Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

– right now, there isn’t a shred of evidence.”

  Inspector Trench looks utterly confused. “Evidence – of what?”

  Chisholm looks me, and then at the inspector. He shrugs his shoulders. “Well this is nonsense, isn’t it? She’s just speaking at random. Confused – over-wrought. After everything that’s happened to her – her nerves are gone. Female hysteria. You agree, Axelson?”

  But the professor is silent. In that silence, I speak again.

  “Can you please just wait a few hours before terminating the arrest? Wait until a telegram arrives?”

  “What telegram?”

  “A few hours ago, I went to Harold Bride and asked him to send three telegrams. All of them asked for an urgent response. Even if we get a response to one of the three…”

  Professor Axelson speaks. “Now this is interesting, gentlemen. We should listen to what Miss Agnes has to say. What are the three telegrams that Harold Bride sent for you?”

  “One was to the Harlem Hospital in New York. Another was to the Rosedene Hotel, Scarborough, Ontario. And the third was to the police station at Fort Augustus in Scotland, asking them to find and contact a Mr Laurie, of Inverness-shire.”

  Inspector Trench speaks slowly, carefully. “Yes, in theory I could continue Chisholm’s arrest. But it’s not right and proper to do so. Because whatever information the responses to those telegrams bring us, right now there is no evidence that he has done anything wrong.”

  I look into the Inspector’s face. “There’s no evidence now – because, there was only one witness who knew everything. And he is dead.”

  Chisholm’s face is changing. For the first time, I see a glint of fear in those calm blue eyes that shine in the light of the stars. But he speaks scornfully to me.

  “This witness of yours, who is now dead. You mean Percy Spence himself, Agnes?”

  “No.”

  The fear is still there in the blue eyes. But now, Chisholm laughs – a short, low laugh, without humor. There’s a sneer in his voice as he asks me again.

  “So – this mysterious witness of yours. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know his real name.”

  This time the laugh from Chisholm is loud and bold, and there’s undisguised contempt in his voice. “Well your imaginary witness really is a man of total mystery, isn’t he? You know nothing about him. So – when did your mystery witness die?”

  “I know exactly when he died, Chisholm. We all do. Because all of us here on this deck saw him die. Moments ago – right here, right now. When, in front of us all, you murdered him.”

  34.Sunshine

  The water stretches in front of us like blue glass. It mirrors an azure sky, except where a light breeze ruffles the waters, causing tiny waves that twinkle like a million stars. The waves are tiny, because this isn’t the Atlantic. My skin is warm in the May sunshine; the air is so fresh that it feels alive. We are walking along a country track in the heart of the Scottish Highlands, and ahead of us are the waters of Loch Lui. Either side of the track is fresh green grass, and violets peep from among the new shoots. Ahead of us are mountains, still holding spots of winter snow high on their purple shoulders. The peaks slope down with sun-dappled flanks towards the woodlands of birch, alder and rugged Scots pine that surround the lake.

  “See, Agnes. We are in Sweden I think.” The professor grins at his own little joke: his face is genial in the sunshine.

  The space, the sense of freshness, is almost intoxicating. But I barely glance at the scenery. I’m looking at something that cheers me far more.

  A broad, happy smile. In the face of Kitty Murray.

  I smile back at her. “Kitty – thank you for coming out to the station to meet us.” Half an hour ago, we stepped from the one train of the day to call at lonely Lui Station. Kitty was the only person on the tiny railway platform, waiting for our arrival. She’s walked with us since then, leading us along this track that winds through the meadows and scattered woodlands of the glen, past occasional crofters’ cottages and small farms. Five minutes ago, we caught our first sight of the loch through the trees, but I see no trace yet of our destination. I ask her. “So how far is it from here?”

  “The lake – sorry, loch they call it here – it’s nine miles long. There’s a rough track along the shore, which the locals use, but the easiest way to the other end is by rowing boat. Fraser, he’s the ghillie – gamekeeper we’d call him in England – will meet us on the shore, and row us. Glenlui Castle is at the far end of the loch. Like a tower in a fairytale it looks, on a little hill with trees all around it. I never knew that places like this existed, Miss Agnes! And the castle has a beautiful walled garden, too. I’ve walked there each day this spring, watching the snowdrops, then the primroses, then the bluebells appear. But now, I’ve become busy again. Two weeks ago Mrs McDonald the housekeeper gave me a job: general maid and under-cook at the Castle. I’m really enjoying it.”

  “You have been a captive, taken far away from everything you know, Miss Kitty.” The professor smiles again. “So I’m glad to hear that your captivity has had some compensations.”

  Silhouetted against the sparkling waters of the lake, a strong, tall young man stands before us. He extends a hand to greet us.

  “Miss Frocester and Professor Axelson? I’m Fraser Laurie. Ghillie of the Glenlui estate, and your oarsman for today.” His Highland voice is softer than I expected, and I notice that Kitty regards him with undisguised admiration. His glance at her lingers too, with warmth in his eyes.

  The little wooden boat that we step into is smaller, more frail, than the lifeboat that Harold Lowe dragged me into, that black night thirteen months ago. But right now, all those dark memories seem far and dim, like a nightmare that fades at daybreak. The swish of the oars is strong and rhythmic; waves ripple out in long lines, catching the sunshine.

  The professor looks across the sunlit waters, then turns and smiles at Kitty and me. “So, Miss Agnes. In addition to those of us in this boat, I gather you have made some other new friends along the way, in this investigation of ours?”

  “The Gilmours – Calvin and Unity, that is – have been all kindness. I guess that they’re also grateful for my discretion about their real marital situation. And I parted on good terms with Rufus du Pavey, too.”

  “I was thinking more of someone who seems to have become a particular friend of yours. The person who still likes to be known – incorrectly – as Gwyneth Gilmour.”

  “Yes. Gwyneth and I are going to write to each other. Once I get my training plans settled, she’s going to come to visit me. I’m unsure yet whether to train in New York, or in London.”

  “And you are still determined on nursing as a career, Miss Agnes?”

  “Very much so. What I’ve been through – both on the Titanic, and over the last couple of months – has made me aware that there will always be a need in the world for nurses. Perhaps in the near future there will be more of a need than ever, although I hope not. And of course, I’m a drugstore keeper’s daughter. Rolling pills and mixing potions is in my blood, you know.” I give him an arch smile.

  That’s what I tell the professor, and Kitty, and Fraser, as the boat scuds across Loch Lui. But there’s one little thing that I don’t mention.

  It happened at the end of the voyage, before Gwyneth and I parted. The Olympic had docked in Southampton, and Gwyneth and I were looking over the rail, down at the quay below us, and I heard Calvin and Unity calling her, and she turned to go. Then suddenly she swung back on her heel and looked me in the eyes.

  “Agnes. Please, please, keep in touch. I feel that you and I – we’re friends. I don’t want to lose touch with you. You never know, one day we might get to solve some other mystery together.”

  I smiled at her, but I still had one unanswered question about Gwyneth. And although I didn’t want to keep Calvin’s party waiting, this was my chance to find out. “I’d love to keep in touch with you. But if you and I are friends, then can you tell me one
more thing before you go, Gwyneth?”

  “What, about the FBI? I probably won’t be able to answer you, you know.”

  “No. Something completely different. What intrigues me most of all is this: why the sham marriage? I can see that it’s a good cover story for your work for the Bureau – and it works for Calvin and Unity too – but wouldn’t it be a problem, if you ever happened to meet a man you did actually want to marry? He’d get the wrong idea from the start, and…”

  “That won’t happen, Agnes. Not a snowball’s chance in a boiler room.” She said those words with a wry smile, as if she was laughing at an unsaid joke. But I didn’t get the joke.

  “Why, Gwyneth?... You must be one of the most eligible…”

  “Oh you innocent Connecticut girl! Rufus du Pavey isn’t the only one, you know…” She paused and looked out over the crowds on the quayside who were leaving the ship. “I know one thing for sure, Agnes: I will never meet a man who can make me happy.”

  I stood still there at the ship’s rail, quietly taking in this information. I’d never thought about such a thing in my life before. Men, yes… there’s always sly gossip, winks, sniggering about men who are ‘effeminate’ as they say. The rumors, prejudices and lies that, sadly, men like Rufus have to live with. But it had never occurred to me about women… Then I gave Gwyneth a sudden hard stare.

  “You’re not wanting to be my friend