A Bespoke Murder

practised for such an emergency.

In addition to the lifeboats, there were twenty-six collapsible boats and they would play an important part in saving lives, but it was clear from the start that casualties would be extremely high. Several people had already perished, dashed against the side of the ship or killed by a falling lifeboat. Others had drowned in the cold unforgiving water. Seated in one of the last lifeboats, the titled old lady with the two spaniels was knocked overboard when a man who leapt from an upper deck landed directly on top of her. Yapping piteously, the dogs swam madly in small circles but their owner was already dead and they were doomed to join her in a watery grave.

Having gradually slowed, the Lusitania rolled over even more and was patently close to her end. In less than twenty minutes since she was hit, one of the largest and finest vessels ever to be built in a British shipyard began to founder. It was time to go.

‘Jump, Irene!’ shouted Gill, taking her by the arm.

‘I’m needed here, Ernie,’ she said.

‘There’s nothing else we can do. She’s going down.’

Irene felt the deck lurch. ‘You may be right.’

‘Jump while you can or you’ll be sucked down.’ He pulled her to the rail. ‘Try not to hit anyone.’

It was a tall order. Hundreds of heads were bobbing about in the sea and some of the collapsible boats were directly below Irene. She could see no inviting space. After snatching a farewell kiss from her, Gill jumped over the side while pinching his nose between a thumb and forefinger. Dozens of other people were abandoning the ship as well. Irene offered up a silent prayer for her salvation then joined the general exodus. As she fell through the air, she was overcome by a sense of righteous indignation at the enemy for daring to attack her beloved Lusitania. It was sacrilege.

She hit the sea hard and sank beneath the green waves before coming to the surface again and expelling a mouthful of salt water. All around her were people desperately trying to make their way past those who had already given up the fight. When a corpse floated helplessly against her, Irene saw that it was one of the mess stewards, his eyes gazing sightlessly up at the sky. She remembered what Gill had said. As she finally went down, he warned, the Lusitania would take anyone nearby deep into the vortex she had created. It would be a hideous way to die. That thought spurred Irene on to swim away as hard as she could, heading towards a collapsible boat she could see. Because it was being rowed away from her, however, Irene never reached the boat and its vague promise of safety. Instead, she kept flailing away with both arms until she barely had the strength to lift them. Her head was pounding, her lungs were on fire and her legs were no longer obeying her. All that she could do was to tread water.

A collective shout of horror went up and Irene turned to take a last glimpse of the ship on which she’d spent so many happy years. One end suddenly dipped in defeat, the other rose high, then the Lusitania dived below like a gigantic iron whale, sucking everyone within reach in her wake. Irene was still staring at the massive circle of foam when she collided with a wooden object and automatically grasped it. She was holding on to a large chair that gave her extra buoyancy. It had not arrived by accident. Using his other arm to swim, Ernie Gill had guided it over to her so that both of them had something to cling to. Shivering with cold, Irene was unable to express her thanks in words. Gill, however, was shaking with fury and the expletives came out of him like steam escaping from a kettle.

‘Bleeding Huns!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ll fucking kill the bastards!’

CHAPTER TWO

Reaction was immediate and savage. As soon as news of the disaster reached Liverpool, mobs went on the rampage. Because the Lusitania was held in great affection in her home port, her sinking produced outrage, disbelief and an overpowering urge for revenge. Anyone with a German name became a target. Shops were looted, houses raided and people beaten up at random. The fact that they were naturalised British citizens was no protection. They were hunted indiscriminately. When one man protested that his family had lived in the country for generations, he was grabbed by the mob, stripped naked then tarred and feathered. Many policemen shared the feelings of the vigilantes and chose to turn a blind eye to their campaign of destruction. As the homes of German families were plundered then set alight, a pall of smoke hung over the city.

Liverpool was not alone in its fury. All over Britain, a German birth certificate was the mark of a victim. When it was learnt that over a thousand people on the Lusitania had lost their lives, the search for scapegoats was intensified. London offered an unlimited supply of them. In the East End, where many German immigrants had settled, vengeful gangs stormed along a trail of terror, meting out punishment with remorseless efficiency.

Nor was the West End immune to attack.

‘Why do they hate us so much?’ asked Ruth Stein.

‘They don’t hate us,’ replied her father. ‘They hate Germany for killing so many innocent people in the Lusitania. It’s a question of guilt by association, Ruth. We should have changed our name.’

‘Would that have made a difference, Father?’

He heaved a sigh. ‘Who knows? Your Uncle Herman changed his name yet they still wrecked his warehouse.’

‘It’s the way people look at me,’ she said. ‘It’s frightening.’

‘Try to ignore it.’

They were in the upstairs room at the front of the shop. Thanks to his skill as a bespoke tailor, he had one of the most flourishing businesses in Jermyn Street. He was a short, stout man in his late fifties with rounded shoulders. There was usually a benign smile on his face but it was now corrugated by concern. It was mid-evening and his daughter had joined him when the shop closed. Ruth was a slim, angular, pallid and undeniably plain girl of eighteen. Her father had been teaching her the rudiments of bookkeeping so that she could in time relieve her mother of that aspect of the business.

Ruth started. ‘What’s that noise?’

‘I heard nothing,’ he said.

‘It sounded like the roar of a crowd.’

‘Some lads have probably had too much to drink.’

‘It was a loud cheer.’

‘Was it?’

Stein had heard it clearly but tried to show no alarm. If a gang was on the loose, he could only hope that his shop would be spared. He had put up two large posters in the window. One declared that he and his family were naturalised and in full support of Britain in its fight against Germany. On the other poster was an enlarged photo of his son, Daniel, wearing the uniform of the British regiment he’d volunteered to join only days after war was declared. Stein felt that his credentials were impeccable but he knew that a lawless mob would take no account of them. The thirst for revenge imposed blindness.

Ruth crossed to the window and peered nervously at the street.

‘I don’t see those policemen outside,’ she said.

‘They’ll still be nearby.’

‘What can two of them do against a big crowd?’

‘I trust that we’ll never have to find out.’

‘Are you afraid?’

‘We’re British citizens. We’ve nothing to be afraid about.’

‘Mother said it was too dangerous for me to come here.’

He smiled tolerantly. ‘Your mother worries too much.’

‘She wanted you to close the shop today.’

‘We had customers to serve, Ruth. We can’t turn people away.’

She recoiled from another burst of cheering.