Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

What is your plan for the flight?”

  “I’ll be setting off from Scarborough, on the shore of Lake Ontario near Toronto. Then I’ll fly southwards, to where the Niagara River flows into the lake. There’ll be thousands of people in Niagara Falls State Park to watch me flying over the Falls with my passengers. Entry to the parkland is free for all – but they are selling tickets for the reception pavilion, on the American riverbank above the Falls, where they will greet me after the flight. I’ve heard they are even thinking of presenting some kind of trophy. If you were interested... I could ensure you got a ticket for the reception event. I could even get you a place at the top table, where I’ll stand to make my speech. It will be a moment in history, you know.”

  “I’ve very impressed, Rufus. It’s exciting. Dashing, if I might be so bold as say so. You must be quite a favorite among young women who admire such feats of daring.” I can’t believe I’m talking such nonsense. But he seems to be swallowing it.

  “I’d rather have the attention of just one young lady like you, rather than a crowd.” The smirk with which he says this makes me want to burst out laughing. “And – I believe this is your cabin.” Without a word he takes the key which I hold in my hand, unlocks and opens the door for me. I step in, and he steps in too, uninvited.

  My cabin is small, but exquisitely furnished in mahogany, in the Georgian style of Thomas Sheraton. A carved dressing-table sits beside my bed, and there’s a small occasional table.

  “I see they have left you tea to greet you, Agnes.” And indeed someone has set out a tea tray on the table. Dainty bone china cups decorated in rose and green. Most seafaring crockery is robust rather than elegant, but this delicate set is designed for a ship so huge that it can absorb the buffeting of the waves. Chisholm will have ordered this tea as a little surprise for me, I think. A wisp of steam rises from the teapot spout: it must be piping hot. I wonder at the work, the organization, to do this for the Olympic’s passengers at the very moment of embarkation, when every member of staff and crew must be at their busiest. But I try to concentrate all my efforts on Rufus.

  “You’re most welcome to share my tea with me.”

  “Thank you.” He seems to genuinely appreciate my offer: perhaps he really is lonely, I think. We sit either side of the little table, and he lifts a teacup to his lips: it looks tiny against that broad face. I look into bright, brown eyes: I notice that his cheeks are pink, boyish: his smile is like a schoolboy’s. Despite his silly boasting, I almost like him. But then I think of what Professor Axelson and Chisholm said about him.

  “I’ve heard, Rufus, that you used to fly with Viscount Spence?”

  “I was lucky to survive the Titanic: Percy Spence was not. Give me hours in the air – even if the ‘plane is struggling – rather than one second in that lifeboat, hearing the cries of those in the water.”

  “I know. I was there too.”

  He’s surprised to hear that. I feel him taking my hand, as if to comfort me, the warmth of his fingers on mine. I look at him again, and think about the experience we both had. It is as if we share a kind of – intimacy.

  “So you see, Rufus, I know about the loss of your co-pilot the Viscount. You must feel it as a personal loss – but also, in terms of your flying. You must miss him as a fellow aviator that you know and can trust on your flights. I would guess that trust is vital, when you are co-piloting a plane?”

  “Absolutely vital. Although I will now be piloting my airplane, the Empire State, solo. I won’t have to share the glory: it will be a triumph for me alone. But all the same, the Lake Ontario flight seems wrong, somehow, without Percy. He was a great pilot, and a true friend. A friend such as one might meet only once in a lifetime. I miss him every day.”

  The look in his eyes appears sincere. Despite the seeming evidence, I do wonder, as he and I sip tea together, whether Axelson and Chisholm have made the right judgment about the character of Rufus du Pavey.

  I’ve left my cabin door open. I realize my unconscious reason for doing that: to show people that nothing improper is going on. I don’t want a cabin steward or the professor coming along and having to open the door, to see Rufus and myself sitting here in seclusion. Especially, I realize, I don’t want Chisholm to see me here with Rufus, behind a shut door.

  “So do you like your cabin, Agnes?”

  “No – yes – a little –” I’ve been distracted by something seemingly trivial: a shadow across the floor. Past the doorway, shadows have come and gone: passengers heading along the corridor to their cabins. But this shadow, looming in from the doorway, is stationary. It’s the shape of a man. I can’t help calling out. “Chisholm?”

  The shadow moves slightly, but no voice responds. I bend over towards Rufus and speak low and quietly. “I think there’s a man loitering outside my door. A stranger.”

  “Impertinent fellow. Hoi, you there!” Rufus goes to the door, pokes his head out. Then he steps outside as if to peer along the corridor. After a few seconds, he comes back in.

  “There’s no-one there. The corridor’s deserted – you must have been mistaken. Although… there’s a gentleman just walked into my view now. He’s coming this way.”

  A moment later, Chisholm’s figure fills the frame of the door.

  “Agnes, I missed you, getting on to the ship. I was wondering if you’d found your cabin.” He suddenly sees Rufus. “I’m sorry to intrude. I didn’t realize you had company.”

  “Let me introduce Mr Rufus du Pavey. He helped me to my cabin, so I offered him tea. Did you order this tea tray for me, Chisholm? It was so thoughtful.”

  Chisholm stands over Rufus, extends his hand. They shake, but I can tell what Chisholm thinks of this man. And what, I wonder, does Rufus think of, know about, him?

  After they both leave me in my cabin, thoughts come back to me. Putnam, and my schooling. Our house is on the edge of town, overlooking meadows. My father runs the town pharmacy, and every weekday I would walk into town with him and help him open up the shop. Then, I’d walk on to school. I recall as a tiny child, looking up at the curled writing on the façade: ‘Frocester’s for Drugs’. “That’s me” I would say, pointing at the writing. “I’m Frocester”. The gold lettering with its grand scrolls and flourishes seemed full of hopeful glory, a kind of promise of a future life. When I finished my grades, the school was happy to retain me as an unpaid teaching assistant, and of course I carried on helping out in the drugstore. But I wanted to do more. I began my applications for salaried employment, first in Connecticut, Rhode Island and Massachusetts, then the rest of New England, then New York State, New Jersey. Even Canada. None were successful. I filled my days in the classroom, my evenings writing letters of application.

  Then one day, an English visitor to the school left behind his newspaper. I pored over it, eager for news of the outside world. And then I saw this.

  “Lady’s companion sought. Must be accomplished in conversation, well-educated and familiar with the manners and etiquette of good society. The position is appropriate for a young lady of good moral upbringing, with a modest demeanour and deportment. Abilities in music, art and French are a decided advantage. Prospective applicants should write to Sir Edward Lockesley, Flimwell Manor, Wadhurst, Sussex; letters of application to be received by 1 December 1910.”

  The date was 15 November. I took a pen and began to write. An hour later I walked down to the town post office. And the following March, after receiving a favorable response, I packed my small travelling-case, took the New York, Westchester and Putnam railroad to Manhattan, and boarded the Mauretania. The ship was the biggest thing I had ever seen.

  9.From scandal to murder

  The Olympic’s A La Carte restaurant is a fairyland of chandeliers and glittering mirrors: I’m reminded of pictures I’ve seen of the Palace of Versailles. Crystal lamps glow on every one of the small, intimate tables scattered across the richly-carpeted floor, and there’s a sparkle from the jewels which adorn the necks and fingers of so ma
ny of the ladies. Even the gilded combs that decorate their hair glitter like stars. Their brightly colored dresses seem to glow even more richly in contrast to their consorts’ black dinner jackets. The musicians of the silver band that I heard on the Boat Deck perform here as a stringed ensemble, but a woman in a silk kimono stands among them. She’s singing one of my favorite pieces: Un bel dì vedremo from Puccini’s Madame Butterfly.

  We are shown to a quiet corner table where a man sits. He’s massive, white-haired – but his eyes, the lines in his face, and indeed even his ponderous frame, are full of life and energy. His masculine figure contrasts with the cut-glass vase of pink roses on his table, and the porcelain coffee-cup that he’s holding looks as small as a child’s toy. When he sees us he stands in welcome. Despite Calvin Gilmour’s smoking-jacket, his bow tie and his faultlessly crisp attire, the hand that Professor Axelson shakes is robust and weathered. The hand of a strong working man.

  “Good to meet you. I’ve just finished dinner. Now, you Europeans will forgive my American manners. We tend to be more direct in my country. I’m a believer in openness and honesty. So let’s get straight to the point, gentlemen. And lady, of course. By the way, I’m pleased to hear a Yankee tone in the voice of