Kitobni o'qish: «The Hodgson’s Dossier, or Shadows over Adyar»

Novella

"The Hodgson’s Dossier, or Shadows over Adyar"

Part 1.

Chapter 1. "The Chase"

London, October 1884.

The narrow grey street was dimly lit by flickering gas lamps and shrouded in fog and foreign mysteries.

A young man with a tense face and burning eyes, raced along the city's tangled artery, trying to catch someone. Tucking up his coat collar and pulling his hat tighter on his head, he plunged into a narrow East End alley, nearly tripping over crates of rotting vegetable scraps. His breath burst out in white clouds, mingling with either the fog or the now-familiar coal smog.

Somewhere nearby, a door slammed. The air hung heavy with the smell of cheap gin and fried fish. The drunken patrons spilling out of the tavern paid no attention to the runner, preferring not to interfere in other people's affairs. From the other side of the street, a child's cry could be heard, and from a basement room, the shouts of an argument drifted. For a moment, Hodgson was distracted. A figure flashing ahead brought him back to the present. The pursued darted around a corner like a ghost. His shadow, sliding along the wall of an old building, disappeared.

The tall brick houses looming over the alley would soon end. Beyond the corner lay the road to the docks. Stumbling over crates and refuse, Hodgson quickened his pace. The smell of fuel oil and rusty iron was already drifting from the river, overpowering the earlier city scents. Somewhere in the darkness, cart wheels creaked, and a coal cart rolled into the road, blocking the path and nearly knocking the young man off his feet. Pressing himself against the wall, he continued to follow the fleeing figure with his gaze. The pursued, crossing a rickety bridge over a canal, moved further away from the docks. "Just don't let him reach the Underground!" Richard thought, using the pause to catch his breath. When the cart moved on, he resumed the chase with renewed vigor. Each step echoed dully in his ears, and his heart pounded in his chest, not so much from the run as from rage.

The steps of the narrow staircase, eaten away by time and thousands of boots, led down to the Underground tunnel, drawing him into a realm of coal dust and smog. Nearly knocking over an old woman with a basket of flowers emerging from the station, Hodgson burst into the spacious lobby, barely illuminated by gaslights.

"Stop!" he shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of a departing train.

On the platform lay a glove – black, leather, with the initials "HPB" embroidered in silver thread. The young man picked it up, examining it in the dim light. It was an elegant ladies' glove, smelling of jasmine and Indian tobacco.

"Looking for the lady in black?" a hoarse, smoke-roughened voice came from behind. The owner turned out to be a burly redhead with an anchor tattoo on his neck. "She just left in a freight car."

"In a freight car?" Hodgson asked in astonishment.

"Yeah, the one where they haul the stiffs!" the redhead guffawed.

At night, freight cars on the underground were often used to transport coffins of the deceased after the authorities banned new burials in central London. The increasing epidemics were leaving their mark on all spheres of life. And death. Why the lady had chosen such strange company for herself was unclear. Her identity, in general, still remained a mystery to Richard. A few days ago, he had anonymously purchased from her, for a considerable sum, a copy of a letter bearing the seal of the Theosophical Society, in which Blavatsky called the miracles of Adyar "a game for simpletons" and effectively admitted to being a fraud. But when Richard arrived at the tavern that evening for proof, the mysterious informant, leaving an empty envelope and a taunt on the table: "Seek the proof yourselves, if you dare," had hurried away.

Somewhere behind him, footsteps and a policeman's whistle could be heard. Richard slipped his find into his pocket, trying to blend in with the crowd of workers trudging to their night shift. A passing train, blowing hot air and a cloud of coal ash, screeched to a halt. Hodgson hurried to board a carriage. Workers in greasy clothes and worn-out shoes were crammed onto the wooden benches.

"This is third class, gentleman! Your carriage is at the head of the train," one of them remarked, eyeing the young man in the coat and hat.

"Yes, you're probably more accustomed to velvet seats, sir!" chimed in a nearby laborer with a black eye.

"Thanks for the advice, mate," Hodgson gritted out, heading towards a newly vacated spot. "I think I'll be comfortable here."

Just in case, he felt for the folding knife in his coat pocket, a gift from his father long ago. It had saved his life several times already. Well, it wouldn't hurt to have it now. Although the agitated workers, not having received the desired reaction from the young man, had calmed down and returned to their conversations, interrupted by his appearance.

The train slowly picked up speed, leaving behind the dark metro lobby, adorned with advertising boards. On one of them, in large black letters, it read: "London Underground: Faster than m-me Blavatsky's teleportation." Right next to it hung an advertisement for some men's product with an actor's smiling face. Apparently, the pill had already taken effect on the young man, and its action wasn't as fast as the London Underground. After passing through a short tunnel, the subway emerged into the open air. Seizing the moment, the stokers threw coal into the furnace, and the train was enveloped in a decent portion of black smoke.

Settling more comfortably on the hard bench, Hodgson felt for his recent find in his left pocket. He took out a glove, trying to discern something in it that he hadn't noticed at first. The silver threads of the initials shimmered under the gas lamp, winking slyly. Suddenly, he noticed that the inner lining of the glove's thumb was slightly bulging.

"Hey, gentleman," the neighboring worker chuckled, finishing his egg and onion pie, "decided to take up needlework?"

Hodgson ignored the barbed joke, and with his fingernail, he picked at the seam. The fabric gave way, and a small key with a head shaped like a snake devouring its own tail fell into his palm.

"Wow!" exclaimed the same neighbor. "The key to a lady's heart? Or to a wine cellar?"

Hodgson's stern gaze subdued the joker, and he, after a little more stifled giggling into his fist, fell silent.

The key was cold, as if forged from ice. Hodgson gripped it tightly in his hand.

Suddenly, the train braked sharply, with a wild screech of wheels. The glove slipped from Roger's hands and stuck to the window. Only now, on the glass, did he make out the inscription: "Search!"

"Damn it!" he cursed, grabbing the glove and trying to wipe away the inscription. But the letters wouldn't disappear – they were on the reverse side of the glass, smudged with coal smoke.

"Hey," hissed the neighbor, poking a finger at the glass, "do you see that too?"

Outside the window, in clouds of steam and smoke, stood a lady in a black veil. She waved to Richard with the hand that wasn't gloved.

"Stop!" shouted Hodgson, lunging forward. But the train was already picking up speed again, leaving the mysterious lady behind.

"Relax, mate," chuckled the worker when Richard returned to his seat. "We're in the London Underground! There are more ghosts here than rats!"

Hodgson got off at the next station. Only now did he realize he was still clenching the key in his fist. He unclenched his hand and transferred it to the breast pocket of his jacket. An imprint of a coiled snake remained on his palm.

Hodgson knew it was an ouroboros. A symbol of life's cyclical nature – the endless cycle of death and rebirth. A symbol of ultimate spiritual wisdom. It can be found in almost all religions of the world. Of course, it's also on the emblem of Madame Blavatsky's Theosophical Society. But what is this key for? What secret locks and doors does it open?

Richard approached the gloomy, unremarkable three-story building of the SPR headquarters on the corner of Vernon Street and Vernon Mews, where, despite the late hour, he was expected. Lights were on in the windows of the upper floor. A plain sign hung on the door: "Society for Psychical Research. Est. 1882."

The door was opened by a stooped old man in thick-lensed glasses. His ink-stained fingers trembled. Shuffling his feet, he led Hodgson down a narrow corridor to an elevator, which, with a quiet, hollow hiss, carried the passengers to the third floor. This was where Edmund Rogers' office was located.

"I'll take it from here, old Simon!" Hodgson said, patting the old man on the shoulder and stepping out of the elevator cabin, which was paneled with expensive wood.

Rogers' office resembled a labyrinth of books, maps, and strange artifacts. The air here was heavy, filled with the smells of old paper, incense, and metal.

Tall oak shelves, crammed to the brim with antique books in expensive leather and worn parchment bindings, ended in a glass-doored cabinet. Through it, one could discern an Egyptian scarab with a cracked emerald shell, a skull inscribed with Chinese hieroglyphs, and many other interesting and mysterious trinkets that an ordinary person would dismiss as nonsense and clutter.

On the massive oak table, cluttered with blueprints and diagrams, stood a bronze telescope. And on the only free wall hung old photographs. Almost all of them showed a group of young people – a few young men and a couple of girls, in hiking attire and pith helmets. Some had rifles slung over their shoulders, others held sabers. The photographs had evidently been taken on treks and expeditions many years ago. And they were dear to the owner of the study, who sat importantly at the table, illuminated by a green lamp. His fingers flipped through the pages of a report, and his gaze was concentrated and thoughtful.

The door creaked. Hodgson entered without knocking.

"I failed!" he began excitedly, pulling off his hat and coat. "That girl managed to escape!"

The professor looked up at him. Calmly and slowly, he removed his spectacles and laid them on the papers. Without them, it became noticeable that Rogers was over sixty. His high forehead, crisscrossed with wrinkles, resembled a map of the expeditions he had undertaken. Greased, gray sideburns framed his lean face like a frame for a Victorian gentleman's portrait. His eyes, gray and cold as steel, burned with the fire of sacred knowledge, known only to him.

"Richard, my boy," he said calmly, "shall we ask Simons to bring some tea? You're too agitated!"

He rose from the table. Despite his age, the professor had a fit, well-built physique. His gray tweed suit, which fit him perfectly, emphasized his broad shoulders. A starched handkerchief peeked from the breast pocket of his jacket. And from his trouser pocket, a watch chain emerged.

"To hell with tea, Professor! She's gone! Vanished! Disappeared! It's some kind of witchcraft, I swear!"

Rogers walked over to one of the tall bookshelves and pressed a carved rosette on the side. With a slight creak, the bookshelves slid apart, revealing a passage into a small secret room. A fireplace crackled in its corner, and next to it stood two plush armchairs with high backs.

The professor walked into the room, inviting his guest to follow him.

On a small table between the armchairs, a decanter of amber-colored liquid gleamed. Rogers poured a little of the fragrant whiskey into two glasses, sat down in an armchair, and crossed his legs.

"You know, Richard, tea is really not necessary. Help yourself to this excellent Glenfarclas," the professor raised his glass, enjoying the firelight glinting on its crystal facets. "John Grant himself sent it to me last week."

Hodgson took a sip and, his excitement somewhat subdued, began his report. A little later, flushed either from the whiskey or from vivid memories, he was almost shouting across the entire study:

"I was ready to chase her even into that tunnel! Do they really think they can scare me with their tricks?"

"Yes, Richard, you, like your father, are impossible to scare or stop!" A faint smile appeared on Rogers' face. "But I implore you, my boy, be a little more careful. Don't forget, our goal is merely to expose Madame Blavatsky's tricks. She has turned ancient wisdom into a sideshow for snobs and hysterics, and shamelessly sells hope to people. Our task is to show this to the world. Science and reason are stronger than superstitions and various mystifications! And we will prove it."

"I promise, I'll get to her! No matter what it takes!" Hodgson downed his whiskey in one gulp and decisively placed the glass on the table.

"Just be careful, Richard! A long time ago, I promised your father I would look after you and your future. If anything goes wrong…"

"Yes, yes, I remember. No unnecessary risks."

Richard Hodgson was raised by his father. His mother died in childbirth, leaving a despairing husband with a newborn son. Hodgson Sr. was a renowned researcher in psychology and philosophy. He was fascinated by physics and archaeology. His passion for knowledge was as extensive as it was infectious. He often gathered scientists and thinkers at their home, discussing the boldest ideas about the nature of human consciousness. Professor Rogers was one of his closest friends – they spent long hours together in conversations about life and death, about paranormal phenomena, and about the importance of separating truth from lies.

Richard knew that his father had repeatedly participated in expeditions to Egypt, India, and Nepal. On one of these expeditions, his father did not return. Some swift infection. He "burned out" overnight. Professor Rogers, who was with him until his last breath, promised to look after his only heir. He vowed to do everything possible to ensure the boy received an education and became a worthy successor to his father's work. Rogers became a second father to Richard – wise and caring.

Many years have passed since then. The professor took the young man under his wing and recently brought him into the Society for Psychical Research, which he had organized with his comrades. Hodgson Jr. took on the position of staff journalist at "The Age" publishing house, whose tasks included enlightening the London public. Weekly, the newspaper published scientific research, articles, and monographs by young and experienced scientists. There were also plenty of exposé articles. Full of determination and a desire for justice, Hodgson set himself the difficult task of exposing unscientific theories and pseudoscientific practices. It was clear that both the newspaper and the Society had a mass of admirers. But there were also plenty of dissatisfied individuals who fell under the wave of revelations.

Richard took a key from his breast pocket. Now it didn't burn with heat or sting with cold, as it used to. It was an ordinary metal key. Completely uninteresting and unremarkable. Until fire illuminated it. The round head of the key suddenly came alive. The snake moved. Or did he imagine it? He was tired. The day had been too long. Of course, he imagined it.

"What is this key for?" the young man mused, turning it over in his hands.

If he had looked at the professor at that moment, he would have noticed how the latter's face changed at the sight of the find. His eyes sparkled, and he unconsciously leaned forward.

"Is that the key from the glove?" he asked, almost in a whisper.

"Yes, some trifle, probably."

Richard handed the key to the professor. The professor, putting on his glasses, began to examine it, turning it from one side to another.

"You know, my boy," he said calmly after a short pause, "some locks and doors are better left unopened. Do as I ask you, Richard. Investigate the Blavatsky case. She is not a seer or an oracle; she is a swindler who sells miracles to fools. Her theosophy is a mixture of plagiarism and theatrical tricks. Your task is to find evidence," he finished his whiskey and put the key in his pocket, "not to chase shadows."

"But what about this key and this glove…"

"It's just theatrical props, Richard!" Rogers replied, irritated by the boy's dullness, as he rose from his armchair. "Congratulations, you almost became a participant in her performance."

"Does it really mean nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing, my boy," the professor said, placing a hand on Hodgson's shoulder. "There's no need to get distracted by theatrical props that vaguely resemble ancient artifacts."

"But maybe it's still worth checking?" Hodgson persisted, his stubbornness and insistence increasingly irritating the professor.

"And succumb to this mystical nonsense? Richard, that's enough conjectures and assumptions for today! Isn't it time for you to pack? As far as I know, your steamer departs tomorrow morning?" He headed for the exit, making it clear the conversation was over.

Hodgson slowly followed him. "Tomorrow at noon, Professor."

Old servant Symons was waiting in the study, holding the guest's coat and hat. Dressed, the young man bowed to his patron, wished him good night, and left the headquarters of the Society for Psychical Research.

Rogers, left alone, walked to the window. Somewhere in the distance, a train approaching the station rumbled, and below, the lights of the City flickered in the fog. With a sharp movement, he drew the heavy curtain. The rumble of the train outside the window faded, replaced by the rhythmic ticking of the pendulum clock. The professor listened for footsteps in the corridor – silence.

Returning to his desk, he opened the top drawer with a key hanging around his neck. Inside, beneath a stack of documents, lay a small box of black sandalwood. Its lid was adorned with an intricately carved white lotus flower. Rogers took out the box with trembling hands, as if afraid his touch might harm the object. Holding his breath, he opened it.

Inside, on a velvet lining, lay a photograph. A snapshot, yellowed with time. Its edges were creased and torn. Three figures stood against the backdrop of the snow-capped Himalayas. A young, smiling Edmund Rogers in a pith helmet, with a revolver peeking from his holster. His face, not yet touched by age, glowed with excitement and enthusiasm. His hand rested confidently on the shoulder of his friend standing beside him. This was Henry Hodgson, Richard's father. Tall, with a beard and perceptive eyes. In his hands, he held a notepad and pencil. And beside him was she – Ellen Blackwood. Tall, stately, in a dress made of coarse fabric. Her unruly curly hair barely reached her shoulders and resembled a golden fleece. Her enormous eyes laughed, and on her still very young face, confidence and a challenge to the whole world could be read."

Rogers ran a finger across her face, as if trying to erase the years. The inscription on the back: "Expedition, 1855. Satyāt Nāsti Paro Dharmah" reminded him that thirty years had already passed since then. Incidentally, she later made this motto the motto of the Theosophical Society she founded – "There is no religion higher than truth."

There were other expeditions after that, many. But this was the very first. The professor carefully placed the photograph on the table and turned his attention back to the contents of the box. At its very bottom lay a key – at first glance, a copy of the one Hodgson had brought. The same intricate pattern, the same notches on the bit. It seemed both keys had been cast from the same mold. But while Hodgson's key was covered in a light rust and the patina of time, this one gleamed as if time itself feared to touch it. Rogers held them up to the lamplight. The serpent on his specimen winked with tiny eyes – scarlet rubies, sparkling with a bloody sheen. There was no doubt. The keys were exact replicas of each other.

"Two keys – one fate, one door," Rogers whispered, recalling the words of an ancient legend. "Only by coming together will they open the gates of the Temple of Shambhala. A place where soul, knowledge, and life merge into a single stream, becoming the source of true understanding and enlightenment."

The clock struck midnight. The professor flinched, dropping one of the keys. It clinked on the floor, and in the silence, the sound seemed like a gunshot. Rogers knew who this key belonged to. She would never have given it up willingly. It was a part of her new life. If not life itself. Rogers picked up the key, clutched it tightly in his hand until the pain became unbearable. He remembered her face that night, when they had to decide about their future. She had screamed, waved her arms, her eyes burning with determination.

"Knowledge must be free!" echoed across the mountain peaks.

And then she disappeared. Leaving him alone at Henry's freshly dug grave.

His hand became unbearably hot. Rogers threw the key onto the table, and in the same instant, it burst into blue flame. A pungent smell and smoke filled the room. The professor rushed to open the window. The flame, as quickly as it had appeared, vanished. On the table, in place of the key, lay a pile of ashes. A small wisp of smoke still rose from it, drawing the face of Ellen in the air. Not the current one, but young, as she had been back then on their expeditions.

"Are you still searching for what you cannot hold, Edmund?" a muffled, otherworldly voice sounded. A bright flash, and everything disappeared. A faint scent lingered in the air… of jasmine.

"What kind of idiotic tricks is this?!" the professor shouted at the invisible visitor. But there was no one in the room but him. Only the wind rustled the curtain through the wide-open window.

Rogers, not believing his eyes, rubbed the spot on the table where a pile of ash had just been. Nothing. Nervously tucking the polished key into a small box, he hastily put it in his desk drawer. Looking around, he sat back in his armchair, leaning against its massive back. She was still trying to intimidate him, even across time and distance!

The servant, Simons, entered the room.

"Do you require anything else today, sir?" he asked, looking with surprise at the open window.

"No, Simons, you are dismissed."

"Your travel belongings are packed. The cab will arrive tomorrow at eleven, sir."

"Thank you, Simons. Good night."

"Shall I close the window, sir?" the old man persisted. "Drafts before a long journey can be unnecessary."

"Yes, yes, you are absolutely right, close it, of course."

Ten minutes later, the mansion on Vernon Street plunged into darkness. After extinguishing the last gas lamp, old Simons, carrying a candle before him, shuffled towards his quarters in the basement.

Somewhere in the distance, dogs barked.

London plunged into its nocturnal life, the end of which, just a few hours later, was heralded by the loud hoot of a steamship arriving from Cairo. The first rays of sunlight illuminated the roofs of the grey city. The first carts slowly began to move along the narrow streets. The smell of hot cinnamon bread wafted from the corner bakery. Boys in patched jackets, wielding brushes and tins of shoe polish, began to cheerfully call out to passersby:

"Boots cleaned, gentlemen! Six pence, and your shoes will gleam like those of noble lords!"

The walk from his rented room to the publishing house took mere minutes. Richard, looking around the familiar street and smiling at the new day, stepped onto the cobblestones, beginning to count his steps. In his hand, he held a small leather satchel with a torn buckle, stuffed to the brim with maps, documents, and newspaper clippings.

London was breathing in the morning bustle, filling with the silhouettes of clerks in bowler hats, umbrella vendors, and modistes with boxes of ribbons. Barely avoiding a collision with a milkmaid dragging full pails, Hodgson turned into a neighboring alley, where the air thickened with the smell of fish from the nearby docks. Here, under the sign "The Age," a two-story building with peeling paint on its facade greeted him. The clatter of printing presses could be heard through the open windows.

He opened the door, the bell jingling. In the hall, piled high with stacks of newspapers, a delivery boy sat on a box, chewing a raisin bun.

"Mr. Hodgson," he mumbled, swallowing another bite. "They left a letter for you. On the table. A blue one. Smells nice."

"And who delivered it?" Richard asked, surprised, as he wasn't expecting any correspondence today.

"I don't know, sir, some lady in a black veil. I've never seen her here before."

The wooden stairs to the second floor creaked loudly. Even here, an aroma not typical of the place was noticeable. Usually, it smelled of paper, ink, and the sweat of typesetters. In the tiny office, the scent of jasmine hit his nose even before Hodgson saw the envelope on the desk. That very same aroma – thick, sweetish.

He dropped his satchel on the floor. He picked up the envelope. On its reverse side was a wax seal with a lotus design and already familiar initials. Carefully tearing open the envelope, he read: "Truth sometimes needs protection. Have you chosen your side yet?" These jokes and hints were starting to irritate him! Richard crumpled the letter and carelessly tossed it into the wastebasket. Outside the window, a crow cawed hoarsely. Its cry was sharp, almost human, but he merely frowned. He glanced out the window – the bird was looking at him with yellow eyes, as if trying to say something. Sharply pulling the curtain, he said, "Not today!"

Resolutely, he picked up his satchel from the floor, threw in the file on the Blavatsky case, and the portrait of his father standing on the desk. Henry Hodgson looked from the old card with sadness, just as he had the day he left for his last expedition. Richard barely remembered his father. He had passed away when the boy was just five years old. Only the feeling of warm touches and fragments of fairy tales and legends that his father used to tell him before bed remained in his memory.

In the common room on the first floor, work was already in full swing. Typewriters clattered loudly as the compositors hammered away, shaking off the morning drowsiness and laziness.

"In a hurry, Hodgson?" Clara Oldman, one of the most experienced employees of the publishing house, asked with a displeased expression. She had worked there almost since the newspaper's inception and knew everything about everyone. When Professor Rogers brought Richard here, her authority was severely shaken, so good treatment from her was not to be expected.

"Yes, Clara, today I'm leaving you," Richard replied with feigned distress. "Could you really have forgotten about my business trip to India?"

"Oh, yes! Your business trip! That's all anyone talks about."

"Is it really everyone, dear?"

"Yes, Hodgson, everyone is wondering why it's you who's going?!"

"Maybe because I'm the best?" Richard laughed.

"Or maybe because you're Rogers' nephew?" the woman retorted, not letting up.

"You know that's not true!" Hodgson didn't react to the provocations and remained completely calm. "Stop being angry. Anger puts wrinkles on your cute little nose that you stick everywhere!"

"Go to hell, Hodgson!"

Laughing, the young man headed for the exit.

"Have a good one!"

"Get lost!"

Outside, the wind chased scraps of newspapers across the cobblestones. One of the sheets stuck to his shoe. Brushing it off like an annoying fly, Hodgson hurried towards the port. Ahead of him lay a long, almost three-week journey to Madras, India, on the modern liner "Gwalior," belonging to Peninsular & Oriental.

Chaos reigned in his mind. His thoughts drifted back to a distant childhood.

Richard remembered the first time he entered the professor's house. It was an old building in a prestigious London suburb, with high ceilings and a large library full of dusty books. Every corner here held its secrets, and the smell reminded him that the world was full of knowledge and mysteries. The professor often spent his time reading and writing articles, leaving Richard to his own devices. And then the child dreamed of boy friends with whom he could run around the street, play pirates, and get into mischief, instead of sitting in a library locked behind huge, heavy doors. Surrounded by servants and governesses, he felt lonely.

As he grew older, Richard began to run away from home for walks around the neighborhood. He would wander through fields of tall grass or sit by the river, fishing or simply watching the clouds. These moments were a true salvation for him – that's when he felt free and happy.

When he was sent to study at Harrow, life changed dramatically. Here he met other lonely boys like himself, surrounded by their parents' inattention and the endless expectations of their mentors. Each had their own story and their own truth. Here he learned his first lessons in friendship and betrayal.

After graduating from school and returning to his ordinary life, Richard no longer retreated into his solitude. Communication became the best cure for his melancholy. He loved to study people and listen to their stories. Therefore, when the professor offered him a chance to try his hand as a journalist at the "Ages" publishing house, he eagerly threw himself into the work. Investigations and article writing required a thorough and meticulous study of various topics, something the young man had been trained in since early childhood.

Richard stepped with a decisive stride onto the cobblestone pavement of the port square. In the distance, a white ocean liner, the size of several good houses, was visible. Something inside him treacherously tickled. A childish fear of the unknown and the anticipation of something magical mingled within him into a dizzying cocktail. His heart pounded with excitement.

The pier was bustling like a disturbed anthill. Porters in worn vests carried trunks and suitcases marked "First Class" onto the steamer. Passengers, the owners of this luggage, boarded via a separate gangway, carpeted in scarlet. Ladies in silks and crinolines shielded themselves from the sun's rays with lace parasols. Their escorts in tweed travel suits obediently walked beside them. Footmen in livery with the shipping company's crest took their hand satchels and escorted them to cabins on the upper decks.