The gust of wind was totally unexpected and Fortescue was so absent from the real world he had no chance of stopping the paper slipping from his knee. It was caught in a vortex of air and flew away over the deck.
Jumping up, he tried to grab the paper, but grasped nothing but ocean breeze. The scrap of notes slipped further away, towards the deck and then up again. Fortescue swung left then right and tried again to catch the paper. He was so lost in concentration he did not see a young boy leap out from behind a bulkhead, dash across the promenade and snatch up the paper. Almost colliding with the child, he tripped and fell to the deck.
‘You all right, mister?’ the kid asked, helping Fortescue to his feet.
Egbert peered at the boy holding the paper out towards him.
‘Just caught it,’ the kid said proudly and gazed at the symbols for a second.
The boy was small and pale. Fortescue guessed he could have been twelve or thirteen, but looked younger because of his size. He had an intelligent, pleasing face, but his clothes were too big for him, the baggy trousers worn through at the knees and the tatty jacket stained. The boy gave Fortescue an uncertain gappy smile.
Egbert took the paper from him. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
The boy looked around. The promenade was empty. ‘Billy. Billy O’Donnell.’ He had a strong Irish accent.
‘Well, Billy, I am extremely grateful.’ He pulled a thru-penny piece from his trouser pocket and handed it to him. ‘My name is John Wickins.’
Billy took it. ‘Thanking you, sir. Looked like some strange mathematics,’ he added and flicked a hand towards the paper.
Fortescue produced a small laugh. ‘It is indeed, Billy.’
‘Don’t look like no maths I ever saw. I love numbers and stuff.’
‘Do you?’ Fortescue said. ‘Well, there are far worse things to study. I’m very keen on maths myself. I teach it.’
‘You’re in First Class and you’re a teacher!’ Billy exclaimed, then stopped himself. ‘Meaning no disrespect, but…’
Fortescue was grinning. He liked this boy — he had character. Touching the side of his nose, he said: ‘Rich daddy.’ And he gave Billy an indulgent wink. ‘So you’re good at school then?’
Billy exhaled loudly through his nose. ‘Ain’t been to school for over a year. Nah. I taught meself to read and write and I found a book of mathematics. I brought it with me on the ship. Actually, I nicked it from the library.’ He pulled a face.
Fortescue shook his head slowly. ‘I wouldn’t go announcing that to the world, my lad. So, what are you doing here?’
Billy looked around again nervously. ‘Exploring,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper.
Fortescue raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, your secret is safe with me. One good turn, deserves…’
The boy had heard a sound and shot a sideways look along the deck. He held a finger to his lips. Fortescue glanced down the promenade and saw a man in a blue uniform. The officer was lifting a tarpaulin and flashing a torch beneath it. He recognized him as Herbert Pitman, the ship’s Third Officer, a short, muscular fellow with a finely chiselled jaw and full moustache.
Billy scrambled away behind the same bulkhead from which he had appeared a few minutes earlier. At that moment, Pitman looked up, lowered his torch and flicked it off. Then he strode along the deck towards Fortescue.
‘Good evening, sir,’ he said as he came close.
‘Lost something, Mr Pitman?’
The officer flicked his head back and rolled his eyes. ‘Some little brat from Third is sneaking around First. I’ve already had complaints from two of the lady passengers. You haven’t seen anything?’
Fortescue shook his head and caught a glimpse of Billy peeking around the bulkhead immediately behind Pitman and pulling a comical face to try to impersonate the rather starchy officer.
‘No, I haven’t,’ the scientist said. ‘But I’ll be sure to let you know if I do.’
‘Well, you have a very pleasant evening, sir,’ Pitman replied. He touched the brim of his hat and proceeded along the deck. Fortescue looked up to the bulkhead but Billy had gone.
He suddenly felt cold, checked his watch and realized he ought to get back to the cabin before the food arrived. Fortescue smiled and doffed his hat to a pair of middle-aged ladies as he passed through the doors into the reception area. They were wrapped up with hats and scarves and walking along the corridor leading towards the bow. He began to feel hungry.
An exquisitely attired gentleman approached; a much younger woman had her arm interlocked with his. Fortescue recognized them from the newspapers. It was the American business mogul Benjamin Guggenheim, heir to one of the world’s largest fortunes. The woman was an actress named Léontine Aubart. They had created quite a stir on board due to the fact that Guggenheim, a married man of almost fifty, was accompanied by a woman half his age and known to be his mistress.
Fortescue hadn’t cared a jot about the gossip, but it was unavoidable, the talk of the ship. He stood to one side to let the couple pass. They had just drawn parallel when Guggenheim stopped, turned, and to Fortescue’s utter astonishment, extended a hand. ‘Mr Wickins, is it not?’
‘Er, yes,’ Fortescue responded. He could not disguise his surprise. ‘Mr Guggenheim.’
The American dipped his head ever so slightly. ‘This is my friend, Miss Aubart.’ The lady offered her hand.
‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ Fortescue said politely.
‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr Wickins,’ Guggenheim said.
‘You have?’
‘Indeed. That wonderful Swiss brother and sister team, the Schiels, could not have praised you more!’
‘Oh, well… that is nice to hear.’
‘You would have had your invitation by now… no?’
‘Invitation?’
‘To the soirée tonight?’
‘Ah, yes… sorry,’ he lied. ‘Indeed, I’m greatly looking forward to it.’