calling this early?
The copper rays of morning were just starting to burst through the east window, caressing the rustic room with a sun-kissed glow. Shadows of the cedar trees danced on the wooden wall. Watching the sun rising over the lake enraptured his soul. Perhaps he was getting melancholy in his old age but each day meant a
fresh beginning. In summertime
he would sit in the Gazebo for hours, painting until the sun went down… or the mosquitoes came out to feast.

RING!

Over the last twenty years Edward would drive out to spend a few days per month at the old family lake house on the New England coast. The ‘main room’ was once the entire structure of the ancient log cabin, but over the years additional rooms, plumbing and other such modern amenities were added. Still, it maintained it
s charm, decorated with elegant yet
simple furniture from various decades past. Over the years, the cabin had been host to such gadgets such as the radio, icebox, television and now the mammoth-sized C-Band satellite dish, which allowed Edward to receive cable channels and news in this remote area of New England.

RING!

The sound shattered the tranquility of his thoughts.
What idiot was calling him here?
Everyone knew not to disturb him while he retreated into creative solitude. He finally heard the click of the answering machine as it began to whirl into action. Not very many people could afford an answering machine but
,
like the television, Edward believed it would only be a matter of time before everyone had one in their home.

BEEP!

"
Edward. It’s me, I know you’re there.
"
It was Roger Zisholm, a lawyer and colleague. Roger was originally an in-house council for Hoffman International, the family’s company, and when he left to set up his own practice, he’d become Edward’s personal attorney.

His voice called out from the machine’s speaker,
"
Turn on the news. Any channel. You’ll thank me later.
"

What could be so important?
Edward wondered. Still, Roger knew better than to bother him here. Wiping the paint off his hands, his eyes darted about the room looking for another one of the latest gadgets
:
the television remote control. Edward caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dark glass screen. For a man of his advanced years he still looked healthier than men half his age. He found the remote upon the TV itself and harrumphed.
Defeats the purpose of having a remote control.
Moments later, the TV sparked to life, showing an image of a staunch British navy captain on the screen. The name ‘Captain Sadler of the HMS
McKinley
’ was superimposed over his chest. Edward was familiar with the crisp tone of the captain. The accent reminded him of his own commanding officer
,
a good man who had died too young.

"
This is obviously an elaborate hoax, and this unfortunate woman will most likely die as a result of this caper,
"
Sadler snarled from the television.