Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

resume my work. It is only my physical health that keeps me a prisoner here. So, I spend my time trying to recover my strength and vitality. Total rest was advised by my doctors, and the curative effect of the calcium chloride salts in the Glen Springs waters.”

  Dr Axelson smiles sympathetically. “You work, I understand, as a confidential legal secretary?”

  “Yes. I am employed by a number of attorneys in New York. I work as a scrivener, copying legal documents, and also as the taker of minutes and detailed technical notes of legal and business meetings. I’m not a lawyer myself, but I have secured a reputation for exact accuracy of work. That, together with my own personal probity of character, is an absolute necessity in my line of employment.”

  I do wonder at how such work – which I guess would be respectably but not lavishly paid – can cover the cost of an extended residence at this most expensive of health resorts. I look at perfect line of his collar, the almost chrome-like gleam on his narrow shoes, and under the quilt I glimpse the somber but beautiful weave of a superbly tailored woolen suit. This man, I think, has money. Work gives his life a purpose, but it is not a living necessity to him. I wonder if the professor is thinking the same thing.

  “You and I have already spoken, Mr Freshing, about my Hypnotic-Forensic Method. And, of the need to go back to the night the Titanic sank. The night that Viscount Percy Spence died in Lifeboat 14.”

  “Indeed, Professor. My professional work – it is all about accurate, faithful recording. The whole truth and nothing but the truth, as they say in the courtroom. So, I do hope that under the hypnosis I will be able to give you a good account. For, to speak plainly, I am troubled by blank patches in my memory of that night. I would like to have a more perfect recall.”

  Despite the chill air, sounds of spring birdsong waft to us from the nearby trees. In the distance, far below us through the pines, I see patches of steely blue: Seneca Lake. I hear the professor’s intonations, low but insistent. As with Kitty, and Calvin Gilmour, I also begin to hear Mr Freshing’s breathing: deep and regular.

  “Mr Freshing, you are tired. Exhausted in body and mind. But as we sit here, you need think about nothing, except what you see before your eyes right now: this balcony, this view of the trees and the lake. Look at the sunlight falling on the lawns, the green of the grass: hear the birds, and the breeze in the pines. Every muscle you have is exhausted, in need of deep, deep rest. Let the breeze take that exhaustion, blow it gently, through the pines, blow it across the waters of the lake, take it far, far away.”

  Freshing’s eyes are closed.

  “This time, your rest will be so deep that it will bring true relief, true recovery. So relax into this state of profound rest. Your breathing is slowing, the tense muscles in your neck and your chest are relaxing. Like a breeze in springtime, a gentle slow peace blows over you. You feel it like a calming balm. Peace, peace.”

  The professor’s words continue, accompanied by the sound of slow, relaxed breathing. “You feel this peace throughout your body. Feel that relaxation, like a bliss throughout your body. Only your head, now, Mr Freshing, is not fully immersed in a deep, cool quietude. Only your head can still think. Your head is not yet relaxed: it feels stuffed full of the ideas, the thoughts, the worries, that dwell inside your mind.

  Now, one by one, let go of every single thought that you have. Take each thought and let it drift up, away from your brain, like a balloon floating away from you. One by one, the balloons glide up into the air, and your head is emptier and emptier. And now, you are holding only the string of the very last balloon, the balloon of your last thought. Your grasp on the string gets weaker and weaker, the balloon sways in the breeze. And now – it is gone.”

  All tension has left Freshing’s face. I’m surprised to see a healthy coloring returning to his cheeks. Almost as if the man is regaining something of his former health and strength, before our eyes.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Douglas Freshing, legal secretary and scrivener.”

  “Can you feel the gentle breeze of springtime?”

  “Yes.”

  “It wafts into your nostrils, bringing new smells, new feelings. An ocean breeze blows in your face. You feel an undertow of waves, a gently moving deck below your feet. The movement, and the smell of the salt sea, make you feel enlivened, invigorated. You feel wide awake and totally alive, Mr Freshing. But tell me: where are you?”

  “I am on the deck of a ship, in the middle of the Atlantic. I am on board the RMS Titanic.”

  “Why are you travelling aboard this ship?”

  “We are returning to New York from England. I have been undertaking a confidential piece of work in London. No-one must know.”

  “Who is this work for?”

  “Mr Sorensen. Of Sorensen & Baker, attorneys, New York.” Despite his mention of confidentiality, in this trance-like state he talks freely. He carries on. “I accompanied Mr Sorensen in order to record his meetings with Strutt, Jacobs & Pettifer. An English law firm. We had a series of meetings with them at their offices in London. Now we are returning home.”

  “Sorensen & Baker, I understand, act as attorneys and legal advisers to Gilmour Holdings?”

  For a moment, I see a slight sense of alarm in Freshing’s eyes: his pupils dilate, as if his secrecy is being violated. But then the calm, blank look returns. Axelson’s questions continue.

  “Have you met Mr Gilmour?”

  “Yes. Only once, on this voyage on the Titanic. On the first evening, Mr Gilmour invited Mr Sorensen and myself to join his table in the first-class dining saloon. He wanted to thank us for the good work that Sorensen & Baker did in London for Gilmour Holdings.”

  “So, when Mr Sorensen met the English law firm, Mr Sorensen was acting as attorney for Gilmour Holdings?...”

  “Yes. That was the reason for our voyage to England. Mr Gilmour employs Sorensen & Baker to draft Gilmour Holdings’ business contracts.”

  “And what was your role?”

  “I was employed by Mr Sorensen. My job was to make notes about the contracts at the lawyers’ meetings, and, once the lawyers had reached agreement, I copied identical versions of the final contract for the parties’ signatures.”

  “Was Mr Gilmour at these meetings?”

  “No. I didn’t meet Mr Gilmour in London at all. I only met him that one time, aboard the Titanic. Mr Gilmour did not attend the meetings with the London lawyers, because he had other matters that he was busy with. Mr Sorensen was at all the meetings, and acted as his representative. Mr Gilmour put his entire trust in Mr Sorensen – and in myself, of course.”

  “So, after the contracts had been drafted by the lawyers, how were they signed by the actual parties to the agreement?”

  “The final versions of the contracts were sent by courier to Claridge’s Hotel, where Mr Gilmour was staying, for him to sign.”

  All this time, Chisholm has been scribbling something on a piece of paper. Now he hands it to the professor. I catch a glimpse of Chisholm’s writing in the professor’s hands. It says ‘Strutt, Jacobs & Pettifer of London – law firm – their principal clients are the British Army.’

  “Mr Freshing. Do you know Viscount Percy Spence?”

  “I know the name. I hear it spoken in the darkness.”

  “You’re in the darkness, Mr Freshing? Is there anything at all you can see?”

  “I’m in a lifeboat. It’s being prepared for launching, from the Titanic. I can’t see – and I can’t move. A press of human bodies. We’re all crowded together, I feel the lifeboat swaying on its ropes. I feel sick. Oh my God, so sick, so sick. One woman is screaming, I can’t stand the noise. I almost wish that she would fall out of the boat, down there into the icy water far below us. Men’s voices are calling commands. A child is crying ‘Mama, Mama’. Please, someone make it stop. My nerves have gone: all I can feel is fear. We’re going to die, aren’t we? We’re going to die.”

  “Tell me, who is crowded around you in the darknes
s?”

  “Others – other passengers. Women, hysterical voices and faces. There’s no room for more people in this boat. But I’m hearing a voice, shrill but strong. A woman’s voice. She’s struggling desperately, trying to haul a man’s body into our midst.”

  His eyes remain closed, but I can see the movement of the pupils twitching and circling beneath the lids. His eyebrows and lips are trembling.

  “Hands reach out and help her, and she pulls the body into the boat. The body… it’s on the floor of the boat. We all look down at it. The body is writhing like a worm, it’s making noises, gasping and rattling in its throat. It’s not dead. Dear Christ, dear Christ!”

  A rasping sound is growing in Freshing’s breathing. I can see beads of sweat on his forehead, his cheeks. The pallor has returned beneath his skin: a deathly greenish-white. For a moment I think: he’s going to vomit.

  “A man’s voice shouts. Loud, like a foghorn. He’s shouting commands at everyone. Does he need to shout so loud? My ears are in pain with the noise, and this horrible dead-alive body is moving on the floor of the boat. We’re in the torments of Hell. Our lifeboat is lowering now, the ropes are extending, we’re going down towards the water, sliding down the side of the Titanic, deck after deck. Too fast, too fast! We hit the water, hard. It’s the end, this is the end. This is oblivion. I close my eyes.

  But then… moments pass. My eyes are closed tight shut,