Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

same, I’m going to enjoy dinner tonight. It’s six o’clock now, and the lunch that Unity Lloyd brought for me in bed seems ages ago.

  Unity and I are sitting in the wood-paneled parlor of the fishing lodge. The head and antlers of a stuffed moose look down on the sofa where she and I are sitting: she’s been chatting to me, asking me about my life in Connecticut, and in England. She has worked for Calvin Gilmour for twenty-five years. She’s modest about her own achievements – but I can tell that Mr Gilmour trusts her to run every aspect of his and Gwyneth’s domestic life.

  There’s a knock at the front door. I hear the maid answer it, and her voice announces a name.

  “Mr Gilmour, you have a visitor. A Mr Rufus du Pavey.”

  Unity looks at me. “Miss Agnes, I’ll leave you: I’m going to ask the servants to put on some coffee for Mr du Pavey. Perhaps he’ll want to stay to dinner, too.”

  Within moments, she’s left the room. Out in the hallway, I hear Calvin Gilmour’s gruff voice.

  “Du Pavey. I got your latest note. What do you want now, dammit?”

  “Perhaps we could talk somewhere – in private?”

  “The parlor. Come right in. Whatever you’ve got to say shouldn’t take long.”

  I’m a guest in this house – ‘be on your best behavior’ my Mama would say – but all the same, I’ve got the opportunity to listen to two key suspects. I notice a woven curtain hanging across the whole width of one wall. It looks like some kind of mock-medieval tapestry with a hunting scene on it, as if to make the place look like a hunting lodge in Tudor England. I stand up and feel behind the tapestry: yes, there’s room to conceal myself there. As I stand behind the woven curtain, I think: this was how I got into this whole business in the first place. Eavesdropping.

  I hear the door opening and the two men come in. Rufus speaks first.

  “You know my proposition makes sense. Please be reasonable, Calvin.”

  “You’ve very informal, Mr du Pavey, in using my Christian name, when strictly speaking I’m not even your business partner – yet.”

  “I like to think we are partners. You’ve kindly provided me with some funding, and you will benefit greatly from the publicity of my Lake Ontario flight.”

  I can hear in Gilmour’s voice that he is no mood to negotiate. “Look, du Pavey. I’ve read your latest telegram. I know what you’re planning, and I’ve had to take a hard decision. I can’t back you further. I’ve funded this venture so far. Even Miss Lloyd took time from her own duties to contact organizers for your so-called reception ceremony after the flight. That alone has snowballed into an event of itself – catering, funfairs, sideshows.”

  “Well, that’s not really my fault. It simply stems from my popularity: the public have high expectations of me. I’ve caught people’s imagination.”

  “Let’s leave imagination to one side for the moment, and consider the facts. Here’s one fact for you: the local police contacted me yesterday, to say that they will need to deploy practically their whole force in Niagara Falls State Park on the day of the flight, purely for crowd control. Now, here’s the reason for their call. They told me they had no more funds. They asked me if I could lend financial support to pay for police officers’ overtime. I’m a rich man, but I’m not a fool.”

  “No-one said you were. Any money you spend now, it will repay itself many times over…”

  “You’re right, I’m no fool. But then, you’d know all about fools. Because, Mr du Pavey, your own life is rather like being in the circus. Your latest trick isn’t a crowd-pleaser though. Your telegram said that one passenger on the Lake Ontario flight isn’t enough, that you want two people on that airplane in order to prove the viability of a passenger service. A husband-and-wife team, indeed! You want both me and Gwyneth to risk our lives by going into the air with you. That engine and that airframe have not yet been tested with the weight of three people. Trying the extra weight out for the first time, on a long flight, is madness.”

  “A nearly identical aircraft, another Wright Model B, has carried three people easily.”

  “Nearly identical. I’m supposed to trust a ‘nearly’ am I? You’re a chancer, and I’m not backing you further. After this latest idea of yours, I wouldn’t get in that kite with you just by myself, let alone risk Gwyneth’s life too.”

  “But I’ve made a public statement that I will take two passengers. That news will appear in all the newspapers tomorrow, and I can’t change that. So everyone will be expecting it. As you know, the flight is taking place the day after tomorrow.”

  “Well, I don’t know a whole lot about circuses – but how business works is this. You put money into a venture on the basis of trust.” Gilmour pauses, as if for dramatic effect. “I’ll say that word again: trust. And I don’t trust you, Mr du Pavey.”

  Silence.

  “I know all about your debts: you told me, two years ago, that they are the natural lot of a second son. You claim that your talent shouldn’t be held back by simple lack of funding: that you can achieve great things, if you have the financial backing. But in America, sir, a young man in your position would work day and night to make his mark, however humbly. He wouldn’t come along with a begging-bowl, like you’ve done to me over the past two years.”

  “Sir. You’ve committed to the Lake Ontario flight. To refuse to fly with me will waste everything that you’ve invested. You’re not scared of the flight, are you?”

  I think: Rufus, that was the worst thing you could have said. I hear a harsh anger in Gilmour’s voice.

  “What sticks in my craw, Mr du Pavey, is that I’ve given support to a man like you. A man whose public face is so much at variance with a sordid private life that would, if brought into the wholesome light of day, create quite a stink.”

  There’s silence again, and I can tell that Rufus is stunned. Up to now the two men have been standing, but now I hear the springs of the sofa. One of the men is sitting down, as if he’s had a shock. Now, one of the voices comes from lower down in the room. The sitter is speaking: there’s a quaver in his voice, but an edge of anger too.

  “I’d appreciate the truth, Mr Gilmour, rather than shadowy hints.”

  From behind this tapestry I can see nothing, and somehow that seems to sharpen my hearing, my reading of the tones and nuances in this conversation. What do I sense, in Rufus’ voice? A sense of hurt, yes, at the vague accusation that Gilmour has flung. But something more than that. I sense that Rufus feels injustice and outrage: that he feels that Gilmour has unfairly turned the tables on him. It’s like Rufus has caught Gilmour cheating at a game of cards – but something in the situation means that Rufus can’t openly speak up and object to it.

  Gilmour speaks again, with an air of crushing factuality. “As you know, Mr du Pavey, I have a man who manages my security arrangements. He accompanies me whenever I have to travel – including my voyages to England. You will also be aware that a few days ago, both you and I were in London, before my return here on the Olympic. I already had doubts about your Lake Ontario flight, but I had also heard rumors – to be frank, rumors about your private life. So, when I was in England, I asked my man to watch out for you, track you if he could. He searched certain haunts in the West End of London. He was indeed able to spot you at one of the new hotels in Piccadilly, a place called the Ritz. Later that evening, he followed you. You left the Ritz and took a hansom cab to a very different neighborhood. To Soho. The Sin City of England.”

  “That means nothing. I went there to meet a friend.”

  “Here in America, we’re more direct. We call a spade a spade. We don’t call a night out in Soho ‘meeting a friend’. We call it whoring.”

  “No.”

  “Oh yes. The bars you went to, the times you were observed going through private doors into back rooms – they make it clear that you were enjoying more than just a few glasses of cheap gin. So – my security man, he asked around, talked to a lot of people. And he found out that, up until a year ago, you and Per
cy Spence were the darling boys of several of the worst sort of bars in that locality. Apparently, you and he were their most reliable regulars. So – you’re not a man, du Pavey. A real man can control his animal instincts – and settle down with a decent girl.”

  “Like you did.” Again I can hear every shade of speech: there’s a strange tone in Rufus’s voice.

  “Indeed. No honest man ever had need of a whore. Indeed, it’s always seemed to me, that if men could set their instincts right, then women would not be forced into vice. You disgust me, Mr Rufus du Pavey.”

  There’s yet another silence. Gilmour’s voice is coming from high up, almost bouncing off the ceiling, and I sense that he’s standing over Rufus, hectoring him.

  “So, here’s the deal, Mr Poverty-Stricken Second Son. You find other passengers for your flight, or you fly alone. Either way, neither Gwyneth nor I get into that airplane with you. But you can go ahead, attempt your flight. See if you can cross the lake and fly over Niagara Falls without crashing. Then, if you succeed, I’ll look into the business potential of your so-called air-line. Should I really like what I see, I might consider it as a commercial venture. But if that does happen, then any contract I make with you will ensure that from now on, I make all the decisions. Now get on your way, sir.”

  Gilmour’s tone tells me: the conversation is closed.