then.
“Spence! As you probably know, I’m Calvin Gilmour. You and I, we’ve never been formally introduced. But I thought I would take this opportunity to talk to you. Because on this voyage, I’ve noticed you. You seemed cheerful enough when we departed Southampton. But at dinner last night, when you dined alone, and now, up here on the Boat Deck – something’s wrong with you. Badly wrong. I don’t really know you well – I have to admit, I hardly even like you. But I can’t stand by and see a fellow suffer.”
A different voice comes from Gilmour’s lips. Refined and utterly English.
“Mr Gilmour. Are you taking the ocean air, like me? A brisk wind this morning. By the way, I’m sorry you and I have not had the opportunity to chat yet on this voyage. As you will no doubt have observed, I’ve become well acquainted with your wife. And I saw you at a table not far from me, at dinner last night – but of course, I’m also aware that you and Mrs Gilmour are in the cabin next door to mine. So you and I, we are temporary neighbors – but we’ve not yet spoken. Shall we take a stroll along towards the bridge?”
“Of course, Spence, let’s walk. But I didn’t come over to speak to you for mere social chit-chat. Tell me, Spence, what’s wrong, man-to-man. Because just now, the way you looked when I saw you leaning on that rail, I would not have been surprised to see you climb over it and jump into the ocean.”
“Thank you for your concern, Mr Gilmour. It’s appreciated, it really is. Truly decent of you. So I won’t pretend, or lie to you: yes, I have troubles. Troubles that are deep and serious. A matter of life and death, one might say. My problems can’t be solved, I’m afraid – there is nothing that you can help me with. But as you know, Gwyneth and I – we are friends. If anything should happen to me – you’ll support her, won’t you?”
The gruff American voice again. “I’m sorry to hear you’re in trouble. Is there nothing I can do?”
“To be honest, Mr Gilmour, I have enemies. They are cunning and deadly. I believe at least one of them is aboard this ship.”
“Do you think you are in danger of actual harm, then?”
“Yes. Very much so, in fact.”
“Well look, if you need a bodyguard... my man, aboard this boat. He keeps a discreet distance from me, but wherever I am, in New York, or London, or even on the goddamned Titanic in the middle of the ocean – he watches out for me. I could assign him to you.”
The English voice again. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. But, since you do have a man who is an expert in personal security, you could ask him a simple favor. To keep his eyes and ears open for anything suspicious taking place on board the Titanic. Because, to be honest, I don’t expect to survive this voyage. There is a man aboard this ship. Some know him as Daniel Carver, but he has many names.”
“What else do you know about him? Can you give me a description?”
“Unfortunately, I have only the name. I’ve never met him, and I have no idea what he looks like. He could be any one of a thousand men aboard this ship.”
“By the way, Spence. Let’s walk back towards your cabin. There was a man – back there – I got an impression he was listening to us.”
“I didn’t see anyone. But as I say, I have no description of this Mr Carver, and I expect he may be using a false name anyway. Unfortunately for me, I am completely in the dark about the man.”
“Why do you fear him?”
“That, I am not at liberty to say. Except I can tell you this: there are others, conspirators, behind him. He will act, but on their instructions. He is the sharp end of the wedge, the tip of the iceberg. And I believe that he has received instructions to kill me before the Titanic’s voyage is over.”
“Money troubles? Or a woman?”
“If only it were that innocent…”
“Well, you can be goddamned cryptic if you like, Viscount – but my offer stands. I’ll ask my man to keep his ears open for information about Daniel Carver.”
“Thank you. And you could ask Gwyneth? It’s possible that Carver may be connected to a matter that she knows about. She may be able to tell you more.”
“Gwyneth knows of this?” I hear a catch in Gilmour’s throat.
“It’s very unlikely that she knows Carver. But those who stand behind him…”
“What, some kind of conspiracy? What do you mean, man?”
“Don’t you know your own wife, Mr Gilmour? Don’t you?” The upper-class English voice, so strange coming from those heavy American lips, begins to break up: Gilmour’s breathing becomes troubled. Suddenly his eyes stare wide open, and I’m reminded of Kitty. But instead of Kitty’s passive panic, Gilmour moves – and his huge figure stiffens, his hands grip the chair, and he pushes himself up, standing, towering over the professor. His limbs look as strong as a gorilla’s. Chisholm stands too, ready to restrain him if Axelson loses control of the hypnosis. But then I hear the professor’s voice.
“Mr Gilmour, there’s no need to stand. Sit: let your knees flex, your shoulders soften, your back bend, your arms rest. Feel a sense of restfulness breathe through your body, like a breeze through the leaves of a tree. And as your muscles relax, let your mind relax too. There’s nothing to fear, nothing to worry about.”
Ten seconds pass: Gilmour’s breathing has become more regular again, but still he stands. But the professor doesn’t seem worried. He remains calm, and simply repeats his usual phrases, speaking slowly but firmly, rhythmically, like a wizard casting a spell. I see the tension ease in Gilmour’s neck and the lines of his face. Gradually, the tensed shoulders drop, and then Gilmour bends his knees. He sits in the chair again.
Axelson continues to repeat his words. “Nothing to fear, nothing to worry about.” Then, the professor becomes silent, as if he is giving space and time for Gilmour to respond to him.
The silence goes on. After a long time, I hear Gilmour’s own voice speaking again. It’s been five minutes or more since Axelson last spoke – yet Gilmour seems to be responding to the professor’s last statement.
“And yet, I do fear.”
“Fear what?”
“The ship is sinking.”
Gilmour’s eyes are open, but despite the hypnotic trance, I feel he is staring straight into my own eyes, a gaze of recognition. Like his soul is somehow connecting with mine. Then his glance flickers, rests on Chisholm, then Gwyneth. The memory, the shared experience we all have, of the Titanic. I think: the professor is the only person in this room who doesn’t know from personal experience how Gilmour feels.
I hear a loud, utterly different voice.
“Women and children first! Gentlemen, hold back, please. Women and children first!” This time, Gilmour’s voice is strong but rich: the robust but strangely musical tones of a seaman. Like a powerful tenor voice. Chisholm whispers to me. “A Welsh accent. The voice is that of Fifth Officer on the Titanic, Harold Lowe. Along with Second Officer Lightoller, he was responsible for loading the port side lifeboats, and he was then put in command of Lifeboat 14 after it was launched.”
I feel a tremor run through me as the voice’s Celtic tones echo in the Gilmours’ cabin. “Gentlemen, for God’s sake, please hold back. This lifeboat is for women and children only. It is also completely full. Any more bodies in it will cause it to sink.”
Gilmour reverts to his own voice. “Officer! You said women and children. Is there room in the boat? Room for my wife?”
“Yes sir, there is just room for one more lady. Madam – no hesitation – be quick now, get aboard. Within thirty seconds, the crew need to lower the lifeboat.”
“Gwyneth, you go. Look, you’re the last woman here. Get in the boat.”
Officer Lowe’s voice comes again from Gilmour’s lips, a booming cadence, shaking me in my seat. “Did you not hear me? Get back, sirs! All of you! Don’t crowd around this lifeboat. The crew need to do their work and lower the lifeboat safely.” There’s a pause, and then the voice comes again, with deadly emphasis.
“In God’s name I say to yo
u, sirs: if this lifeboat is swamped with bodies, it will tip over here in front of our eyes, and everyone in it will die.”
There’s a pause, a dead silence in the Gilmours’ cabin. The lamplight shines down on Calvin Gilmour: all else is darkness. One minute passes, and then I see the lips move yet again, and again I hear Officer Lowe’s voice, clear like a deep, clanging bell.
“I mean what I say, gentlemen! As you won’t respond to reason, I tell you: I have a pistol, and for the sake of these women in the lifeboat, I will shoot any man who attempts to climb into it.”
Gilmour’s eyes are opened wide, staring at unseen things. His breathing is becoming labored again, and even in the dim light I see that his face is turning pale. It’s as if he truly is back on the Titanic: that he is realizing, in front of our eyes, that the lifeboat is going to leave without him, and he is going to die. He reverts again to his own voice, but this time he seems to be speaking to himself, as if he is talking himself through everything he’s seeing and feeling. In that craggy but chalk-white face, his lips move and speak with a life of their own.
“There’s a huge crowd of men behind Gwyneth and me, shoving and pushing towards the boat. The ones at the front can’t hold back because of those pushing behind. There are hundreds of them. They’re like a tide, pressing towards the boat. They have all now realized the awful truth: this lifeboat in front of them is their only chance of