Jumieges

1

It always starts with a body. My involvement in crime always begins with a body. Murder is the most heinous of crimes even in our modern times. My appointment as a detective came after the unfortunate Crippen murder case. Working the beat, I knew the Doctor and Cora Crippen well. My suspicions and Inspector Dew's led us to search their house. The search led us to discover the body, leading to Inspector Dew's dramatic speedy crossing of the Atlantic to arrest the subject and his girlfriend.

The body's condition was much better than Cora Crippen's. The deceased woman wore a dark green jacket, a few shades darker than emerald. The jacket appeared to be tight, far tighter than the rest of her apparel. "Borrowed?" I wondered aloud.

The woman had been killed at close range by a small-caliber weapon, probably a .25. Beneath the jacket, she wore a dark tan shirt. Next to the jacket's top button, a hair's breadth from the jacket material, was a small hole, scorch marks surrounding the hole.

"How was the body found?" I asked the officer standing near the door. The door belonged to a room above The Rusty Hound, a notorious and noisy pub. The sound of a shot at close range could easily escape notice.

My long coat brushed against him as I passed into the hallway. Across the hall stood a door, slightly open. I saw a rumpled bed, a standing mirror, and nothing else.

The officer answered behind me. "The pub owner rents the room out. His barmaid found the body this morning."

"And why did the barmaid come up this morning?" Most pubs clean up before closing.

The officer shrugged, making it clear it was my job to ask the questions and get the answers. "Is the pub owner downstairs?" Again, the shrug, "Alright. Stay here."

2

The pub owner had been up most of the night, as had the barmaid. They were waiting at the bar, talking together; weariness hung on them like a cloak. An officer stood inside the door, watching them. I knew him. Whispering, I asked him, "Anything interesting?"

"No, just the normal." It meant the two were playing paddy fingers, maybe for extra pay, maybe not.

"Thank you." Walking to the bar, the two noticed me and fell silent. "My name is William Jumieges. I'm with Scotland Yard."

"What are you, French?" The pub owner asked.

Smiling with my teeth, I answered for the thousandth time, "No, I'm Norman. Tell me, who murdered the lass?"

"I don't know." The barmaid answered after a long look from the owner.

"Neither do I," He added.

"You have a dead body in a room of your establishment, and you don't know? Did you hear the shot at least?" Both shook their head negatively.

"You found her, right?" Pointing at her with my left hand. My index finger had been broken in a bar fight years earlier. I never had it set correctly. In a place, much like the pub, we stood in. Curved and gnarly, I found the sight of it, unsettled witnesses.

"Yes, this morning." She paused, glancing at my finger and then at the owner. "We worked late, you see. And, I, I put off cleaning up until the morning."

The owner added, "The people who rent the room upstairs stay late. I don't know what they do up there. We stop serving about midnight and leave them be."

"You don't know what they do up there? You could have a Guy Fawkes up there, and you don't know?" I moved closer to them both. I'm not a large man. The coat helps make me appear more prominent, but a little physical intimidation goes a long way. I did not believe it would take much to get them to spill what little they did know.

"No. No, I don't. I care about the cash. They pay on time and keep to themselves." Here he paused a moment, then, in a rush, the barmaid said, "I do know where they are going."

3

The train to Southampton ran late, fifteen minutes. Five minutes were added at nearly every stop. Checking my watch, I would have just enough time to make my way to the docks from Southampton station. Time was going to be tight. It would be crowded today, and without a ticket, I would need to convince the deck officer to let me on board.

Reviewing the interrogation, I was not surprised the bar owner knew very little. Pubs like the Rusty Hound are notoriously known for their fights and discretion. Discretion and privacy were vital, including what the group stood for; neither knew nor cared. They cared about information and its value. This group had kept everything quiet, close, and paid for discretion.

The pub owner only knew the name of one person in the group, Gordon Samuelson. I knew the name but not the man. Mr. Samuelson was a local distiller of whiskey. I found his whiskey too smokey, but in a pinch, it would do. The pub owner agreed with my assessment. In exchange for favorable pricing, the upstairs room was at Mr. Samuelson's disposal for the right price, of course.

Items sped me to Southhampton and pointed my investigation at four prime suspects. The Rusty Hound's barmaid, whom I suspected was the owner's paramour, shared several pieces of critical information. First, she kept her eyes down whenever she entered that room, regardless of who was in it. Second, she made it her business to not know names. "Tis' safer that way."

My discerning the group's immediate plans, while easy, added complexity to my case.

After serving a tray of trifles, five empty glasses, and two bottles of Samuelson's Scotch Whiskey, the barmaid tried to quickly escape. Fleeing the room before the whiskey-smelling man grabbed her again. I asked her about this man. She did not know his full name like the others, but she knew the type.

He was wealthy, powerful, and could get away with whatever he wanted. Money bought him freedom. Freedom from consequences. She made sure she was never alone with him, even for a few moments.

"Leave her alone." By the maid's description, I knew it was the victim who spoke, Talia Smythe. Her tone was thick with emotion.

"Maybe she'd like a drink since you don't seem to be imbibing tonight," The whiskey-smelling man answered.

"Fine, I will have a drink. Let her go." Talia proffered.

The man smiled wickedly at the barmaid, then shoved her towards the door. The other group members ignored the drama, except the man she called a dandy. He smiled thinly, taking the barmaid's upper arm and leading her out the door. "Good night, dear," he said, closing the door.

The barmaid shared one last detail, which sped me on my way. Behind the door, she heard the dandy say, "We should toast our trip to America."

We all knew what this meant. The next day, a trip to America, on April 10, 1912, could be only one ship, "The Titanic."

4

"Captain Smith, sir!" The Pursuer waited patiently. The Captain despised interruptions, especially after the chaos of the S.S. New York nearly collided with his new ship.

The Captain glanced at the man. The tug had saved his ship and the S.S. New York. He watched the tugboat until he calculated that the danger had passed. "Yes, Mr. McElroy?"

"A Detective Jumieges is currently on board, sir. He would like to speak with you when convenient."

"Jumieges?" The Captain thought a moment, recalling the name and the man. "Oh yes, he helped the Ismay family in a delicate matter. I admire his skill, not his methods. Do you know what he wants with us?"

"No, sir. He only said it was a matter of utmost importance. He wants to speak with you well before we dock in Cherbourg."

"Hmm, very well, escort him to my Sitting Room. I'll join him in an hour."

Captain Smith kept me waiting two hours. I didn't mind as his Scotch made excellent company. Besides the booze, the cigars he kept were semi-sweet to the taste. By the time the Captain arrived, all my edges had smoothed out. Sober, I admit, I am a less than pleasant human being. I have to be. I wade through the excrement of society. After a few drinks, I am a bit friendlier.

"What can I do for you, Detective Jumieges?" Captain Smith asked, frowning, as he walked through the door. "Please make it quick as we will be docking in Cherbourg in a few hours."

Dropping my feet from his coffee table, I answered, "I am investigating a murder. I believe my main suspects are on board."

Captain Smith interjected, "The names of these suspects?"

"Well, there are four. Unfortunately, I only know the name of one suspect, Gordon Samuelson."

"Hmm, I see. And why do you believe these three unknowns are with Mr. Samuelson?"

"So, he is on board?" Captain Smith nodded his agreement. I continued, "Mr. Samuelson is part of a small private group. There were five members of this group." I let the were hang in the air, then said, "The fifth person, the missing fifth, was murdered last night."

"I see," Captain Smith answered. "You assume the other three are a part of Mr. Samuelson's party, and you need my permission to, what is it called, ah yes, interrogate them." It was a statement. Ringing for the Pursuer, the Captain stood stoically, glaring at me. The Pursuer must have been waiting in a room down the hall. I could not have counted to five before he entered.

"Mr. McElroy, please seat the Detective at Mr. Samuelson's table tonight, will you?" Turning to me, the Captain continued, "I expect you to behave yourself. Dinner will allow you to observe and ask polite questions. Mr. McElroy may join you for dinner. He will make sure you do not overstep your bounds. Listen closely, Detective Jumieges. I am the law on this ship. You are under my orders. If you act as you did at the Ismay Ball, I will have you in chains. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Captain," I answered pleasantly enough. Unctuous man that he was. The alcohol helped.

Dressed in a borrowed dinner jacket, I was seated at the Samuelson table. Surprisingly, his table was as far from the Captain's table as possible. The table pushed back in a dark corner sat six. Next to me sat an empty chair. No one from the ship's company joined us. Interestingly, the chair was left in place.

I quickly realized Mr. Samuelson and his friends, while First Class Passengers, were part of the bottom end of their class. The other passengers and the ship's company took minor pains to let them know this.

The Pursuer informed me before dinner the following. Samuelson was seen as no more than a whiskey peddler, a successful one by far, but still a peddler. His female friend, Mary Cecily Hawkins, an artist, came from old money. Robert Fullerton, a gambler and new friend of Gordon Samuelson. The oddity at the table, the one who did not fit, Herbert James, was a dandy. An M.P. who had married into his wealth and inherited the public office from his father-in-law. The Pursuer also confirmed Talia Smythe was a ticketed passenger who never arrived.

"The mutton is delicious, is it not?" I asked the table. Our host stopped speaking with the artist and nodded his agreement. The table conversation had been little and only between them. I was the outsider. I listened more than I spoke.

The artist looked at me, appraising me, before asking, "Pray tell, who are you?"

"My name is William Jumieges. I am an Inspector with Scotland Yard."

Each group member looked at each other silently before Mary Cecily pressed on, "Oh, an Inspector, like a Detective?"

"Yes, ma'am, quite. My title is Detective Inspector, but I much prefer Inspector."

Herbert James, the M.P. asked, “Jumieges? Are you related to that monk?"

"What monk, Herbert?" The artist asked.

"Oh, you know, the monk who wrote about the Norman conquest a few centuries back. Or is your family from Jumieges?" The last was directed at me.

"Both, I believe. Tell me, why are you all going to New York?" The gambler had leaned back in his chair when I identified myself as an officer of the law. His body language spoke loudly of a bird ready to fly the coup. I suspected the man had many brushes with the law.

"Mr. Fullerton, you, sir are an American, are you not?"

"Yes, Inspector. I'm heading home." He leaned farther back in his chair. By the tightness of his vest, I could see that he carried a small pistol. A gambler's holdout or pocket pistol.

"And you, Miss?"

Sipping the last wine in her glass, she pursed her lips, then said, "It's the maiden voyage of this grand ship. An occasion not to be missed."

Samuelson answered without my prompting, "I am negotiating contracts with new partners in New York City."

"I understand the Americans are discussing prohibition. Does that worry you?"

"No, that will never happen."

"Hmm, and you, Mr. James? Why is a Member of Parliament on the Titanic?"

"I have to say, sir, you are well suited for your job." I arched my eyebrow in response. He continued, "You have sat there most of the evening listening fervently without seeming to listen. You also, obviously, spoke to the Pursuer about each of us as you know more than you let on. And your queries are pointed. Tell me, why are you here, at this table? Your jacket is borrowed after all."

"Tell me, why is this chair empty?"

The confusion on the faces of three of them told me volumes. Only the gambler did not look confused. The artist answered, "The crew member who was to dine with us fell ill. Why would that matter?"

"My seat is in place of the crew member. This chair," here I put my hand on the back of the seat, "was reserved for your comrade Talia Smythe, correct?"

"Yes, and where is Miss Smythe?" they all fell silent with only furtive glances. I let the silence draw on until they all began to squirm in their seats.

The silence grew deeper. "I will tell you where your friend is since none of you ask. Miss Smythe is dead. Killed, I suspect, by someone at this table."

Dinner ended shortly after that. I was not seated with the group again, nor was I allowed to dine with the other first-class passengers. My meals were served in the Captain's sitting room. Thankfully I was not put in chains.

5

I was in no hurry. And therefore, the investigation was in no hurry. I admit it. The Titanic had many distractions, and I took advantage of everyone. The whiskey was terrific, and the vodka even better. I did work. I made sure I ran into each of the suspects throughout each day. Asking my questions, poking around, stirring whoever and whatever I could.

The gambler stayed in the smoking-room playing cards all night and most of the day. I took a hand during a break, losing a few quid in less than a quarter-hour. While we never had more than a handful of words, I did learn what I wanted to know. The gambler's holdout was a Double-Barreled Derringer, 41 calibre. Far too large for the wounds on Miss Smythe.

I met the artist during a stroll around the deck the next day. She spoke relatively freely. I admit I seriously doubted her as a murderer, accomplice possibly, but I doubted even that. In my experience, I had dealt with only one female murderer. And I had not blamed the woman, her man had been a monster, but my job was not to judge. My job was to pursue.

My approach was cordial. We spoke for more than an hour about the ship and the weather. During our chat, I learned more about the group's meetings. "Our meetings are harmless, really. We talk economics and hegemony. Most of our talk centers around economics. We call ourselves the London Association for Societal Advancement. Frankly, we are a club. There are maybe nine or ten members. Only five, now four of us." Her voice caught, "There's never more than five of us in a meeting. You know how it is; only a few people do the work, and the rest hang around."

I was not surprised at the group's subject. After the successful minimum wage strike by Mary Macarthur, the various mining strikes of 1910, and the horror of the Pretoria Pit, labor and economics were still on the minds of most. I suspected the meetings were more subversive than she let on, but I investigate murders, not politics.

"Tell me. You said Miss Smythe had turned secretive?"

"Well, yes. Talia was quite talkative. I think her family, an uncle, was a part-owner of the chain makers. She had definite opinions about labor. She grew quiet," here she stopped walking, thinking back, "She grew quiet about three or four meetings ago."

"And how long would that be?"

"We met once a month, so 3-4 months ago."

"Why do you think she changed?"

"Frankly, I believe she took a lover."

The MP, Herbert James, was easy to track down. He spent most of his time in his cabin with his personal servant and his secretary, a woman half his age. I saw her once before he ushered her into the depths of his cabin. Within a minute of our conversation start, I knew I would learn nothing. Mr. James had the politician's skill of speaking ad nauseum without saying anything of value.

Gordon Samuelson proved much harder to pin down. He was never in his cabin, and I could not find him anywhere in First Class. I wondered if he was not hiding in someone else's cabin. The Purser proved no help muttering something about not being Mr. Samuelson's keeper. The man appeared as if from nowhere each night for dinner. A dinner I was not allowed to join. He slipped out each night before dessert.

Saturday night, I tracked him down. I watched him from the shadows. He was boozing with the commoners in steerage. I could see he felt more at home among the steerage, among his own. Mr. Samuelson had, according to the ship gossip, come from poor farming stock. His dad had laid aside a barrel and discovered a talent for making whiskey. His son had taken that talent and turned it into a business.

I left Mr. Samuelson in steerage. I had plenty of time. We were only halfway across the Atlantic.

6

By Sunday afternoon, I had gathered enough facts to start forming a provable theory. Most murderers were easy to identify. Most murders were easy to prove. A husband, a lover, a pimp, a boss, someone with something to gain by the death of another. Identifying the one who had the most to gain or the most to lose was where we always started. Unless the murderer was foolish enough to stand over the body with the murder weapon in hand.

A knock on my door roused me from bed. Opening the door, a ship's officer stood outside, handing me a telegraph message. "I am to await your response."

I opened the message. It was brief and to the point.

Status of your investigation? F. P. Wensley.

Taking a pencil stub out of my vest pocket, I scribbled a short message.

Main suspect on board. Will arrest before arrival.

I spent the rest of the day enjoying the service, the food, the alcohol, and the open deck. Keeping my body busy frees my mind. I am an instinctive thinker. I make logical leaps with minimal facts. Proving my logical leaps is an entirely different matter. Proof takes time.

I knew who the murderer was and had known since our dinner. Proving was an altogether different matter. It was my poking around which proved the murderer's undoing, that and fate.

7

The solution to my problem, proving the identity of the murderer, came down to three possibilities. One, the murderer would confess, which is highly unlikely. Two, I would search each suspect's cabin, knowing who the murderer was. It was unlikely I would find evidence or the murder weapon. I also knew without some evidence; the Captain would not allow me to search all four cabins. Or three, poke the bear.

I scribbled a singular note. I know it was you. I made sure the message was delivered, then waited in my cabin. A bottle of vodka kept me company. The smart move would be for the murderer to do nothing.

Later, tired of waiting, I left my cabin. Before leaving, I slipped my officer's sidearm into my left coat pocket. I planned to stroll along the deck, giving the murderer an opportunity to confront me.

The passageways of the Titanic were clear of passengers;

only a few deckhands moved about from time to time. I was ascending the stairwell to the main deck when a hand shot out, tripping me. My head bounced off the decking. Dazed, I rolled onto my back.

There, standing over me, was the M.P., Herbert James. He held a Mauser 1910 Pocket Pistol in his left hand, aimed at my heart. My hands lay at my side, coat bunched beneath me. My weapon is well out of reach.

8

Breath dragging across my teeth, I noted his pistol was the right calibre and would leave similar-sized holes in my chest. Smiling now, the murderer extended his arm, preparing to fire. Stupid man, my left leg shot straight up, kicking him in his groin. The look on his face would have been comical were the situation not so serious.

The M.P. gargled in his throat then fell backward, his body bouncing down the stairwell. Slowly rising, I felt my forehead. It was throbbing. My hand felt a nasty lump and came away sticky. The old anger welled up in me. Laying at the bottom of the stairwell lay a murderer and an infanticide. If my theory was correct.

Standing unsteadily, my mind whirled, as much from the vodka I knew as from the bump on my head. Steadying myself, I rubbed my eyes with my right hand. My left hand shot out, grasping the railing. Below me, I heard a shoe scuff the floor.

Lowering my hand, the murderer was raising his right. The small pistol it contained looked enormous. My death stared right at me.

My solace lay in knowing he would be caught. The Captain would see to it. I wanted to protest, speak, and say something to convince him to give up. I knew it was futile. I saw the madness in his eyes.

"Tell me one thing before you fire," I said, trying anyway.

Shaking his head, his arm extended again. Even in the darkened stairwell, I could see his hand flexing as his index finger squeezed the trigger. I made myself as small as I could, hoping the size of my jacket would fool him into shooting a less vital area than my chest. It would not work. He was aiming right at my heart.

I was thrown off my feet just as the gun fired. My body slammed into the wall to my right. I felt the bullet's heat pass by, and the motions before me slowed as if by some trick. I could see the murderer thrown off his feet. I saw him hit a steel door, his head bouncing off it. The pistol fell. And then we both slid down, staring into each other's eyes.

9

The chaos of the next two hours is impossible to recall with any kind of detail. I served in South Africa at the beginning of the Second Boer war. I remember the conflict, certain moments of it, but not my entire service. I remember the highlights or lowlights, depending on the view.

After the Titanic struck the iceberg, we did not know that several things happened seemingly all at once. The entire ship's crew appeared as if by magic. Two crew members helped us to our feet. We were ushered to the smoking-room, where a doctor tended my head and Mr. James' shoulder. The collision with the door had dislocated it.

The doctor gave us both a shot of some minty drink. He promised to return to bandage my head and fix the M.P.'s shoulder. We never saw him again.

I held my pistol in my lap loosely. I wanted answers. Both of us were drugged, beaten, and slumped in our chairs. We may have fallen asleep. We may have been delirious from the collision. I don't know for how long we were incoherent. When I came to, the murderer lay unconscious across the room. The room stood at an odd angle. Outside the door, I can hear screaming and crying.

Pistol in hand, I opened the door to find a crowd of passengers flowing by me. The ship was sinking quickly by the feel. Turning, I grabbed the murderer, shaking him awake. Shoving him before me, I pushed him onto A-deck. The man screamed. I swear he cried.

The water was only a few feet below. Boats were dropping, half-filled. Wooden parts of the ship were floating amongst the fleeing lifeboats. Bloody hell, I thought. We need to get off this ship. The murderer, ashen white, turned me. Panic-stricken, he was about to run. I clubbed him with my pistol and then shoved him overboard. He hit the water with a satisfying thud.

Dropping my coat, I jumped in after him. I knew the water was freezing when my heart skipped a beat. Kicking once then again, I reached the man. My arm locked around his waist. Swimming as well as I could, I made my way toward a far lifeboat. I needed to put as much distance between us and the ship as possible. I had witnessed a ship sink when I was a boy.

Ships tend to take people with them when they sink.

Later, when he came to, I put a lot of anger into that strike; he was sullen. Upset at being caught, no embarrassment about the two murders. And there were two murders. Talia Smythe was, as I thought pregnant, with his child. It was her pregnancy that drove him to it, he said. His wife, you see. She would not have stood for bastard children, especially since they had none of their own.

Murderers are all alike; they blame everyone else.

I promised myself I would be there when he hangs. Then he asked me the oddest question, "Why did you save me? I'm a murderer. You despise me."

"Yes, I do despise you. And you are a murderer, an especially heinous one. You took the lives of two human beings. Why should I save you? Because I understand what you do not. Life is precious, mon enemi mortals. I hope you learn this on the gallows. And, Justice, she is resolute."