Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

close it behind me. I descend the stairs, the cast-iron treads ringing under my feet.

  I’ve come down one flight of stairs when I realize: this wasn’t the door, the stairs, that I used a few minutes ago to go out to the deck. I’ve come back inside the ship through the wrong door. But of course, this staircase and the correct one must connect below decks. I can get back to the First-Class Dining Saloon without going outside again, without having to look again at those white shapes along the horizon. I descend the second flight of steps, but there is no corridor, no door. Just more stairs, going down and down. This part of the ship seems utterly deserted. I think: of course, the different sections of the ship are separated by solid bulkheads. I’m in a different section: I’ll have to go back up. At least my dizziness has gone. I turn around and start up the stairs again, steeling my resolve. Yes, I will go out on deck: I will walk steadily, and I’ll look straight ahead, keeping my eyes away from those deathly phantoms covering the sea.

  I notice a shadow on the stair treads. It’s cast down from the flight of steps above. I look up, and I realize that the figure of a man is standing on the stairs above me.

  Maybe it’s the icebergs, the cold shock of remembrance. Maybe it’s a more recent memory: the maze at Sweynsey Hall. But unlike in the maze, I don’t hesitate, and I don’t think. My limbs are moving before I’m even aware of it: I race pell-mell down flight after flight of stairs, away from the silent, dark form on the staircase. I’m choking for breath as my feet ring on endless metal treads, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the ship. My mind has only one thought: to get away from that shadow. And despite the clatter of my descent, I’m listening, and I can hear it clear and plain: the sound of heavy feet running, following me down the stairs.

  Suddenly I see a corridor ahead of me. Thank God, I breathe to myself. I stagger breathlessly along. The corridor is dimly lit, a narrow passageway lined with steel doors on both sides. The footsteps are coming behind me: I hear them reach the bottom of the steps. Desperately I try each door in turn. Locked, locked, locked. I’m at the end of the corridor, in an open square space with more doors around me. In front of me is an unusually heavy steel door, with a massive brass lever as its handle. I try it, and manage with effort to push the lever downwards. Relief floods my body as the door opens. I step through it and pull it shut behind me: a heavy, leaden slam. I’m in utter darkness.

  Instantly, my skin feels chill. Why is it so cold down here? I guess my adrenalin and exertion has stopped me noticing the cold, until now. I’m panting with relief at my temporary escape from the unseen stranger, my heart is thumping like a drum. It’s a few moments before I start to wonder: where am I? I extend my arms in the blackness, hands stretched out ready to feel my way. But immediately, I touch something on my right. It’s just a few inches beyond my shoulder. My fingertips shrivel and recoil with the shock of freezing cold. I’ve touched a smooth, icy surface, and although it was only for a second, I felt the unmistakable curved shape of a body. There’s cold, dead flesh, right next to me.

  What is this horror, in the blackness next to me? For a moment I stand still, unable to move, as if frozen myself. Then, fearfully, I reach out again. This time I’m prepared for the cold. I run my fingertips up and down the frozen surface. It has exactly the touch, the texture of naked skin, but turned to ice. Yes, it’s a body. Your first touch told you the truth, Agnes: you’re standing next to a frozen corpse.

  For a moment I’m so terrified that my head jerks back involuntarily: I feel vomit rising in my throat. I try to calm myself: my discovery is grisly but not actually dangerous to me. The ship must have a mortuary, and I’m in it. I guess passengers sometimes die: it happens. But I don’t want to stay in here, even for a moment: I turn back towards the door – but only then do I remember the man who waits for me, the other side of it. It’s horrible, but I will have to wait here in the dark. Wait and listen, until I’m sure it is quiet outside the door, until I’m confident that the stranger is gone.

  Then another thought occurs to me. If this is a mortuary, maybe the door can only be opened from the outside? The thought of being locked in here… I can’t help saying it to myself: ‘I’ll freeze to death’.

  My mind runs through possibilities and likelihoods. Beyond the door, it’s silent: I wish I could try the door right now, but I don’t dare in case the man is still there, quietly waiting for me. I decide that I will wait ten minutes. Then something else occurs to me. I feel up and down the cold metal edges that surround the door. Yes, I was right. My fingers touch an electrical switch.

  Moments later, an Edison electric light-bulb illuminates my surroundings. To my right are, indeed, corpses: half a pig hangs on a meathook next to my shoulder, and the grinning snouts of other pigs appear beyond it.

  Through the door, I hear a familiar voice calling to me.

  12.The Third-Class Smoking Room

  “Miss Frocester!” Behind the heavy door, the voice is muffled – but I recognize it well. I’m laughing at myself as I grip the handle, which can indeed, I see, be operated from this side. Not only have I mistaken a dead pig for a dead man. I’ve also mistaken a friend for an enemy. As the door swings open, I see a face that I’ve seen only once before – and yet, I’m familiar with every crease and wrinkle.

  “Inspector Trench.”

  “Indeed. Miss Frocester, I’m very pleased to meet you again.” Despite the cold, I can tell that my face is flushed red with embarrassment.

  “I’d be interested to know, Miss Frocester, what made you decide to urgently investigate the ship’s refrigeration unit? The cold store is very impressive – a technical marvel: they preserve food and provisions for thousands of people, enough to give us fresh meat, fruit, vegetables and dairy produce all the way across the Atlantic. But if you’re looking for something to eat, I’ve found that it’s easier to use the dining room.” He smiles, and I do too.

  I step out of the cold store. “I – I – was afraid.”

  “Clearly. You must have been terrified, to try to hide in there.” He pushes the door back into place behind me, lifts the brass lever. We go along the corridor with its locked doors: food stores, I now realize. Inspector Trench leads the way towards the staircase. “Let’s get you back up to civilization, as it were. We need to climb back up out of this place. Did you realize that you’ve descended five decks?”

  “I just ran down the stairs without thinking. Sorry – I’m not feeling quite myself.”

  “Take my arm. I’ll get you back to the first-class areas of the ship. You look deathly pale. Perhaps it’s the cold in the refrigeration unit – but perhaps not. More likely, you’ve just had a serious shock.”

  “Like I’ve seen a ghost?” I try a smile, remembering suddenly the words of Mrs Thwaite in the mists at Sweynsey.

  “Something’s frightened you, badly. It wasn’t me, was it?”

  “It was you, actually. Well, not you. I got scared looking out at the sea, when I saw the icebergs and I remembered – bad things. For a moment I literally felt I was aboard the Titanic again, although I know that’s not rational. I felt dizzy, I went through a door and down the stairs to get away from the open deck. Then I saw you on the steps above me. What I mean is: I saw a male figure, and I panicked.”

  “Why?” He looks into my eyes. “No – don’t answer that question, yet. Let’s get back up those stairs.”

  I’m young and fit, but I feel breathless, and I find it hard work climbing back up the stairs. At the top, the door leads out onto the deck. Inspector Trench is about to hold it open for me, but then he looks at my pale face, hesitates, and speaks. “Miss Frocester. You’ve had a shock. Maybe sitting down for a few minutes would help? Or, a brandy might steady your nerves?”

  I realize: yes, I really need to sit down. “You’re right, Inspector. It’s ridiculous, but my little adventures this morning have left me feeling faint.”

  “Come in here.” The inspector holds a different door open, labeled “Third-Class Smoking Room.
” Inside, a long teak-wood bar runs the length of the far wall of a cavernous, white-walled space. Behind the bar are shelves holding sets of glasses, bottled beers and a few larger bottles: spirits, I guess. The furniture is plain and basic: slatted wooden benches and tables. The only occupants of the room are a couple of shabbily-dressed men who lean against the bar, smoking cigarettes, and the bar steward, who sees us and steps over towards us.

  “Excuse me, sir, madam – but it’s Gentlemen Only in here, I’m afraid. Ladies aren’t allowed in the Smoking Room. You could go into the General Room next door…”

  Inspector Trench looks at the bartender. “The lady is a first-class passenger who came out on the poop deck for a stroll. She feels faint, I’m afraid, and a brandy would greatly help.”

  “Of course. No problem at all, sir. But –”

  “Don’t worry. If the senior steward sees us, I’ll explain the situation fully to him. And I’ll tell him how helpful you’ve been. So – a brandy for the lady, please. Nothing else.” We sit at a table, watched with curiosity by the two men who loiter by the bar. The men continue to watch us as the bartender puts a scratched glass of brown liquid on the table in front of me. Then the men seem to lose interest in us, and resume their