Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

myself. Because, of course – I was there, that night, on the Titanic. I was in the next-door cabin to Spence’s. Suppose that I myself saw something, heard something?...”

  “A good point, Miss Agnes. In fact, I have been waiting, a long time, for you to speak like this. Because if anyone exists who witnessed what happened that night – you could well be that witness. Do you recall our conversation in England, on the train to Cambridge, when I explained the Spence case to you?”

  “You said that five people hold the key to this case.”

  “I did. What else did I say?”

  “Professor – it was what you didn’t say. You would not name one of the five people.”

  “Indeed. And now, two of those five people are in this room. You, Mrs Gilmour. You were one of my suspects, under the name of Colette Morgan, as we now know. And you, Miss Agnes. You yourself were the unnamed fifth person.”

  “I – hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  “So, you now understand why I was so delighted to involve you in the case. To work alongside you, to get to know your beliefs, your actions. For me, it was a great stroke of luck.”

  “So – I was one of your suspects?”

  “No. While you may hold the key, you were the only one of the five who I did not suspect of the murder itself. Of course, according to my methods, I begin by suspecting everyone. But you could hardly have left your cabin – occupied by Chisholm and Lady Lockesley – unobserved. Nor could you, again unobserved, have entered the Viscount’s cabin and put strychnine in his wine. And that’s apart from the obvious issue of lack of motive. So from the beginning, I knew that it was impossible for you to have committed the murder. I named you among my five because Chisholm himself recommended you. He could vouch for you being in his cabin all that evening – but he also told me that he had been impressed, since he first met you, with your powers of observation. He thought that you might have noticed some clue that night, something that he missed. So, you became one of my five key witnesses. But not a suspect, oh no.”

  “Well that’s nice to know, I guess.”

  “Do you still trust me, Miss Agnes? Do you trust my Hypnotic-Forensic Method?”

  I stand there, and the professor stands too, waiting for my answer. I’m thinking. And I realize that from the beginning, I’ve been able to keep a level head in this case because I felt was looking in from the outside. I felt that Spence’s murder, and even Kitty’s abduction, was not my own problem. I thought of myself as part of the solution, not part of the problem itself. But I was lying to myself. Because I was scared. I’m terrified beyond terror by the thought of going back to what really happened to me on the night of 15th April 1912.

  The professor is still waiting for my answer: I give it. “Yes, Professor Axelson. I trust you.”

  “Thank you, Agnes. I trust you too: I always have. But – I must warn you. If you go under my Fluence, your experience will go far beyond simply recalling something that you saw and have forgotten, or suppressed in your unconscious mind. Remember: you saw Miss Kitty hypnotized. You will be in her place now. You are about to recall every emotion you experienced that night as if you were actually there. Not just pictures or vivid memories. Instead, you will feel, in its full intensity and utter freshness, the living, real fear of that night one year ago. You will be facing Death itself.”

  “It needs to be done. So I’ll do it.”

  “Then, let us begin.”

  33.Death on the poop deck

  The oddest thing is Officer Bass, our guard: he remains in the room. standing silently against the wall, as Gwyneth props up some pillows, and I lie on Axelson’s bed. The professor sits in a chair by my side, and Gwyneth takes another chair, at the foot of the bed. The professor acts as if our guard is part of our team, too.

  “Officer Bass. Can you switch off the electric light?”

  The whole cabin is in blackness. I realize that night has fallen outside: the porthole is a dim blue circle. Yet this darkness, it is calming, somehow. Try hard to relax, I think. But then I realize: no. Don’t try to relax. Don’t try to do anything. Just listen to the voice.

  “Miss Agnes.”

  “Just call me Agnes.”

  “Agnes. How are you feeling?”

  “Terrified.”

  “How does that terror feel?”

  “Like – it’s inside my chest. Like it’s rising from below, pressing my lungs, my heart.”

  “What shape is it, Agnes?”

  “Like – a boulder. A big stone inside me, and it’s pressing, pressing me from the inside out.”

  “A stone. Tell me all about this stone. What are its surfaces like?”

  “Rough. It’s round, but its surface is rugged. Completely unyielding. A big ball of granite. Like I carry it around with me, all the time, and try to pretend it isn’t there. But it always is there.”

  “A granite boulder, Agnes. Do you like carrying it around with you?”

  “No. I hate it. I’m carrying it on a long, lonely road, I’ve come many miles, and there are many miles to go. In fact, I don’t know where my destination is. But I have to keep walking, and carrying this weight inside of me.”

  “Put it down.”

  “Put… it down? I can’t.”

  “Just do it, Miss Agnes. Take the boulder out of your chest and put it down, by the side of your lonely road. Then walk away from it.”

  I look ahead of me, and I’m back in Putnam, over on Greenacres Farm where I used to walk, picking wild flowers as I went along. I’m leaving the farm now, and walking back into Putnam. The lane going back into town is long, but the sun is shining, it’s a warm summer’s morning, the fields around me are a vivid green, the sky blue like a domed sapphire. Birds are singing everywhere. Everything is perfect, it’s like my hometown has become Heaven. Everything is perfect – except for the familiar feeling in my chest. The weight I carry around with me. And then, I find I’m holding a lump of ugly, dense granite in my hands. Black granite. I even see the twinkle of the tiny crystals of mica as I grip the boulder, move it out, away from my bosom. I look down and see the soft material of my blouse. The rough surface of the rock scratches on the cotton.

  “Put it down.”

  I bend and lay the boulder in the thick green grass by the side of the track. I hear the sound of crickets among the grass, and the birdsong is louder than ever. Then I stand, and I find it’s easy now to stand up straight, to move my body, to walk. Everywhere looks even more glorious than before. I take a step. I’m walking away from the boulder.

  “How do you feel now, Agnes?”

  “Better. So much better. Stronger, but more relaxed too. It is like I can breathe and move again. I was suffocated by that stone inside me…”

  “Don’t think about it being there. Forget it now, as if it never existed. You can step, strongly but lightly, forwards along your road. Where does your road lead, Agnes?”

  “To Putnam. My hometown. I’m going home to see Mama and Papa. It’s time for lunch.”

  “Putnam, Connecticut?”

  “Yes. And it’s a lovely summer day, and I’m walking along the lane that I know so well.”

  “And after Putnam – where does the lane lead then?”

  “It leads – through all the green fields, to the other side of the hills. To Pomfret. And eventually, to Hartford.”

  “And after Hartford?”

  “On and on. It’s leading me, my feet want to step along it, every step of the way. It’s leading me – to England. Flimwell Manor, Sussex.”

  “Ah yes. England. Your job as Lady Lockesley’s companion. And of course, the travel that comes with it. What are you and Lady Lockesley doing?”

  “We’re – on a gangway. Walking up onto a ship.”

  “What is the name of the ship?”

  There’s a word that I can’t say. But then I hear my voice speaking it, clearly, easily, happily.

  “Titanic.”

  “The Titanic. The great ship. The ship that some people
have called unsinkable. How do you feel, Agnes?”

  “Very excited. Even the Mauretania seems tiny, compared to this vast vessel. It’s the greatest engineering triumph in the world. But more than that. I’m going home.”

  “Home?”

  “To Connecticut. Just to visit. But I feel it’s a turning point in my life. Because when I left home, I was a girl. Now, I return to my parents as a traveled, independent person. The visit home – it means that I’ve grown up. I’m a woman.”

  “And that feels good?”

  “Very, very good.”

  “What is your cabin like, aboard the Titanic?”

  “I’m in a Parlor Suite with Lady Blanche Lockesley. She has the four-poster bed in the main room. I share a servants’ twin room with Kitty Murray. We have bunks.”

  “How do you spend your evenings?”

  “Very quietly. We go to the first-class dining room for dinner, then we return to the cabin by nine or ten o’clock. I read to Blanche: she had headaches a lot, and she suffers from sea-sickness too. Sometimes she needs to lie on the bed and I read to her. Or, Chisholm and I play chess or cribbage, if Blanche is tired or has a headache.”

  “Agnes. It’s the evening of the 14th of April. Do you come back to the cabin, immediately after dinner?”

  “Yes. We come straight back here, to our cabin. Blanche was complaining throughout the meal: she doesn’t like mutton. She says it has given her another headache.”

  “Do you see, or hear, anything else?”

  “Yes. I hear the growlers.”

  “Tell me about the growlers. What are they?”

  “Like dogs – wolves, even. Growling, along the side of