Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

completely uninjured.”

  “There was – an incredible explosion.”

  “A single stick of dynamite causes a massive blast, Miss Agnes. Especially in a confined space like a coal bunker. But fortunately the force of the blast could escape – though the coal-hatch. It killed Nolan, but he was the only person in a direct line with it. Inside the bunker, of course, the coal was thrown about, like straw inside a tornado. But then, those battered broken lumps of coal just fell back down to the bottom of the bunker. There may be some damage to the bunker walls. A few bits of sheet metal that can be repaired when we reach Southampton.”

  “But – the coal dust? I thought it would explode, destroy the whole ship?”

  “Ah yes, the coal-dust – I wanted to explain to you, but you all raced away, you did not stay for my explanation, which I’ll give you now. You see, coal-dust explosions at sea are indeed deadly, but they are also much rarer than non-sailors – people such as Jimmy Nolan, for instance – think. In most ships, including this one, the coal bunkers sit on the very bottom of the ship. Apart from a few sheets of iron, the coal is effectively in contact with the ocean waters. Which are intensely cold. Feel the floor.”

  I reach out my hand. It’s just as I felt before: despite the heat in the air, the iron floor feels like ice.

  “That cold, on the floor of the bunker, produces condensation. It spreads through the whole space of the coal bunker. Water molecules stick to the surface of every speck of coal dust. It is only in the rare circumstances where such condensation does not happen that a coal-dust explosion is able to occur. Think about it: if a ship’s coal were not slightly damp, there would always be a danger of ignition from the nearby boiler-fires.”

  “I don’t think, if we’d have stayed to listen to you rather than chasing Nolan, that it would have altered what we did. We just had to find him, fast. After all, he still held a stick of dynamite.”

  “Yes. We needed to act fast. And although we are now safe from Nolan, harm has already been done. Mrs Gilmour is injured. Coal-dust explosion or not, that is a situation that could have been avoided had Inspector Trench’s marksmen been given a free hand to find and deal with Nolan, rather than a few unarmed people descending to the shaft tunnel without even informing the rest of the search party.”

  “I agree, professor. The handling of this whole matter…”

  “Well, what’s done is done. Lord Buttermere is very different from you and I, and no doubt he has his reasons. But now, I’m going to get you and Chisholm to the upper decks. My own medical knowledge is out of date: I want the ship’s doctor, who is treating Mrs Gilmour, to check you over too. You yourself may have concussion, Miss Agnes.”

  We climb the stairs to the upper decks. The steel rails, the iron rungs of the steps, the dimly lit corridors… again I have that odd sense that I am not aboard the Olympic at all, but the Titanic. I feel I’m not living in the present moment: I’m living the moments of my own life that happened exactly one year ago. Maybe I do have concussion. We knock at the door of the Gilmours’ Parlor Suite.

  Gwyneth lies on the bed. I draw breath sharply: she looks dead.

  “Doctor?”

  “A shame you have to see your friend like this. But don’t worry, she’s going to be fine. I’m Dr Emerson, by the way.” It’s good to hear a New England accent. A bearded young man with mild, intelligent eyes looks round at us, smiles.

  I extend a hand. “I’m Agnes Frocester. This is Professor Axelson.”

  “I’ve heard of you, Professor. I have huge respect for your work.”

  “Thank you. But – Mrs Gilmour?”

  “I’ve given her a sedative, just to put her out of pain for a while. She’ll be unconscious for another hour, maybe two. But the wound is just a graze, on the side of the ribcage. It’s painful though – there’s been a lot of bleeding, and severe bruising. Two ribs may also be cracked, but they’ll recover.”

  “Thank you, Dr Emerson. But where is Mr Gilmour?”

  “Captain Haddock has told me all about this matter. He had to. It does rather demand explanation, when a first-class woman passenger on an ocean liner is brought in with a gunshot wound. Captain Haddock explained that some of you formed a search party to locate a dangerous person aboard. Mr Gilmour isn’t here yet. He was assigned the job of searching cabins on one of the lower decks, near the bow of the ship: the area where there are a lot of single male third-class passengers – the sort of people who might hide a stowaway or a contraband cargo. A message has been sent to him, so he should be back soon.”

  The door opens. But it’s not Gilmour: it’s Unity Lloyd. At the first sight of Gwyneth, her hands go to her face in shock. Dr Emerson explains to her.

  “Miss Lloyd. Mrs Gilmour will be fine. I was just telling…”

  But Unity steps towards the bed, gasps in stunned silence. She takes one of Gwyneth’s hands. “My dear, dear friend.”

  Unity’s eyes look urgently at Dr Emerson. “Can she hear me?”

  “She’s sedated: unconscious. But she may be aware of your voice.”

  She kneels by the bedside: her dark lips kiss the white cheek. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. Calvin and I will take care of you.” She looks up again.

  “Where’s Calvin?”

  “A message has been sent. He will be – “

  Again the door opens. Gilmour appears: his face is curiously impassive, his lips compressed. I sense in that rugged visage, a strong sense of controlled, focused anger. But not the dismay and grief you would expect, when a husband sees his wife injured.

  “Who did this?”

  “We don’t know. Someone was shooting at us, after we found Nolan. Nolan is dead, but whoever fired this shot disappeared.”

  Gilmour steps forward, slowly, a hand extended. “Doctor Emerson. Good to meet you: thank you for your work. And thank you, too, for the message to alert me. The message said her life is not in danger. Is that correct?”

  Dr Emerson is about to speak, but I see that Calvin is staring down at the bed. He sees the flow of tears, hears Unity crying. He doesn’t wait for Emerson’s response. I hear him speaking. “Darling, darling.”

  He bends by Unity’s side: I hear his deep voice speak softly. “Darling. Gwyneth’s going to be all right, she’ll be all right…”

  I forget myself. I blurt out what I’ve been thinking for a few days now.

  “Mrs Gilmour – Mrs Unity Gilmour. Your friend Gwyneth – she’s going to make a full recovery, you know.”

  Calvin doesn’t even look up. His arm is round Unity’s shoulders as her sobs shake her. He comforts his wife, in her distress for their friend.

 

  We’re back in the Captain’s Sitting Room, although this time there are only four of us gathered here. We’re waiting for others to join us: Captain Haddock has asked us to wait here, so that we can have a second discussion as to how to handle the crisis. The dynamite has been moved out of the shaft tunnel to a safe storeroom – but we’re all aware that there is still an unknown, armed man aboard the ship. I look at Chisholm: there’s a shining bruise on his forehead but otherwise, he’s unhurt.

  Professor Axelson begins with a question.

  “So, Agnes, you have found out the real nature of du Pavey’s blackmail? And you say that there is no longer any reason to suspect him in relation to the murder of Percy Spence?”

  “Yes. It first occurred to me when we were at Glen Springs, when we were discussing the papers found in Freshing’s safe. I have the copies I made then with me: here they are. Despite what you said, Professor, it seemed to me possible that Percy Spence, as he was dying aboard the lifeboat, might have papers in his pocket which were not actually his own business. Occasionally, anyone might, in the ordinary course of events, have in their pocket a letter belonging to someone else.”

  “Agreed.”

  “It seemed to me possible that the blackmail letter was not aimed at Spence. A unlikely possibility – but, more likely than that two unrelated papers wh
ich connect to Spence could end up, by sheer coincidence, in the same safe at Glen Springs Sanitarium.”

  “Again, I have to agree with you, Miss Agnes. Simple logic, but it did not occur to me at the time. Could you pass me those copies you made?”

  “Here they are, Professor. I think that these two papers, the letter and the page of the contract, were already folded together, when Spence gave them to Freshing.”

  Chisholm looks puzzled. “But Freshing worked for Gilmour – at least, he worked for Gilmour’s lawyers, Sorensen & Baker. So, Agnes, it does make sense for Freshing to have a page from Gilmour’s contract.”

  “Not if you maintain the standards of confidentiality which Mr Freshing upholds. The man is clearly rich: he doesn’t need a job because of financial need. I think that Mr Freshing loves his work: it’s what he lives for. So, nothing could induce him to steal a page from a contract he was working on. It would make no sense at all: it would be utterly out of character for him to act unethically, and financially he has no need of a payoff from spies.”

  “But it’s still possible…”

  “No. Think about it. If you don’t believe me about Freshing’s personal ethics, then look at it in purely practical terms. If Freshing were to decide to steal military information – why would he take a single page from a contract? If he wanted to pass the contract over to enemies, then he would have used his position of trust to steal the whole thing.”

  Chisholm nods. “Yes. You’re