Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

first time on this voyage, I was certain that I was unobserved. So it occurred to me that I could approach you, ask you to be my go-between. A role I knew you’d be fitted perfectly for. As long as you’re happy with it?...”

  “Yes, I am. I don’t understand this mystery that I’ve gotten into – but although I get scared at times, I don’t regret it. I’m glad you sought me out, Inspector.” I smile at him. “I’m glad, too, of this brandy. Thank you. My nerves are steadying now.”

  The group of Irishmen have left, and the bar is nearly deserted again. Inspector Trench goes over to the bar, orders a second brandy. He pours it into a small metal flask. “Keep this flask, Agnes. You might need it.”

  “Thank you.” I have no idea what to do with it: I put into the breast-pocket of my travelling-jacket. As I do, a shadow falls across our little table.

  I look up.

  “Inspector. Nice to see that you have company, although the Third-Class Smoking-Room is an odd place to bring a young lady.”

  It’s an educated, faultless English accent. The man is slight and thin, below middle-height, yet he seems to loom over us. His eyes are sharp and shrewd, his figure delicate, almost feminine, in his elegant suit. His graying hair is exquisitely groomed.

  “Lord Buttermere. I’m sorry, I should introduce Miss Agnes Frocester. She is accompanying Sir Chisholm Strathfarrar and Professor Axelson on their voyage to New York.”

  “A charming companion for two travelling men. Delighted to meet you, Miss Frocester; if I can offer you any service?...” His manner is smooth and assured. But instantly, he turns to the Inspector, and speaks more briskly. “A word, in private.”

  “Of course. However, Miss Frocester does need someone to accompany her back to the first-class sections of the ship…”

  “Very well. Instead, then, I’ll speak to you first, Miss Frocester. Because I have sometime to tell you, too.”

  His words take me totally by surprise. What on earth could this man, a stranger to me, want to say to me? Lord Buttermere looks into my eyes, holding me in his even, measured gaze. I have absolutely no idea what he’s thinking. His voice continues: a voice like silk.

  “You see, Miss Frocester, the Inspector has already spoken to me about you. I can’t do anything to prevent you working with Sir Chisholm and the Swedish professor in a private investigation.”

  I try to answer. “Yes. That’s what we are doing. A private investigation.” I blink: it’s hard to look into this man’s eyes.

  “Miss Frocester, there are certain things which the three of you may discover – may already have discovered.” His smile is like the Cheshire Cat: I don’t know lies behind it. His eyes track smoothly across to the Inspector, then back to me. “It will be better for all concerned if you and your companions disregard those findings. They are unrelated to the death of Percy Spence, which was undoubtedly caused by some unfortunate connection in his personal life.”

  “You are very cryptic, Lord Buttermere.”

  “And you, Miss Frocester, are good at puzzles. So if I am cryptic, I’m confident that you can decipher my message.” The sly smile again, as if he is sharing a confidence with an old friend. “You see, Agnes – if I may call you that? – Inspector Trench here, he is a policemen. Over his long professional career, one of the tactics he has developed is to share confidential – but useless – information with people. Such people then feel that the Inspector trusts them. And so, they trust him in return. And so they become unguarded and open with him. After a while, they find that they are telling him things that they shouldn’t. It’s a sound police method – but not ideal for all circumstances.”

  “The Inspector has told me nothing…”

  “Of course. He has told you nothing at all. By the way, Miss Frocester, I hope you will have time to visit your family and friends in Putnam while you are in the United States. I hope Frocester’s Drugstore is still flourishing, and that your parents are well. Do they still buy all their groceries at Mundy’s store? And of course I know about your brother Abe’s hopes of entering the United States Army and becoming an officer. West Point would suit him. If he gets the opportunity, that is.”

  The gaze is unblinking. The voice carries on.

  “I hope also that you bear your family and your brother’s intended career in mind when you speak to Sir Chisholm and Professor Axelson. It is imperative that no-one – including people that you trust – become aware that I am aboard this ship. The consequences if anyone finds out that I am here could be – unforeseen.”

  He says these words with deadly emphasis, but the smile continues. He knows everything about me, and yet I know nothing about him. Right now, he’s judging my reactions and gauging whether I’ll do as I’m told. And he seems to have reached his conclusions.

  “I’ll leave you now, Agnes. Inspector – you and I can have that chat later. I have business to attend to now. You are free to stay here – and, you can help Miss Frocester find her way back to more congenial surroundings. I’m sure she doesn’t feel quite at home here.”

  He’s gone. Despite the man’s small stature, the smoking room now feels bigger, and the air seems clearer, if I’ve been holding my breath until now. Inspector Trench looks at me, his face more than usually weary. I read a signal in his eyes which says: neither of us will speak of what’s just happened.

  “Well, time to go, I think. But before we go – I just wanted to reaffirm what we were saying earlier. I do understand you, Miss Frocester. You’re a bright young woman, but you have a heart too. Your main interest in this case – in suspending your employment and taking this journey – it is not the thrill of intrigue, or the avenging of Percy Spence, or achieving justice.”

  “No. You’re right.”

  “It’s Kitty Murray, isn’t it, Agnes? You want to find her – or find out what happened to her.”

  “You’ve read me like a book. Yes – I’m really disappointed you’ve not been able to make any progress on Kitty’s abduction. It’s too horrible, the thought of what has happened to her. That open window in the moonlight – the moment I stood there, realizing she’d gone. And then – to discover that she’d not gone willingly – that some man, or men, had taken her away by force. The terror she must have felt. Most of us are unlucky if we have to go through such feelings once in our lives, but she had endured the Titanic.”

  “As you did.”

  “Yes, and it haunts me still. I realized today, when I saw those icebergs, that it will haunt me for the rest of my life. You’re the first person I’ve told that to.”

  His eyes are sympathetic, fatherly. Although I know it’s time to go, I carry on talking. “But Kitty – I daren’t think about what she has suffered. I want to find her – to rescue her. That’s what I really care about, that’s why I agreed to come on this trip, to the annoyance of Lady Lockesley. And, to face my fears by crossing this ocean again.”

  As I look into his face, I think of the cases he’s investigated, his long experience that seems to show in the lines of his skin. I ask the question.

  “Do you think Kitty is still alive?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Frocester. I have, literally, no clue at all.”

  13.Among the slaughterhouses

  Hundreds of people are on the deck of the Olympic. For a moment, I feel like I’m back in the darkness: I hear shouts of fear, I sense panic – but I push those thoughts aside. Because I’m standing in the early morning sunshine, and all these people are cheering. We’re looking at the Statue of Liberty.

  “Back to your homeland once more, Miss Agnes.” Another hour has now passed: we’ve breakfasted, and are now ready to disembark. We’re at Chelsea Piers, and Professor Axelson and I stand side-by-side at the rail of the Boat Deck, looking down as the gangways are lowered. I remember our arrival here one year ago: disembarking from the Carpathia, after our rescue following the wreck of the Titanic. As we left the ship, press reporters and photographers crowded round us, a shouting frenzy of voices and bodies. Chisholm’s stro
ng arms shielded Blanche and me from the flashes of the cameras and the jabber of questions. I shut the memory out, and bring my thoughts back to the present moment.

  “I understand you are to leave Chisholm and me, Professor?”

  “I am travelling immediately on to Glen Springs Sanitarium in upstate New York, to see Mr Freshing, our eye-witness to the moment of Spence’s death. I have allowed myself three days to speak to him, because of his poor health. His nerves are still not good, and it may take some time and conversation before I gain his trust enough for him to undergo the hypnosis. But in four days’ time I will rejoin you here.”

  Chisholm and I are staying at the Hotel Metropole on West 43rd Street. Times Square – the busiest place in the world, they say – is just around the corner. By eleven a.m., I’m in my hotel room: a quiet haven after the hustle and hubbub of Manhattan outside. But after only an hour’s quiet rest, I hear a knock on the door.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you.” Chisholm is at my door, holding a suitcase. “In here, you’ll find clothes.”

  “What sort of clothes?”

  “Clothes – for you to wear. Because, you see, we’re going to do some investigating of our own. I have an idea – which the professor pooh-poohs – but let’s see, shall we?”

  Chisholm leaves me, and as he shuts my door, I open the suitcase. Inside is a rough