by Evelyn Weiss
must have missed the gap in the hedge. I’m in a blind alley. A trap.
I’m suddenly aware that I can hear the breathing and the footfall again, slowed almost to standstill. It seems like the stranger is closer than ever. But this time, I smell something: something I remember from a visit to the dentist. Chloroform.
I now know what the stranger wants to do to me. And he seems so close, he must be standing right behind me.
Logic says: he can’t be behind me. He’s on a different pathway, I tell myself. I turn slowly around, gaze into the murk. I can see nothing, but I walk forwards, back to where the gap must be. Three, seven, nine yards. As I walk, I hold my hand right out to my side, brushing the yew needles, feeling for the gap. Drops of water fall as my fingers touch the foliage; they’re the loudest sound in this silent gray world.
And then my outstretched hand feels: nothing. Cold air touches my fingertips. It’s the gap. I step forwards into the blank space: straight ahead is the way out.
I can’t resist, I start to step quickly. My dress rustles, my feet slip on the dew, but I’m breaking into a run. I can hear the noise of running behind me: heavier feet; stronger, faster legs.
I’m out of the maze, my heart is like a hammer, and I’m running like an arrow across the wet lawns. I hear pounding footsteps behind me: bigger strides than mine. I smell the chloroform again. I can’t see the house but I know it must be straight ahead. I’m running blind, as hard as I can. I’m half-aware of something looming ahead of me, a blurred figure standing up in front of me like a dark sentinel.
Impact: I run straight into a solid human body.
“My goodness! You’ve knocked the breath right out of me, Miss.”
“Mrs Thwaite! I am so, so sorry.”
“Gave me such a fright. Why are you running, my dear? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
8.Embarkation
A black wall, limitlessly high, looms above me. It’s the hull of the RMS Olympic. The iron plates and endless rows of rivets glisten in the cold sunshine that rakes along the ship’s flank. I look out across the hats and heads of masses of people, all waiting to board at the third-class passenger level – one of the White Star Line’s main claims is that they don’t do ‘steerage class’. The noise, the sights and smells take me back vividly to our boarding of the Titanic: even the cold, bright early-April weather is the same; across the quay are cast long, sharp shadows of the cranes and the forest of funnels and masts. The combined sound of so many voices, everyone full of anticipation and excitement at their voyage, is like a steady ocean roar. Above the voices, I hear the horns, the whistles, the drum-beat of ships’ engines out in the Solent, the thump of cargo bales loaded onto the deck of the Olympic. A hand-wagon trundles past us, its toppling load of ship’s laundry nearly brushing my face, and I step back, colliding with a pile of suitcases and trunks. I look round at the cases, and I’m intrigued by their travelling-address labels. As an East Coast American, the labels are exotic to me: San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle – and there are ones for even further afield: Havana, Rio de Janeiro, Hawaii. I feel the flutter, the thrill, of travel and faraway destinations, exactly as I felt one year ago. Don’t the psychiatrists call this ‘déjà vu’? I feel as if everything that is happening to me here and now, at the start of our voyage across the Atlantic, has all happened to me before. On the Titanic.
“How do you feel, Agnes?” Chisholm notes my wistful gaze, perhaps a tremble in my lip. I tell him I’m fine. But then, his attention is called away: a porter I asking him about our luggage. Chisholm goes over to talk to him, and Professor Axelson joins their discussion.
I’m ready to go up to the first-class boarding area, and there is a line of people behind me: ladies in hats, long gowns and furs; gentlemen in suits and top hats. Chisholm said that he would come and see me once I was settled into my cabin, and I have my own boarding pass: should I wait here, or just walk up onto the ship? I look at the stairs which lead up inside the boarding-tower. Resembling a medieval siege engine, its legs ending in wheels like the castors of a gigantic chair, the movable tower has been maneuvered into place alongside the Olympic. The gangway is lowered as a high bridge between the top of the tower and an upper deck of the ship, so that us first-class passengers can cross directly onto the higher decks without mixing with the hordes of people below. I’m wondering whether to go up, or to give up my place in the queue. I hear a voice from behind me.
“Take my arm, if you wish, for assistance when climbing the steps of the boarding-tower. A young lady should not be unaccompanied when boarding a great ocean liner.”
The voice is unfamiliar. I turn to see a ruddy, fresh-faced young man. Tall and broad, like a sportsman of some kind. A brown tweed suit adds to his informal appearance. But his manner has an air of the drawing-room rather than the playing-field.
“I’m fine, thank you sir. I can board by myself: some young ladies have to get used to travelling alone. Although fortunately, at present, I am not one of them. My companions are engaged, speaking to the porters.”
“Well if your friends are engaged elsewhere, then you are – disengaged, at least for the moment. So you could take my arm? It would be a pleasure to walk on board with you – you wouldn’t deny me that, would you? Ahead of me is a lonely journey across the Atlantic: no friends are travelling with me.” He gazes at me, holds my attention. “I’m Rufus du Pavey, by the way.” A proffered hand: I shake it. “I’m Agnes Frocester.”
“And Miss Frocester, are you travelling for business, or for pleasure?”
“Business. My own business, thank you.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth I wish I hadn’t said them: I sound unfriendly, even rude. And I might as well chat to this man, find out what I can about one of Professor Axelson’s ‘suspects’. As if to make amends to du Pavey for my rudeness, I take his arm and walk up the boarding-tower steps with him. We’re four flights of steps up, high alongside the ship and level with the first-class cabins on B deck. We look out from the boarding-tower along the gangway which extends, like a drawbridge, from the tower to the ship. The gangway has a wooden floor and rails, and canvas panels are stretched along its sides below the rails, like drapes, as if to shield the skirts of the first-class ladies from the gaze of the crowds below. The gangway is such a flimsy-looking thing, I think, to put so many people aboard this iron monster. We step onto the planking of the gangway and a sea breeze blows into my nostrils: I smell the salt tang of the waves, and I hear the cries of the seagulls. I look straight down over the rail at the jostling heads and shoulders of the third-class passengers. The hordes of people look like ants, all migrating towards a huge anthill.
“So, Mr du Pavey – your own voyage? Business or pleasure?”
“In my life, business and pleasure are always mixed, Miss Frocester. I’d like, by the way, to call you Agnes. A demure name. It suits you well.”
“I’ve never thought of myself as either demure or otherwise, Mr du Pavey. When I finished my schooling I wanted to earn my own way in the world. I like to support myself, not to be dependent on others. I became a teacher’s assistant in my hometown, then I got a job in Sussex, England, as a paid lady’s companion. I traveled to England” – I point downwards from the gangway towards the crowds “as one of the masses. A third-class passenger with a one-way ticket.”
“Well, I’ll take that as a Yes to my request – so from now on I’ll call you Agnes. And you – please do call me Rufus. I’ll be hurt if you don’t.” He holds my hand as if he’s pleading with me: I’m reminded of a ham actor on the stage. I suppress a smile at his ridiculous manners. But this behavior – it means something. His blatant efforts to charm me must have an ulterior motive. What could it be? As I look for one last time out over the crowds boarding the Olympic, I think: he’s found out about our investigation. I cast a glance across at his seemingly innocent face, and think: I already know one thing about you, Mr du Pavey. Our meeting at the foot of the boarding-tower was not coincidence. You looked for me,
sought me out.
We step from wood to iron: from the gangway onto the Olympic. The first-class entrance is a kind of lobby, with a lectern standing to one side: a steward stands behind it.
“I’ll just check your boarding pass, Madam – and Sir.”
“We’re not together.” I speak hastily, embarrassed by the steward’s assumption. As he examines du Pavey’s pass, I think further about this man who has attached himself to me. How did du Pavey single me out? He can’t have recognized me; I’ve never seen him before. So, he must have recognized Axelson or Chisholm, and noticed that I was with them. My guess is that he spotted Axelson, because the professor’s picture has been in the newspapers –a brief article in The Times – ‘Titanic Sinking: Hypnotist to probe Viscount’s Mystery Death’.
The steward is still looking at du Pavey’s boarding pass. As I wait for him I think: du Pavey must have been hanging around among the first-class boarders at the foot of the tower, for the sole purpose of looking out for our party. He must be very interested indeed in our enquiry. Perhaps what we are doing worries him? And if he is worried by us, then perhaps he has something to hide. I think again about what Chisholm and the professor said about this man.