The Seventh Bullet by Daniel D. Victor Read Free Book Online Page A

city had given way to the thatched cottages of the countryside, the vicar had propped his reading glasses on his forehead, closed his eyes, and allowed the soporific swaying of our coach to lull him into a snore-filled sleep. I, however, entertaining images of New York City and the intrigue of a murder case rather than the fantasies conjured in some far-off dream-world, was too filled with anticipation to enjoy a similar repose.
    We streaked past woods of fir that, as the train rumbled through the grassy knolls and dells of northwestern Surrey, were interrupted by clusters of spruce and birch and oak. Then, after skirting ice-blue lakes and reflecting pools with the Hog’s Back in the distance, we started the climb through the tree-shrouded embankments beyond Basingstoke to our highest elevation.
    Having completed my medical training at the large military hospital in the nearby village of Netley, I was familiar with much of the terrain. Consequently, after racing through Winchester and Eastleigh at seventy miles per hour, I recognised the downward sweep towards the coast. Soon we were traversing the distinctive chalk cuttings of the Hampshire Downs and then, parallel to the Itchen, approaching the fields of the coastal plains and the cottages at the outskirts of Southampton. Finally, at no more thana walking pace, we passed the imposing South Western Railway Hotel and crossed Canute Road. Only at the whining full stop of the carriages did the vicar, snorting gruffly, awaken.
    Eager to disembark, however, I responded with only the quickest of smiles and, collecting my bowler, swung my scarf round my neck, nodded farewell to my still disoriented travelling companion who was rubbing the remains of sleep from his eyes, and stepped onto the platform. Trunk in tow thanks to the help of a porter, I made my way across the recently opened White Star Dock (renamed Ocean Dock in 1919) to R.M.S. Majesty looming in her berth just beyond the railway terminus.
    Inside, I could feel my heart pumping excitedly; outside, against my raw cheeks, I could feel the cool March breeze blowing off the Solent. Above me in a sky turned grey towered the steamer’s three black funnels, great clouds of dark smoke wafting heavenward from each. Blue Peter, the azure flag with a white square at its centre, hung from a forward yardarm indicating, so the porter advised, that the ship was ready for departure.
    Within minutes after I had climbed the gangplank and made my way to C Deck, the tugboats took their positions, the ropes were thrown free, the siren wailed its final warning, and we began to move. The deck shuddered briefly; then, almost imperceptibly at first, the gap between ship and pier began to widen, and Majesty inched towards the entrance to the docks. At no-one in particular, I waved my bowler, joining in the camaraderie among the friends and relatives of other travellers standing on the quay blown about by the wind as they saw their loved ones off to America.
    Soon we were steaming down Southampton Water, passing familiar Netley Hospital and various beaches, then slowing to turnto starboard around Calshot Spit, entering Thorn Channel, and next turning to port round a buoy to enter a deeper channel, past Egypt Point, past Cowes, past Spithead, and past the long pier at Ryde. Before we left the Isle of Wight behind us, the harbour pilot climbed from Majesty to a cutter, leaving us on our own to steam past Culver Cliff with only a single call at Cherbourg across the channel before we reached the open sea.
    Since the purpose of my journey was so serious, I paid little attention to the first-class accommodations available to me. To be sure, had it not been for the slow rolling of the deck, I might easily have mistaken my berth for a room at the Savoy or the Cavendish. It was elegantly furnished in Jacobean decor and included a private bath. Panelled in oak, the social halls were even grander, especially the smoking lounge in whose leather chairs I