“Oh, no, please don’t do that. Er, sometimes I feel like reading it in different locations.” What a load of codswallop. But it doesn’t matter. He already thinks I’m an eccentric old lady.

He studies the ceiling and counts off his fingers. “Let’s see, there’s also one on the Promenade Deck, the library, the restaurant, and the Smoking Room. Five, that’s it. We don’t have the capacity to print many, you see.”

Mrs. Sloane, that tough old nut, feels herself soften in gratitude. “Steward Latimer, I know you must think me a loon for carrying around tobacco in place of ashes. But the thing is, Percy loved that particular brand, and, well, the smell reminds me of him.”

“Please, no need to explain. I carried around my baby’s sock for years after she passed. Whatever gets you through is what gets you through.”

“Quite so.” I pull a sovereign from my pocket and hold it out. Mrs. Sloane had said she would tip a sovereign, or ten shillings for each of us, at the end of the journey, and this is the end of my journey in first class.

“Oh, why, thank you.”

“I am grateful for your kindness.”

He bows, and as we part ways, I can’t help thinking that even if the man knew the truth, he wouldn’t hold it against me.

Reaching my cabin, I brace myself, in case the Master-of-Big-Arms waits on the other side of the door. But when I open it, only the citrusy scent of bergamot greets me, chased by the heavy odor of the lilies I stashed in the wardrobe. They’re rotting along with all my plans.

I lock the door behind me and rush to the chaise longue, relieved to find the two towels and one sock of money still inside the seat cushion. Maybe they aren’t onto me quite yet. But there’s no sense in taking chances by staying here, with so much already on the line. I stuff the money in my slipper bag, along with Mum’s Bible. Sweating, I remove my coat, which is weighing me down, remembering to remove the whale from the pocket. Then I hurry out the way I came.

A cramp in my foot stops me in my tracks right at Mr. Ismay’s door. All this unnatural hot-footing in these torture racks has finally done my pins in, and maybe me along with them. Naturally, it would be here that I am discovered. One can only swim across a moat full of alligators so many times before eventually meeting a gruesome end.

Two women approach from the Entrance Hall, chatting loudly. Wonderful. I ignore them and look at Mr. Ismay’s door, pretending that I’m waiting for him to answer.

“Oh, Mrs. Sloane, isn’t it?”