Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

knees, foot down onto the gangway. I breathe again. I’m past him, and only two steps to the doorway. But I don’t feel any better. Even if we all leave the shaft tunnel safely, what is Nolan going to do down here? Sit in the dark alongside six crates of explosives, and await the Olympic’s arrival in Southampton: his arrest, his trial, his execution? Or will he simply blow the ship apart?

  I’m past Nolan, and his attention is focused on the group ahead of him. In the midst of the tension, an odd thought occurs to me. Despite the darkness, Nolan recognizes me, and Chisholm. But he’s not said anything to Gwyneth at all. Which is strange, given the photo that we saw with her holding that hand, the hand wearing that signet ring.

  Nolan continues to look ahead, and I take another step. I’m at the door that leads back into that tiny room. But I don’t go through the door. Instead, I squeeze myself into the dark corner between the doorway and the side of the tunnel, away from the shaft. I’m invisible here, and Nolan seems to have forgotten my existence.

  “Now you. Move along the gangway.” He points at Chisholm.

  Chisholm takes a step forward. His shoulders are slumped, he looks resigned to settling for temporary escape. He’s now one step away from Nolan. He turns to the others behind him.

  “We’re leaving. But we are leaving this man with the power to kill us all, at any time. So when we get out of here, we speak to Captain Haddock. He will give the order to abandon ship.”

  “No.” That’s Buttermere. His smooth voice is the loudest I’ve ever heard him speak: it echoes down the tunnel. “James Nolan. Your suppositions about our party are correct. All of us here are unarmed and defenseless. But even if you kill us, you can’t escape. A sensible man, like you, will listen to me. It is very important that you understand this: I’m not here to arrest you. I’m here to offer you an arrangement.”

  “What sort of arrangement?”

  “For you – freedom. Permanent immunity from prosecution for this incident, and also for all your crimes in New York. I’m sure my opposite numbers in the US Government, the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the NYPD will agree with me. You can have a new identity, if you want one. And we’ll even throw in a thousand pounds to start your new life. Australia, if you want, Mr Nolan.”

  “Promises come easy to you, when you’re looking Death in the face. My guess is that breaking promises also comes easy to a man like you – once you’re safe back on dry land.”

  “Mr Nolan, all I’m asking in return for my offer is some information. That information is far more important to us than any petty nonsense about trying to punish you for your crimes. I’m a practical man, Mr Nolan. You and I will talk. These other people here – they don’t fully understand the situation, and they will not be involved in our discussions. They will leave the shaft tunnel, and you and I can come to a mutual understanding.”

  I’m hiding behind the opened door, looking back into the tunnel, at Nolan’s body silhouetted by the torchlight. Something in his figure strengthens. In the dark shape of his outlined frame I sense satisfaction, even triumph. I don’t understand what’s going on here, but I sense that there’s more at stake here even that the survival of the Olympic.

  But whatever is going on, I can’t understand how Buttermere proposes to parley with a man who holds a stick of dynamite.

  I think about what to do. If I don’t move, and hide here silently behind the door, then, if everyone else does leave the tunnel one by one, and then Nolan goes through the door, I can slam it. Knock him over. The dynamite might slip from his grasp: I or someone else could grab it. It’s the slimmest of chances, but it seems to me better than trusting the whole of the Olympic to the whims of Nolan and a stick of dynamite.

  Chisholm takes one more step along the narrow gangway. The sound of the spinning shaft seems louder than ever. Chisholm’s now standing shoulder to shoulder with Nolan, the two men’s faces are silhouetted by the flashlights behind them. Absurdly, it looks as if they are dancing together. I see a curve in Nolan’s lip, the start of a smile. His voice echoes down the tunnel.

  “Seems like you ladies and gentleman are seeing sense. That man there, the one with the so-smooth voice. Listen to him, he’s the only one of you that talks sense. Now you –” he points a finger in Chisholm’s face “– step past me gently. A sudden move means sudden death, sonny.” I see Nolan’s arms lifted up, again the odd illusion of a dance. The lighter in one hand, the dynamite in the other.

  A gunshot rings out.

  Where did that come from? I think it came from behind me, not from the huddled group of terrified people beyond Chisholm and Nolan. Everyone’s confounded: Buttermere stares, Sullivan screams. Looking out from my hiding place, I see, in the light of the flashlights, the white shape of Gwyneth’s dress; as before, I’m reminded of an angel in the dark. Gwyneth slides, falls into Professor Axelson’s arms. I see a spreading mass of red against the white.

  I hear a strange silence above the purring, whirring noise of the shaft.

  Even now, Chisholm stands firmly. He says nothing, but takes a final step, putting his foot between Nolan’s shoes, just as I did. As if the dance is carrying on.

  The crack of a second shot. And this time I see Nolan’s silhouette again, but it convulses, his arm reaches up as if to clutch his chest. I see Chisholm’s arm reach out for the dynamite.

  The second shot must have wounded Nolan, but his reactions are like lightning. He holds the dynamite aloft: Chisholm reaches for it. Two struggling hands grasp the stick. I see the two figures swaying, twisting. Leaning out over the murderously spinning shaft. I also see Axelson, attempting to step round Gwyneth’s prone body in an effort to help Chisholm.

  I want to step forward, to try to help, but then I think. ‘Stay back, Agnes. If you try to help, we may all hit the shaft.’ The two figures are wrestling, agonized, just inches above the smooth, deadly curve of gleaming, whirling metal. Even as I see the two figures writhing as if in a death struggle, I think: why is there no third shot? And who, who on earth could be shooting?

  Chisholm’s back is arched just inches above the spinning steel. But even now, his hand reaches up once more, grasps the dynamite. Nolan attempts to hold it out of his way, but Chisholm’s reach is longer, and something in the angle of their swaying arms affects whatever wound Nolan has: he gasps in pain as he tries to press Chisholm into the shaft. But Nolan’s grip slips. Chisholm rises away from the shaft. Both men are now standing face to face, wrestling for control of the dynamite. Four hands now grasp the stick: Nolan still holds the lighter, wedged between his fingers, but holding onto the dynamite stick this way, he can’t maneuver it to light the fuse.

  Lord Buttermere’s voice echoes down the tunnel.

  “Chisholm. If you’ve had enough of these antics, then let Mr Nolan go. You’ve not only risked the lives of every one of us: you’ve also acted against my express orders. In fact, every one of us here must now let Mr Nolan go on his way.”

  “Let him go – with the dynamite? Lord Buttermere, this is madness.” Axelson speaks the feeling we all have: that Nolan cannot be allowed to escape aboard the ship. “And – we need a doctor. For Mrs Gilmour.”

  “You all forget something.” Lord Buttermere’s voice remains level and controlled. “In here, that stick of dynamite can kill two thousand people. In the rest of the ship, it can’t cause as much harm.”

  “Your smooth talker has been right about a few things. But I wouldn’t be so sure about his latest claim.” I can hear the sneer in the echo of Nolan’s voice. Chisholm has released him; again Nolan holds the dynamite in one hand, the lighter in the other, and he steps towards me, towards the door leading out of the tunnel. Despite the darkness, he sees me. I guess my white face looks like a ghost in this gloom. He casts a brief smirk at me as he passes me.

  Two seconds later, he’s disappeared through the door.

  30.In Hades

  The moment Nolan is gone, I see the professor attempting to lift Gwyneth’s supine figure. He speaks to
the man who is cowering against the wall, his face in his hands. “Mr Sullivan. Can you make yourself useful and help me?”

  “Is she dead?”

  “No. The bullet has just grazed her side, I think. But the loss of blood – we need to get her out of here, safely, as quickly as we can.” Axelson glances towards the still-spinning shaft. “I suggest, Lord Buttermere, that you and Chisholm lead the search for Nolan, while Mr Sullivan and I try to carry Mrs Gilmour out of here. Miss Agnes, can you alert the wireless and the ship’s doctor?”

  Lord Buttermere’s voice is clear and decisive. “The two shots that were fired. They came from the doorway. So, whoever was trying to kill us – or rather, kill one or more among us – may still be out there. We must proceed with great caution. Also, Sir Chisholm, following your insubordinate actions, you are relieved of any further duties in this operation. I cannot rely on you.”

  “You need my help, Buttermere. Do what you like afterwards, but right now, you need me. Now – we’re wasting time. Where would Nolan have gone?”

  I can hear the Professor speaking up again as he struggles with Gwyneth’s body. “Did you hear the last thing Nolan said? That he thinks he can still sink the Olympic? There is one place where he might believe that he can still destroy this whole ship using only a single