Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

one member of this inquisitorial party.” He nods to me, a blue twinkle under those heavy, crinkled eyelids.

  Axelson explains. “The basic facts are as you will have read in my letter. We’re grateful for your prompt response, Mr Gilmour. We hope that you accept the evidence I set out in that letter: it is beyond dispute that Percy Spence was murdered. However, because of the circumstances of the Titanic disaster, the apparently endless list of possible murderers, most of whom are dead, of course – the police have limited resources to investigate. They have therefore entrusted me with eliciting the truth by my unique Hypnotic-Forensic Method.

  But at the same time, Mr Gilmour, I must give you advance warning about my hypnosis. If you agree to undergo it, it will take you back vividly to the night of the Titanic’s sinking. You will not only see again what you saw that night – you will experience it, in its awful fullness. You will feel exactly as you felt when the Titanic went down. Do you understand that?”

  “I’m not afraid of the hypnosis, if that’s what you mean. I’m not a man to be easily scared. Nor are your methods unknown to me. I have seen hypnotism in the theatre, often.”

  “But you should be aware, Mr Gilmour. This is no quack or vaudeville mesmerism. The Hypnotic-Forensic Method is a proven, respected tool of criminal investigation. I have worked with police forces across Europe, and I hold the Chair of Forensics at the University of Dresden.”

  Gilmour smiles. “Like I said, let’s get to the point. You think I murdered Percy Spence.”

  Chisholm buts in. “We’re serious investigators, Mr Gilmour. We consider evidence, not rumors and innuendo. We don’t believe tittle-tattle.”

  “By ‘tittle-tattle’ you mean this.” Gilmour pulls out a newspaper, I see the crude masthead and sensational headlines of The High Life. The paper ignores international affairs, the European arms race, the suffrage movement, the Balkan crisis, the calls for Irish independence. It concerns itself with only one topic: gossip about the richest members of English and American society. Every kind of scandal, intrigue and affair appears in its pages. And I have to admit, I love reading it. But Gilmour’s scorn for the newspaper is obvious. “One issue of this rag gave that stupid story a few column inches. From scandal to murder, there’s nothing that The High Life won’t invent if they think it might boost circulation. But in terms of facts – of course, they had nothing further to say, no actual evidence, so the story was a one-off article. They gave up on me.”

  Chisholm glances at the newspaper, then back at Gilmour. “Did you not think of suing them for libel?”

  “I think the hack journalists at The High Life hoped I would launch a lawsuit against them, because if I’d done that, it would have given them extra publicity. They also knew, as I did, that if I took them to court, I’d lose the case, because the article doesn’t actually accuse me of murder. All it does is speculate about absurd questions. I’ve nothing to hide, but despite that I’ve had to deal with a lot of nonsense in my life. And I always deal with it in the same way: ignore it and carry on doing what I do best.”

  “You mean, you disregard the gossip, and concentrate solely on your business affairs?”

  “That’s exactly what I do. If you worry about what other people think of you, you’ll never risk your little finger. And I have made my fortune by chancing my whole arm.” He looks at us as if he genuinely doesn’t care about The High Life’s speculations. But somehow, I feel that Calvin Gilmour protests too much about his honesty and openness. As if he’s acting a part.

  Chisholm holds the newspaper in his hands, and reads aloud to us.

  “Murdered!! Rumor has it that Viscount Percy Spence was poisoned while the Titanic foundered.

  A crime too horrible to imagine? And is the perpetrator one of the hundreds who died? Or, one of the hundreds who survived?

  The High Life has gained exclusive information that links Viscount Spence with Gwyneth Gilmour, née Ogilvie, the glamorous bride of New York and Ohio plutocrat Calvin Gilmour.

  Twenty years younger than Calvin, she was seen several times in the Viscount’s company during the American couple’s visit to England last year. Spence and Mrs Gilmour were spotted dining together alone in some of London’s most fashionable hotels. And The High Life can exclusively reveal that, blind to the catastrophe approaching them, they also spent time in each other’s company on the fated Atlantic crossing of the Titanic. One witness says ‘I saw them together, talking quietly and intimately, many times on the ship. They seemed inseparable, like a love-struck courting couple.’

  Did jealousy motivate the all-powerful American to a desperate solution to his predicament?...”

  Chisholm stops reading. Gilmour, meanwhile, has almost a smile on his lips at the absurdity of the highly-colored language and the baseless insinuations. He speaks, choosing every word.

  “The opinions of people who are silly enough to believe that story cannot hurt me. But unfortunately, that scrap of newspaper has managed to cause me some trouble. You’re probably aware that Gwyneth’s father is Jefferson Ogilvie. Now, the shipbuilding yards he owns in Newport News are booming. In the last three years, their business has doubled. It’s public knowledge that they have major commissions from the United States Navy. You’ll be aware that Britain and Germany are not the only countries engaged in a naval arms race right now. In fact, the United States is currently building two new battleships every year. Rival navies are developing around the whole world: Russia, Japan, Brazil, Argentina. The United States government has decided that our country needs a navy with global capability. So, all in all, it’s a huge commercial opportunity for a steel manufacturer.”

  Chisholm and Axelson nod in agreement: Gilmour continues. “You may also know that although I’m originally from New York, many of my industrial holdings are in Ohio, and I am now expanding my portfolio to other locations too. I own the Cuyahoga steelworks in Cleveland, and I’ve recently acquired its highly profitable sister steel plant – the Chesapeake works near Norfolk, Virginia.”

  Axelson has done his homework on Gilmour’s business background. “The Chesapeake works are the principal suppliers of steel to Ogilvie’s shipyards.”

  “You see my point, gentlemen. This ridiculous gossip about Gwyneth and Viscount Spence – it has reached Jefferson Ogilvie, and has caused a rift between father and daughter. I’m concerned for my wife, of course. But there’s more. The family rift now threatens our business co-operation. If relations between me and Ogilvie broke down – that might impact more than just the profitability of my Chesapeake steelworks. If we end up losing the contract with the Ogilvie shipyards, that might seriously damage confidence in Gilmour Holdings. I care nothing for public opinion. But I care totally for the business reputation, and the fortunes, of Gilmour Holdings.”

  I look around the table, and I see the professor and Chisholm nodding appreciatively.

  “So you can now understand why I was more than willing to meet you. I’m interested in what I can do for you – but even more interested in what you can do for me.”

  Axelson leans forward. “Tell us, Mr Gilmour, how you think we can help you.”

  “It’s very simple. My wife is a modern woman. She has an independent life, but she and I have a marriage based on trust. I don’t need to live with her in my pocket. Jealousy is an emotion that I know little of.

  Now, Jefferson Ogilvie is a respectable man. His family is one of the oldest – and richest – in Virginia. He cares a lot for reputation, and for morality – hence the problems I’ve described to you. But at the same time, he’s not some anti-progress Bible-basher. Like me, he openly embraces the advances of science, including this new science of hypnosis.”

  The professor looks gratified. “I’m glad to hear that, Mr Gilmour.”

  Gilmour carries on. “But the point I’m making, Professor Axelson, is that both Gwyneth and my father-in-law would be very interested to read a report – which you could prepare, Professor – which would record exactly what I say when I
am under your hypnosis. Because I know that what I say will show that I had nothing to fear from Percy Spence, and no reason to wish him harm. If you made such a report, it could preserve my good relationship with Jefferson Ogilvie.”

  “Why would it do that, Mr Gilmour?”

  “Because your report would show that there is indeed no foundation to these ridiculous rumors. It would reveal the truth. Because I have heard that, when hypnotized, a subject cannot lie.”

  “That is true, Mr Gilmour. A patient under the Fluence of my Hypnotic-Forensic Method cannot lie – if the hypnosis penetrates the patient down to the deepest level. But at a more shallow, conscious level, lies are possible. The subject may hold back something of himself or herself. Such a subject will often speak, under the Fluence, of locked doors, of places where they cannot go. A metaphor for the patient’s concealment of the truth.”

  “Well, whatever the finer points of the theory, I get the general idea. Like I said, I have nothing to hide.”

  “Indeed, Mr Gilmour. As you say, the guiding principle of your character is openness. And, you are saying very clearly to me that you are unafraid of opening yourself up to the full power of the Hypnotic-Forensic Method. You are ready to face going back to the night of terror, aboard the Titanic.”

  “After I’ve finished my coffee, then. Let’s do it.”

  The Gilmours’ Parlor Suite on the Olympic is truly palatial. Every Parlor Suite on the ship is decorated in an individual design: this one is decked out in English Regency style, with satinwood table and chairs, paintings in gilded frames, and even bas-relief neoclassical columns in its corners. Every indication that we are at sea has been erased, and the fluted plasterwork of the pillars gives me the odd sensation that we are somehow on a theatre stage set. A Greek tragedy. And, centre stage, we’re greeted by a vision: waves of blonde hair, tresses fashionably down over her shoulders. I see a flowing, cream-colored gown that would befit a Roman goddess; clearsighted brown eyes, like deep pools, and skin like the petals of a white rose.

  “Welcome to our cabins. I’m Gwyneth Gilmour. And I hope you can help my husband.” Almost a trill in her voice, and a trace of old Plantation Virginia in her polished accents. I think: she’s the closest we come to aristocracy in America. Gwyneth Gilmour is a world away from the working roots I sense in Calvin’s every word and gesture. But all the same, he’s not struck me as the sort of man to simply want a woman on his arm as a showpiece: and she is clearly too intelligent to submit to that sort of relationship. As a couple, I can’t quite make them out… But, I guess, opposites attract.

  “I’m Chisholm Strathfarrar, and this is Professor Felix Axelson, and Miss Agnes Frocester. We’re delighted that both you and your husband are –”

  “Open? About Professor Axelson and his methods? Yes indeed, both he and I are very open. Because we want this business cleared.”

  “Mrs Gilmour.” Axelson speaks at last: he’s been thinking during the exchange of introductions. “Hypnosis penetrates the unconscious mind, reveals hidden truths. But some truths sit plain and simple on the surface. Are you able to state, here in front of us all, the nature of your relationship with Percy Spence?”

  She laughs, and I hear the trill again, like a silver bell. “You’re very direct, Professor. Some might call it impertinence, but I like it, so I’ll tell you straight. Percy was a gentleman, and a very charming one. I’m grief-stricken that he’s gone.” She suddenly looks serious – almost fierce. “I’ll tell you three things that will answer your question. Firstly, by birth, I’m an Ogilvie: that means family tradition, standards of conduct and behavior. I love my husband and would never exchange any fondness with another man. Secondly, Calvin knows all that – and he trusts me completely. He knows that he had no cause to be jealous of Percy Spence.”

  I sense the weight of family history behind her: yes, what she is saying rings true. She has too much assurance, too much self-respect, to risk her good name in illicit affairs.

  The professor is about to speak, but Gwyneth carries on. “And thirdly – Percy Spence’s so-called reputation for ladies’ society. It meant solely that – their society. Nothing more. I’ve read nonsense in the gutter press, calling him absurd names – a lecher, a Casanova, a Lothario. Just before he died, an article in The High Life was entitled “Viscount Percival Spence: the twentieth century’s Don Juan?” Horrible slurs against a decent man. He regarded women – and himself – too highly to ever behave like that. As far as I know, he never behaved improperly with any of the women whose names were linked with his by so-called newspapers such as The High Life.”

  I see the anger in her eyes, as the professor speaks again. “Thank you for confirming that, Mrs Gilmour. All that is very useful for us to know. We do not judge people’s personal lives: we seek only to establish the facts.”

  Calvin stands by her side. I sense his impatience. “Are we going to get on with it now?”

  “Yes, of course, Mr Gilmour. Let us proceed to the hypnosis. Could you begin to breathe deeply and evenly, and relax your mind, while Sir Chisholm and I arrange the furniture?”

  10.The last lifeboat

  Professor Axelson may feel that stage hypnosis devalues the seriousness of his science, but right now there is a strong element of the theatrical. We – Gwyneth Gilmour, Chisholm and myself – sit in a semi-circle of chairs, like a private audience. In contrast to our dimly-lit seats, the professor stands under a shaded lamp, his high forehead and large nose catching the edges of the light, but most of his face is silhouetted. He’s speaking in that calm, low voice that he uses as part of his ‘Method’. The individual words he’s saying seem hardly to matter: the sounds and cadences of his speech are repetitive, insistent, like the deep, heavy beat of a tribal drum. My own breathing is now in time with the rhythm of the professor’s utterances, and I feel the same is true for all of us sitting here, as if we are governed by a single pulse.

  Alongside the professor, but seated, is the central figure of the drama: Calvin Gilmour, his heavy brows and strong cheekbones lit in stark relief by the lighting from above. His snowy hair looks like the white cap of a mountain. Despite Gilmour’s seated posture and the relaxing effect of the professor’s words, I sense a restless energy. Gilmour’s foot taps on the floor, but then he stops the movement, deliberately. The muscles of his arms are tense, as if he’s holding himself down in the chair. His eyes, too, rather than looking dimly into the middle distance, dart flashes of blue fire around the room. I don’t see how such a subject – so much the master of himself, and so used to activity of both body and mind – can be made to relax into a trance.

  The professor continues to speak, calmly, evenly, rhythmically.

  The restless eyes still their movement. The eyelids slide gradually down over the pupils, and the huge muscular hands lose their grip on the armchair. I hear deep, regular breathing.

  “Now, Mr Gilmour. You are entering a state of deep, deep rest. Tell me – how do you feel? What can you see?”

  “There’s no light, but I feel fine. This darkness – it’s cozy, secure.”

  “Can you see me?”

  “I can see nothing.”

  “What can you hear?”

  “A beat. A steady, even beat. I feel nothing but warmth. I hear nothing but the beat.”

  Axelson turns to us – and again, that touch of theatre: a hand raised to his mouth, a stage whisper to us. “You see. He is feeling exactly as he did in his mother’s womb, hearing his mother’s heartbeat. My Hypnotic-Forensic Method has put this strong, independent man into a state of total childlike dependence, the deepest level of hypnosis. He is now totally open to my Fluence, my powers of suggestion, which I will use to take him back to his most vivid and painful experiences aboard the Titanic.”

  The professor glances back to Gilmour, checking that the man is breathing deeply, eyes closed. Then he looks back at us again. “You will now see the power of my Fluence. A music-hall mesmerist would use this infantile state in Gilmour’s
mind to suggest actions to him: to make him perform ludicrous deeds in order to entertain an audience. My aims are utterly different. I use this state of extreme vulnerability to discover the truth.” He turns his back on us again, looks into Gilmour’s face, where those craggy features are softened, almost childlike, under the lamplight.

  “Mr Gilmour. Tell me about yourself and Gwyneth.”

  “Gwyneth. She is beautiful. I love Gwyneth. I want Gwyneth – always.”

  “Do you feel relaxed when you are with her?”

  “Yes. I trust her. Gwyneth has her own concerns and her own life, she will go her own way at times, but she will never hurt me, never truly leave me.”

  “Mr Gilmour, you are aboard the Titanic. You are travelling home, after concluding your business in England. On the voyage, have you seen Gwyneth in the company of Viscount Percy Spence?”

  “Yes. The Viscount’s aboard the ship, and I’ve seen them chatting. I don’t know him well, and I have little to say to him. He is so different from me. He’s a dandy, a peacock, one of the English leisured classes. I’ve noticed him on the voyage, flirting with a dozen ladies: he exists only to enjoy himself. Gwyneth finds him – fun. Fun to be with. She enjoys chatting to him. I can see her smiling, laughing. But then she comes back to me. She would never do anything improper.”

  “Are you afraid? Afraid that Percy Spence will take Gwyneth away?”

  “What, him?” Even though Calvin’s transformed face looks young, guileless, there is amused scorn in the laughing noise he makes. “I don’t fear him. A mastiff is not afraid of a lap-dog. But –”

  “But?”

  “I fear for him. Viscount Percy Spence – I can see him clearly now. This time, he is alone, and his face is troubled.”

  “You can see him standing alone? Where are you, Mr Gilmour?”

  “It’s early morning, just before breakfast, and I’m up on the Boat Deck. I didn’t sleep very well last night, so I’ve come up here to get some of the sea air. I can feel the wind in my face, it makes me feel – young again. Smoke blows from the funnels, but the ocean air is fresh. And I see Spence, standing alone, gazing out over the rail. He turns to face me.”

  “Mr Gilmour, as you say, Viscount Spence is leaning on the rail, and facing you. What else can you see, when you look at him?”

  “I see – fear, in his eyes. A haunted look. The look of a man who knows he is doomed.” Suddenly, Gilmour starts speaking – not in his low, even tone but with an urgency, a sudden animation in his voice. It’s as if he has total recall of a situation, and is re-saying the lines exactly as he did