claims, but I keep a straight face. After all, he’s praising me. He carries on. “Miss Agnes has a keen mind – but another of her traits is absolute loyalty of character. Chisholm, you yourself said, only moments ago ‘I’d trust her with my life’. So I will be completely open. Colette Morgan works for a newly-formed and very special police force – the United States’ Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
I’m intrigued. “A woman police officer?”
“No. She does not wear a uniform, or carry a truncheon! Colette Morgan works covertly, on her own initiative, obtaining information and sending it in secret to the Bureau. Some of her reports have been of great interest to not only to the American government and police forces, but to the British government, too. That is why Chisholm is hesitant about me telling you about Miss Morgan. He is, after all, a British Home Office official. Civil servants tend to be very touchy when it comes to risks to the nation’s security.”
“I don’t really understand, Professor.”
The professor explains to me. “As you know, Miss Agnes, this is an age of spies. Here in Britain, we have anarchists, republicans, agents of the Kaiser, and those who would use violence to gain the independence of their homelands from British rule. In the United States, there are likewise enemy spies, and revolutionaries – you will recall, of course, the murder of President McKinley by the anarchist Leon Czolgosz.”
“I do indeed. I was only nine years old at the time, but I recall the news, clear as day. Everyone was so shocked.”
“Well, in the time since then, in both Britain and the United States, the level of risk has increased. It seems that everyone these days wants to take power into their own hands – by force if necessary. Some of these revolutionaries and spies are allied to criminal gangs who operate across state boundaries. Colette Morgan is – how can I put it with delicacy – a lady who befriends men, about whom the Federal Bureau of Investigation needs to know more, if you understand my meaning. Such men often – in intimate moments – tell her things that they would otherwise keep secret.”
“Like you’re telling me, now.”
I sense the men are smiling inwardly at my innocence.
“Not exactly, no, Miss Agnes. But all you need to know, right now, is that Percy Spence, as a trusted friend of many senior British statesmen, was given the mission of contacting Miss Morgan, in secret, while both were travelling on the Titanic. The British Secret Intelligence Bureau and the American Federal Bureau of Investigation had agreed that Spence and Morgan were to exchange information regarding a criminal plot. The plot has some of its roots in New York, but its aim is to cause some kind of large-scale terrorist attack on London.”
“That seems – extraordinary.”
“Indeed. But I do have definite evidence that such a plot exists – even if at the moment I have no idea of its nature or of who may be involved in it. Nor do I have any idea of what form the terror attack may take.”
“But professor, I still don’t understand. If the United States Government and this Federal Bureau organization rely on Colette Morgan to provide secret information, and swap intelligence with Percy Spence, then surely she must be very highly trusted. So – is she likely to be a murderer?”
“Colette is one of two people on my list whose location I cannot trace, despite every effort. It is as if she has disappeared from the face of the earth. We know that she survived the Titanic disaster, and I believe that she was living – again under the name Maria Jones – for a few months in Manhattan. Under that name, she sent four more reports to the Bureau, all of them very detailed, but they have no idea of her exact whereabouts. Some agents at the Bureau believe that this disappearance is deliberate. They believe that over the past two years, Colette has fallen for the charms of one of the revolutionary leaders – a Mr Jimmy Nolan. Nolan is originally from Dublin, but he now resides, we believe, in New York, where he has extensive criminal connections. Colette Morgan may well be there with him, as his mistress. Now, if she has indeed betrayed the US Government and the Bureau to Nolan, she may have supplied him and his criminal network with untold amounts of American and British secret intelligence. In which case –”
“Colette would have cause to murder Spence?”
“Very much so. It is possible that Spence met Colette Morgan on the Titanic, as planned, to swap information. But then he realized her treachery: perhaps he confronted her with it.”
Chisholm buts in. “And he may have paid for that confrontation with his life.”
“Indeed, Chisholm. Colette Morgan may have realized that if Spence survived the Titanic’s voyage, she would be facing the electric chair. So, like Gilmour, Colette Morgan had motive, and probably means and opportunity too, for murder.”
I look at Axelson. “I guess the problem is, Professor, that there seems to be very little solid information about this woman.”
“Have faith in me, Miss Agnes. My investigations into Colette Morgan are only just beginning. But also, her name is not the end of my list. There are other suspects too.”
“So, who else is there?”
“Another person with means, opportunity and motive is Rufus du Pavey. He too was aboard the Titanic, and was a close friend of Spence.”
“I have to confess, Professor, that I know far too much about the gossip in the society papers. I’ve heard of du Pavey: the second son of the Marquis of Breckland. A very colorful character, apparently. I know that he was Spence’s automobile racing co-driver – and his co-pilot, for Spence’s flying ventures.”
Chisholm nods. “Yes. They were a well-known team.”
I carry on. “You say, Professor, that the real reason for Spence’s voyage on the Titanic may have been to swap information with Colette Morgan. But there was a publicly known reason for Spence and du Pavey to be travelling to North America on the Titanic. The purpose of their voyage was to attempt a record-breaking airplane flight across Lake Ontario, from Canada to the United States. Toronto to Niagara Falls, I recall. After the Titanic disaster and Spence’s death, the flight attempt was cancelled, of course. Since then, du Pavey has continued motor racing and aviation – but his reputation was built through his partnership with Spence. They were a celebrated pair. So why on earth would Rufus du Pavey want to kill Percy Spence?”
This time, Chisholm answers. “Du Pavey has deep financial problems. His lifestyle is extravagant, with rumors of gambling, and bad company. One example: Axelson and I know that at a recent stay at the new Ritz Hotel in London, he caused a hundred pounds’ worth of damage to his hotel suite, while under the influence of alcohol. In fact, we know that he owes money to all the major London hotels, and some in New York too. His own funds have run out, and now his family refuse to help him further. The professor and I have heard that he is within an ace of the Carey Street bankruptcy court.”
“So – how does all that make him a murder suspect?”
“We suspect, Agnes, that he may have resorted to blackmailing Percy Spence, in order to get money to pay off his debts.”
“Blackmailing about what?”
The professor speaks again, “We don’t know, unfortunately. At the moment I have found only circumstantial evidence. But that evidence all points one way. I am confident that we will find proof that du Pavey is a hardened blackmailer and extortionist.”
“So Professor, du Pavey is your third suspect. And your fourth is? –”
“Yes. The fourth suspect – who is, of course, the last one whose name I will tell you. A man who was definitely aboard the Titanic. A Mr Carver. That’s all I have: a name. I have checked every possible record, and there is nothing else. A total blank: a mystery, a cipher.”
“So why do you know nothing about him? And why is he a suspect?”
“It’s our very lack of knowledge that makes him a suspect. As I say, I have made an exhaustive search. And apart from his appearing in the Titanic passenger list – this Mr Carver, he does not exist.”
Out of the window I can see only a blank darkness as we tr
avel across the flat country towards Cambridge, except occasional trees looming up, their skeletal winter branches like bony arms in the mist. At Cambridge station, the fog is even thicker, and a half-hour delay is announced to our branch line journey. Well, at least the service is still running, I tell myself as we eventually board our small, shabby, empty train. Finally, the whistle blows for our departure. It’s nearly half-past eight by the time the little train pulls up in dense mist at a forlorn, unlit trackside halt. There are no houses near the station, none at all, and in the light from the train I see that the wooden station sign “Fen Dutton Halt” is faded, almost invisible. The only other things I can make out in the fog are two dim black shapes: the silhouettes of a waiting horse and carriage. I look at the professor as we step down from the train.
“I’m amazed this service stops here. Does anyone ever use this station?”
“Someone else is using it now.” I glance behind us, but in the thick mist I can see only the vaguest outline of a solitary figure stepping from the rear of our train. The figure doesn’t walk, but simply stands at the far end of the platform, still as a post. I shiver in the damp cold, and we walk towards our waiting carriage. The driver’s only welcome to us is a silent nod. We open the carriage door, tell him that we are sorry for keeping him waiting,