Read Chapter 4: The Steward's Secret

The knock came at nine bells, a timid rap against the polished mahogany of Jack’s stateroom door. He’d been staring at the Ace of Spades, turning it over in his fingers, memorizing the feel of the card stock. He slipped it into his waistcoat pocket and crossed the room in three quiet strides.

He didn’t open the door. “Who is it?”

“Steward Thomas Andrews, sir. Chief Steward’s office.” The voice was thin, reedy. “I apologize for the hour, Mr. Finch. There’s been a—a clerical matter.”

Jack’s hand hovered over the handle. A clerical matter. That was the same line the false Pritchard had fed him not two hours ago. But this voice didn’t carry the oily confidence of a man playing a part. This one trembled at the edges.

He opened the door a crack.

The man in the corridor was young, barely twenty, with a face like milk and a collar that looked damp with sweat. His steward’s uniform fit him poorly, the jacket hanging loose at the shoulders. He clutched a leather folio to his chest as if it were a life raft.

“Mr. Finch,” Thomas Andrews said, and his voice cracked on the name. “May I come in? Please. I—I’d rather not discuss this in the hall.”

Jack studied him. The boy’s eyes flicked left and right, checking the corridor. His knuckles were white against the folio. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a trap set by a professional. This one was scared out of his wits.

Jack opened the door wider and stepped aside.

Thomas Andrews scurried in like a mouse chased by a cat. He stood in the middle of the sitting room, turning in a small circle, taking in the opulence—the silk upholstery, the brass fixtures, the vase of fresh-cut lilies—as if he couldn’t quite believe such luxury existed. Then his eyes landed on the leather case sitting open on Jack’s desk.

“Oh, God,” he whispered.

Jack closed the door. “You said clerical matters.”

Andrews spun around. “I know what you are.”

Jack’s stomach tightened, but he kept his face placid. “Do you, now? And what’s that?”

“You’re not Harold Finch.” The steward’s voice dropped to a desperate hush. “Harold Finch was supposed to be traveling alone. He was supposed to be carrying that case. And he was supposed to be dead—but not like this. Not stabbed on a dock in Southampton.”

The word *stabbed* hung in the air like smoke.

Jack didn’t move. He didn’t reach for the blade in his boot or the derringer in his coat. He simply stood, arms loose at his sides, and let the silence do the work.

Andrews broke first. “I was paid,” he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Paid to make sure the case reached its destination. Paid to see it aboard. Paid to ensure Mr. Finch carried it to New York. I didn’t know what was in it at first. I didn’t ask. But then I saw the key.” He swallowed hard. “And I know what that key opens.”

Jack’s mind raced. The steward had been part of the operation from the start. Which meant the steward might know who the case was meant for—and who had sent him.

“Who paid you?”

Andrews shook his head. “I never saw his face. Instructions came by messenger. Money came in an envelope. I was told to watch the case, nothing more.” He wrung his hands. “But then Mr. Finch never boarded. And you did, in his clothes, with his ticket. And the real Mr. Finch was found dead before the gangway even came up.”

“So you thought you’d come shake me down.”

“No!” The word burst out of him. “No, I—I came to offer you a deal.”

He stepped forward and thrust the folio at Jack. Jack took it, wary, and flipped it open. Inside was a bank ledger, bound in red leather, the pages filled with neat columns of figures.

“That’s the originating ledger,” Andrews said. “The one that matches the list you’ve got in that case. Names. Account numbers. Values of the contents in each safe-deposit box.”

Jack looked up sharply. “You had this the whole time?”

“The man who paid me gave me two things—the case to deliver and this ledger to keep in my possession until we reached New York. I was to hand both to a contact at the pier.” He hesitated. “But I don’t want to hand it over anymore. I’ve seen what happens to men who get involved in these matters. I want out.”

“So what’s the deal?”

Andrews took a shaky breath. “Give me the key. I’ll sell it to the man on the pier, tell him I recovered it from a thief who tried to run with the case. You keep the case, keep the bank notes, keep the ledger. Whatever’s in those boxes when we reach New York—that’s yours to claim.”

Jack almost laughed. “You want me to hand you the one thing that makes this whole venture worth anything, and you’ll walk away with clean hands and a fat payoff?”

“I’ll give you money now,” Andrews said eagerly. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick roll of hundred-pound notes. “Five hundred. Cash. More than you’d make in a year of picking pockets.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. The figure was too precise. Too ready.

“You knew exactly how much to offer,” Jack said slowly. “Which means you knew I was a thief before you knocked. You knew I wasn’t just some opportunist who found a dead man’s luggage.”

Andrews’s face went pale.

“The false steward,” Jack said. “Pritchard. That was you testing me, wasn’t it? You sent him to see if I’d break.”

“No, I—I don’t know any—”

“Don’t lie to me, boy.” Jack’s voice dropped low, cold. “You’ve been watching me since I came aboard. You saw me take Finch’s clothes. You knew I’d found the case. You sent someone to probe my cover, and when I passed, you decided to try a more direct approach.” He took a step closer. “So who are you really working for?”

Andrews backed toward the door. “You’re wrong. I’m just a steward. I was just trying to—”

“You were just trying to get me to hand over a key that’s worth more than this ship.” Jack picked up the case and held it out. “Tell me who sent you, and I’ll consider your offer.”

For a moment, something flickered in Andrews’s eyes—fear, yes, but something else. Calculation. The boy wasn’t as simple as he seemed.

“I can’t tell you,” he said quietly. “If I told you his name, he’d kill me before we reached the ice.”

Jack froze. “The ice?”

But Andrews was already moving. He yanked open the door and slipped into the corridor, leaving the folio and the money on Jack’s desk.

“Keep the ledger,” he called back, his voice barely a whisper. “But if you’re smart, you’ll find another way off this ship before the night is out. The man I work for—he’s already aboard. And he always collects what he’s owed.”

The door clicked shut.

Jack stood in the sudden silence, the ledger heavy in his hands, the roll of notes burning a hole in his vision. Ice. The word echoed in his skull. No one on this ship had spoken of ice. They were four days from New York, steaming through clear, calm water.

But the steward had said it like a man predicting his own death.

Jack stuffed the ledger into the leather case and pocketed the money. He needed to find Vance, or the veiled woman, or anyone who could tell him what the hell he was carrying. But as he stepped into the corridor, he nearly collided with a junior officer hurrying past.

“What’s the rush?” Jack asked.

The officer didn’t slow. “Steward found hanged in the mail room. Suicide, looks like. Poor sod left a note.” He shook his head and kept moving.

Jack felt the blood drain from his face.

He didn’t need to ask the steward’s name.

He turned and walked the opposite direction, toward the first-class lounge, his hand closing around the Ace of Spades in his pocket. Vance was name seven on the list. And now the only man who could explain the key had just had his neck stretched.

Someone aboard knew Jack had the ledger now. Someone aboard was tying off loose ends with frightening speed.

And whoever that someone was, they’d just told Jack exactly what kind of game he was playing.