Murder on the Titanic Read online

Can I find out more about him, if I play along with his charade?

  The steward is letting du Pavey pass now, and he rejoins me, shaking off a look of annoyance. “Such a lot of bureaucratic nonsense. That man told me he had a note saying I’d not paid in full for my ticket.”

  “And – did you? Pay in full?”

  “My ticket is paid for – somehow. I can’t remember exactly. It’s hard for me to keep track of all these petty details. Anyway, shall I help you find your cabin, my dear new friend Agnes?” Ahead of du Pavey and me is the Grand Staircase: the sight of it takes me straight back, more strongly than ever, to the Titanic. The glass dome above, the wood paneling, the gilding on the wrought ironwork, the elegant curves of the balustrade: it’s like I’m seeing everything again, just exactly as I did one year ago. But I need to answer du Pavey’s question.

  “I’d be delighted if you would help me find my cabin, thank you. It’s on C deck. But first, I want to take a stroll up on the Boat Deck: I need some fresh air.”

  “I’ll accompany you to the Boat Deck, then. We can look at all these extra new lifeboats they’ve put in, since – ahem – what happened last year.”

  “That would be nice, if you’d like to come up and take the air with me. Thank you. I have heard of you, you know. I’ve read the name ‘Rufus du Pavey’ often – in The High Life, and other publications too. You’re famous, especially among younger people. I understand that you are a motorist and an aviator?”

  “‘Motorist’ sounds rather...”

  “Pedestrian?”

  He smiles at my feeble joke as we ascend the Grand Staircase. The sound of the ship’s silver band greets us as we walk out onto the Boat Deck: in the April sunlight, the polished decking reflects the gleaming shimmer of the instruments. As if to tell passengers that this is a brave new start for the White Star Line after the Titanic disaster, the band is playing the cheerful, optimistic strains of Johann Strauss’s ‘Blue Danube’. We look out over the rails. I see the crowds again, the lines of third-class passengers shuffling to board the ship. As I look at them I have the odd illusion that they are all moving in time to the waltzing rhythm of the music. We’re on the very top deck of the ship here, and the Olympic dwarfs most of the port buildings: we look out over the roofs of the warehouses and dock buildings to the streets and houses of the town and, beyond them, the green fields of rural Hampshire. Du Pavey glances out at the distant scene, and then turns to me. “‘Olympic’ is well named. You and I, we are like the gods of Olympus here, looking down on the human race from a lofty mountain top.”

  I smile to myself again at his pretentious language. “By ‘the human race’, I guess you mean Southampton.”

  “I’m sure the town offers human tragedy and comedy aplenty for us gods and goddesses to observe and laugh at. I can be Mars: will you be Venus?”

  “You’ll have noticed my accent: I’m American. Freedom, democracy and the rights of man. And the rights of woman, too. So I’m not a believer in pagan deities.”

  As if on cue, the band switches to a new tune: Sousa’s ‘Liberty Bell’. A playful smile is on du Pavey’s lips: I feel he’s about to tease me, but he sees my warning glance, and reverts to our earlier topic. “To answer your question about motoring – yes. I’m a racing driver, Agnes. Quite a successful one, if I may say. A second son who won’t inherit the family estate has to do something. I daresay I’m a disappointment to my father, and I’m the opposite of my elder brother, who will become the next Marquis of Breckland. In fact, my brother sickens me: he seems like an old man already, and spends his time being sensible and talking about the family estate. He’s constantly in meetings with his tenant farmers, you know. What a frightful waste of time.”

  “So you don’t spend your time ‘being sensible’, Rufus?”

  “It’s possible to be successful without being sensible, Agnes. I happen to be a risk-taker, a daredevil if you will. My motor racing prizewinnings are substantial enough for me to explore the new world of flight, which is what really excites me.”

  Now that Rufus is saying things that may help our investigation, I make an effort to smile at him encouragingly. “I have heard a rumor that you are to attempt a virgin flight. Across Lake Ontario, from Canada to the United States. That must be nearly a hundred miles?”

  “Hundred-mile flights are no longer news, Agnes. What I’m doing is something rather more dramatic than that. You see, it’s actually a passenger flight.”

  “Like a passenger on a ship?”

  “Exactly. Aviation has advanced so much now that – I believe – we are on the threshold of scheduled, passenger flights, just like ships or trains.”

  “Can that really be viable? Like a business, you mean, not just for show.”

  “It indeed can be viable. For example, you can imagine a passenger service across the English Channel. Imagine that you are a pilot who flies across the Channel, just like Blériot did – but, you run the service every day. You carry paying passengers for whom time is money: who want to get from London to Paris, fast. And the same type of service could operate across the Great Lakes, linking the USA and Canada. I want to prove that this can be done by making the first flight from Toronto to Niagara Falls. Two passengers will accompany me on the flight. Originally there was to be just one, but I have full confidence in the engine power of my airplane: it can carry a pilot and two other people in complete safety. Actually, I’ve not yet put forward my idea of the extra passenger to my financial backers – but I’m sure they’ll say yes. I’ve named the airplane ‘Empire State’ to appeal to them. You see, my principal sponsor also happens to have agreed to be my passenger for the flight…”

  “And your second passenger?”

  “Well, as I say, that’s all a bit hazy at the moment. But once I’ve successfully crossed Lake Ontario, I expect my sponsor to invest much more in me and my ideas.”

  “Unless you give him – or her – a fright, when you’re both in the air.”

  “Oh, there’s no risk of that. It’s perfectly safe. And, when the flight succeeds, other investors will follow too. The news and excitement surrounding the flight guarantees huge public interest in my venture. So within a few months I’ll have people queuing up, to pay me for the privilege of flying with me. Every single flight will be hugely profitable. I’ll lead the world’s first large-scale air passenger service. An air-line.”

  “Like a shipping line.” I muse over this novel idea.

  The flickering smile again. “So, shall we find this cabin of yours?”

  “Yes, thank you: it will be nice to get settled. And then, Rufus, I’m sure you’ll be glad to get to your own cabin.” We descend the staircase to “C” deck, into corridors lined with first-class cabins. Some of these are large Parlor suites like the one we had on the Titanic, but others are smaller, including a few single cabins. Chisholm insisted that I travel first-class on the Olympic, and he said that the cost was part of the murder investigation fund. I argued about that, but not too strongly; truth be told, it would be nice to try a little luxury for myself. Most of all, I’m looking forward to having a cabin to myself: on the Mauretania I shared with five other women. And, as we leave the staircase and step into the central first-class lobby of C deck, I recall my journey on the Titanic: I traveled, effectively, as Blanche’s genteel servant, and she rarely let me have time to myself.

  “So, Agnes, is the purpose of your voyage to visit family in America? But then, you did mention that you were travelling for ‘business’?...”

  He clearly enjoys talking about himself – so, is it politeness or curiosity that makes him turn the conversation to me? “I do hope to see my family, yes, Rufus. They’re out in Connecticut. By the way, I think my cabin will be along that corridor.”

  “Ah yes, I should have guessed – a New England accent. But I’d guess you’ve lived in Britain for some years? You sound very educated…”

  “I’ve lived in England for two years. Sussex and London. And as for your assump
tions about my education – well, we have every bit as much education in New England as in old England, Mr du Pavey… Rufus. In fact, we probably have more. Schooling for all has been compulsory in Connecticut for well over sixty years. I got all my book-learning at the Israel Putnam High School in my hometown. Plus, I knew both German and French-Canadian émigré families, so I picked up a couple of languages from them. I also used to work Saturday mornings for some pin-money at Babikov’s Tailors, across the road from my father’s shop, so I got to learn a smattering of Russian, too.”

  “Very clever of you. School work and all that was never my strong point –”

  “Nor was it mine, Rufus. I’m not clever at all – but like I say, I got lucky with the languages. Apart from that, I was an average student. But I was keen to get into some kind of employment that might broaden my horizons. Then, an opportunity turned up unexpectedly, on your side of the Atlantic. Paradoxically, for me, England is the New World.” We’re now in one of the first class corridors: the electric lighting looks odd, yellowy, after the daylight. I catch Rufus’s eye. “I’d like to see your flight.”

  “Maybe you will. I guess it’s unlikely, but might you be in the Niagara Falls area during your stay in America?...”

  “I don’t know – but if I can, I will come and see it.