Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

stick of dynamite.”

  “The engine-room?”

  “No. He could indeed cause terrible damage there – or if he threw the stick into the boiler furnaces. But while causing immense destruction, the explosion would not be enough to sink the ship. No, I would guess that he is thinking of the coal bunkers. You have heard, perhaps, of ships’ coal-bunker explosions. One was reported in the newspapers very recently. They are similar to some mine explosions. Even a spark has been known to trigger an explosion of the coal dust particles. It is like a chain reaction: it has torn ships apart. But…”

  “OK. That’s enough to know about.” Lord Buttermere and Chisholm are already with me, at the door leading out of the tunnel: we go on through.

  “Gentlemen! I need to tell you more!”

  “Axelson, tell us later. We’re heading for the coal bunkers.”

  From the tiny room beyond the shaft, Chisholm and Buttermere open another door: they are heading along the very bottom of the ship towards the engine rooms, the boilers, the bunkers. I turn to run up the stairs. And, like the last time I ran on the stairs in this ship, I bump straight into a thin, gray-clad figure. Inspector Trench. Behind him stand the two NYPD officers.

  “That way. Nolan went that way...” I pant, trying to give the inspector the information he needs. “One stick of dynamite… coal bunkers. Gwyneth Gilmour – shot. By someone, we have no idea who. Was it you shooting, trying to kill Nolan?”

  The two officers shake their heads. “Lord Buttermere’s orders, madam. We’re not carrying firearms.” Inspector Trench, meanwhile, takes my arm.

  “As they are denied their firearms, I think the best use of my officers McMorrow and Bass is to get Mrs Gilmour up to safety, and to work with the wireless operator and Captain Haddock to co-ordinate. That gentleman there – he too can help my officers move Mrs Gilmour.” He points towards Sullivan, whose fat bottom is slowly coming into view through the door from the shaft tunnel. A moment later I can now see the rest of Mr Sullivan: in his grasp are Gwyneth’s feet, but he’s stumbling and slipping. He’s genuinely trying to help, but he’s at the end of his tether. I look at Inspector Trench.

  “If the police officers can carry Mrs Gilmour – then, I’m coming with you, Inspector. We’ve got to find Nolan. By the way, I must let you know: Nolan is wounded too.” We leave the men with Gwyneth’s body, and we hurry, by the light of the inspector’s flashlight, through dark, twisted corridors that run along the very bottom of the ship.

  “So you’ve no idea who fired the shots?”

  “None at all, Inspector. It’s the oddest thing in all this odd business. But look!”

  The inspector’s gaze follows my pointing hand. There’s blood on the riveted iron plates of the floor: a trail, leading us to Nolan. I speak my thoughts. “I hope Chisholm and Lord Buttermere saw that.”

  The air feels warm, and I see a glow ahead. A red glare in the blackness, like a Bible illustration of the fires of Hell.

  Suddenly the corridors open out: we’re in a cavernous gulf at the heart of the ship. I feel as if we are standing inside the burning crater of a volcano. Above us there’s no ceiling, just a shadow-blackness reaching up endlessly above us. A wave of heat and light comes from straight ahead of us: from the gaping mouths of boiler-furnaces, and I see the bared, sweaty arms and backs of the stokers. I also see Lord Buttermere, his elegant figure and coiffed hair looking bizarrely out of place in this dirty, elemental cavern. Chisholm stands beside Buttermere, his eyes glinting scarlet in the glare. Both of them are speaking – but not to the stokers. They are talking across the open space of the boiler-room, to unseen people – a group of men who are hidden from our gaze by a steel wall, black with coal-dust, on our right. I hear Chisholm’s voice ring out, speaking to the unseen group.

  “Move back, there. Don’t try to tackle him, it’s too risky. Give the man room.”

  Inspector Trench and I take a step forward, and now we can see around to the other side of the steel wall. Our view opens out. It’s like a scene on the stage of a theatre: there’s a kind of stand-off across the floor of the boiler-room. On one side, as the inspector and I saw when we entered the boiler-room, are Chisholm, Buttermere and a group of stokers. In the stokers’ blackened faces, the whites of their eyes stand out, regarding with horror the man who stands opposite them. It’s Nolan, of course, still holding the dynamite. Around him, backing away, are a second group of men, as coal-stained as the stokers.

  “The trimmers.” Inspector Trench says. “Their job is to get the coal out of the bunkers and pass it to the stokers.”

  “So – that’s a coal bunker. Professor Axelson was right: this is the place that Nolan was heading to.” I point behind Nolan to the black gaping mouth of an open hatch. Piles of coal glisten inside it, but there’s enough of a gap to see, above the coal, a huge empty space, stretching away and up out of view. The inside of the coal bunker. The place, I guess, where innumerable particles of coal dust hang in the air: every one of them is a tiny spark, waiting to explode.

  “Hello everyone. Nice for you two to join us too. A regular party down here.” Nolan fingers the stick of dynamite as he looks across at the Inspector and me.

  Lord Buttermere glances grimly across at Inspector Trench. I can tell what the inspector is thinking. If we had our armed marksmen here – Nolan would be dead, and the dynamite would be dropped harmlessly on the floor. But if that thought is also in Buttermere’s mind right now, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he’s coolly talking to Nolan again.

  “I’ll repeat my offer once more, Mr Nolan. I offered you a deal back there in the shaft tunnel, and I now put that deal before you again. Accept it, and you will have complete immunity from prosecution, and cash to start a new life.”

  “What a nice, neat idea. But there’s one tiny little fly in that ointment. A little fly called ‘Don’t trust the English’. Yes see, I know, sure as sweet Jesus, that if I put down the dynamite, I’ll be grabbed, held down, manhandled, mistreated. Maybe you’ll torture me until I tell you and your English spies everything you want to know. Only while I hold this stick of explosives do I have bargaining power.”

  “My offer will be a written agreement, Mr Nolan. I’ll have pen and paper brought down here. I’ll sign it myself.”

  Despite the situation, I have to stifle a laugh. A written agreement seems like a joke in this standoff. I picture it in my mind: the absurdity, the pantomime, of Buttermere producing a pen and a piece of paper, a tiny fragile white shape, in this Satanic hell-hole. It would look like a little ghost, in Hades.

  Something’s occurred to me. I think of what Kitty said, when she first spoke under hypnosis of the Titanic, and Spence’s death. “White shapes, like ghosts.” But I’m called back to the present moment by Lord Buttermere’s voice.

  “Mr Nolan, do you accept our terms? As I’ve said, a binding, written agreement, signed by me.”

  “You could sign it in your own blood, Englishman, and I wouldn’t give a fig. Your type has betrayed the Irish people for a thousand years, so I hardly expect you to change now. I’ve had enough of your speeches.”

  He looks at us, and I see a bravery in his face, a determination: almost, a sense of satisfaction. He flicks the cigarette lighter.

  Chisholm moves forward, and two of the trimmers move too. They have one second to stop Nolan.

  The flame catches the fuse, spluttering and sparking.

  As in the shaft tunnel, Chisholm’s hand reaches for the dynamite. I know why he’s taking this chance: if the stick falls to the floor, it will explode, and everyone in the boiler room will die – but the Olympic will survive. But there’s a sudden movement of Nolan’s wrist, and Chisholm’s hand falls short. The dynamite disappears into the black mouth of the coal bunker. The trimmers step back in horror: they know what’s about to happen.

  There’s a stupendous detonation. A noise like the end of the world.

  31.Simple logic

  I see eyes. Gray, calming eyes. The face of Profess
or Axelson is looking into mine. Around and behind the face, I see only an endless blackness, like the night sky. If it weren’t for the professor’s face, I would think I was blinded. I try to make sense of where I am, and I realize: I’m lying flat on my back on a cold iron floor.

  Cold?

  My face feels like it’s burning, and I’m horribly thirsty. The floor is cold – but the air around me is a stifling blanket of fiery heat. I look again. Yes, I’m still in the boiler-room, looking straight up towards the black void of its ceiling.

  “What happened, Professor?”

  “I reached the boiler room just in time to witness the explosion and its effects. Firstly, Mr Nolan: he is dead. The blast flung him away from the coal-bunker and onto the wall of the boilers with tremendous force, as if he had been hit by an express train. A very ugly sight: I would not look that way if I were you, Miss Agnes. As for Sir Chisholm, he caught the blast only a little, but it knocked him off his feet. He has a banged head, maybe concussion. It is a long time since I have practised as a medical doctor, but my opinion is that in time he will be fine. As for the crew of trimmers, they stood either side, away from the blast, and were safe. Two of the stokers, standing across from the coal-bunkers, have a few cuts and bruises. Lord Buttermere” – I detect scorn in the professor’s voice – “appears to be