by Evelyn Weiss
conversation. Over the smell of cigarette smoke, I notice another odor, one that seems out of place at sea. The room is newly painted, and colorful White Star Line posters adorn the walls, but in my nostrils is a musty smell, the smell of neglect.
“This bar is little used, Miss Frocester. A quiet place to sit. The higher circles of society like to portray the poorer classes as drunken wastrels. But on the transatlantic liners, nothing could be further from the truth. Hardly any of the third-class passengers waste their very limited money on alcohol. Every one of them is saving every penny, keeping it for their new life in the New World. In the evening, some of the men come in here to play cards and smoke the odd cigarette, but in the daytime it’s very quiet here. So we won’t be disturbed.”
“Would we be better off in the General Room that the bartender mentioned?”
The Inspector gestures to the wall behind us. I hear the hum of many voices, punctuated by shouts and shrill shrieks. “Unlike the Smoking Room, the third-class General Room is a busy spot, Miss Frocester. Mostly families: effectively, it is the nursery of the ship. It’s probably the busiest and noisiest spot on the Olympic, bar the engine rooms. So I think you’re better off here. Besides, that brandy wouldn’t be allowed in there. Now, if you’d like to, you can tell me – about your fright. About your alarm at seeing a strange man on the stairs.”
“It’s – silly, really. I first felt afraid like this at Sweynsey Hall, Cambridgeshire. Since our visit there, I’ve had dreams: bad dreams. Then, when I first boarded the Olympic, it was like the dream had come back: I saw what I thought was the shadow of a man, outside my cabin door. But when we looked, there was no-one there. And now... I must admit, I went into a panic, for no real reason. But all the same, I want you to know, Inspector. I’m not some hysterical girl. I’m level-headed and sensible. Sudden panics are not usually in my character.”
“I agree with your description of yourself. That’s one of my reasons for wanting to speak to you. Because you are the sort of person who is invaluable in a case like this: someone that I can rely on to tell me facts, not fancies. Perhaps you could update me on the progress of Professor Axelson’s investigation? Have you found out much, since you and I last met?”
“Before I answer that, I have a question for you, Inspector. Have you made any progress towards finding Kitty?”
“No developments to speak of, unfortunately, Miss Frocester. Which is why, once more, I need your assistance. So – what about you, and the professor’s investigations?”
I look at him, and tell him everything that’s happened. Another narrative like the one I gave him back at Grafton Square – but this time, he doesn’t use his notebook. He simply lets me carry on talking until I run out of words. Then he smiles that slow smile again, and looks into my eyes.
“Sweynsey Hall. The ancestral home of the Spence family. Where, I understand, a burglary had taken place two weeks before.”
“That’s right. You know about that?”
“I know that nothing was stolen, which seems unusual, doesn’t it? A ruffian breaks into a house full of treasures, and simply climbs back out of the study window again?”
“But why should that burglary concern you? Does Scotland Yard know about every burglary in England?”
“Of course not. I will be completely honest with you, Miss Frocester.” He glances round. The bartender is chatting to the two smokers, and apart from them, we’re alone. “You see, there may be a difference between the public position of the British police and what we in fact do.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s go over the basic facts again, and perhaps things will become a little clearer. Viscount Percy Spence’s body is recovered from the sea and taken to Halifax, Nova Scotia. The Canadian police are contacted by a local medic, Dr Finch, who has taken on the grim work of examining the bodies recovered from the ocean. Dr Finch shows the police a telegram he has received from New York, from Harold Lowe, Fifth Officer of the Titanic. Officer Lowe was in charge of one of the Titanic’s lifeboats, and his telegram states that a servant girl dragged the Viscount into the boat. Spence then died on the floor of the lifeboat, in a way that appeared unnatural. The police in Halifax then speak further to Dr Finch, who confirms that the Viscount’s body contains strychnine. The witness account from Harold Lowe and Dr Finch’s medical report corroborate each other: it seems beyond doubt that the Viscount was poisoned. Suicide, or murder.”
“Surely it’s the latter.”
“Of course it is. The Canadian police know that this case does not relate to Canada at all. The parties to this murder – their involvement must trace to either Britain, or the United States.”
“Well, I guess you may have concluded all that from what you heard when you came to Grafton Square, after Kitty was kidnapped.”
“No. I knew it long before. And that is why, when we heard the news of Kitty’s kidnap, it was me that Scotland Yard sent to Sir Chisholm’s home. I think I should tell you, in the strictest confidence, that despite our apparent lack of interest in Spence’s death, the British police have this case as our top priority – but, in secret. Publically, our position is that the investigation is too difficult to conduct, and a waste of our very limited resources.”
“So are you working with Professor Axelson?”
“No. You see, I am not allowed to.”
“Why not? His methods are new, untried maybe, but....”
“Miss Frocester.” That wintry smile again, like a father to his daughter. “You are young but, I suspect, not entirely unaware of the political factors that can sometimes hinder police work. There is something about Professor Axelson which neither he not I can change, but which prevents me from joining forces with him. It is a great pity, but it is unavoidable.”
“What? Do you suspect him? Apart from the fact he wasn’t even on the Titanic, he’s also the most unlikely person in the whole world to commit a murder.” I’m suddenly alarmed, and loyally defensive of the self-important but sincere Scandinavian academic who I’ve grown to respect and even like.
“Oh no, of course not. He’s not a suspect, by any means. There is a different reason why I can’t work with him.”
The penny drops.
“Because he’s – Swedish?”
“He’s not British, and that is a key factor. As you will know, the British public are in a state of hysteria about German secret agents. Any person with a North European accent is treated with suspicion, as if every one of them spends all their time snooping around British military bases and writing letters of information to the Kaiser.”
“But that’s popular, stupid prejudice. There are the most outrageous stories of foreigners and espionage in the newspapers – but surely Scotland Yard doesn’t think like that. The police must see that the professor is the last person to…”
“Unfortunately, suspicions about spies are not just baseless rumors. There is a climate of extreme suspicion among the higher ranks of the police. Even among my own superiors. The concern about German agents is genuine. The only difference between the police and the public is that we understand that the Kaiser’s agents probably do not go around calling themselves Herr Schmidt and wearing braces and Tyrolean hats. In reality, a German spy is more likely to speak to you with a faultless English accent, and tell you that he was born in London.”
“So – this case may involve German secret agents?”
The inspector doesn’t answer that, but looks at me steadily, his eyes tired but bright.
“So, Miss Frocester, perhaps now you understand why I suggested we discuss the matter here in the third-class smoking-room, where we are unlikely to be overheard. Let’s just say that I would not be surprised to find that there are foreign agents aboard this ship.”
“Let me get this straight, Inspector. You are telling me that the Spence case could be about – ?”
“Yes, Miss Frocester. The murder of Percy Spence is tangled up with espionage. And in the last few years, espionage has ch
anged. It’s no longer the gentleman’s spying game that we played in the nineteenth century. It’s a murderous secret war between Britain and Germany. And so, sadly, I can’t work with the professor, because he is a foreign national.”
“So am I.”
“Let’s say that there are certain matters that Britain and the United States are working on very closely together. Basically, me and my colleagues suspect everyone at the moment, except Americans.” There’s a twinkle in his eye. “Besides, the chances of you being a spy are astronomical. As far as I know, the Kaiser has few friends in Connecticut.”
I smile at his little joke, but he carries on. “Whereas Axelson – he began his studies is Uppsala, but he has spent half his life at the leading German university cities: Heidelberg, Tübingen, Berlin, Leipzig. He’s worked closely on a number of cases – civilian cases, admittedly – with the German police force. And of course his professorship in Forensics, you know, was –”
“Conferred at Dresden. He’s told me about it many times, Inspector.” I grin at him. “To be honest, Inspector, I think that our dear Professor is a bit too boastful to be an effective spy.”
The Inspector’s chuckles. “I have to agree there. But seriously, you see my problem. If I confided in Axelson – and then things went wrong…”
“You’d be blamed.”
“Exactly. Now you