William Seil - The Furt The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - The Titanic Tragedy

We were in the ship’s hold, in an area used for storage of various odds and ends. Judging by the V shape of the room, we were in the forward-most area of the deck. I could hear a roaring sound through the heavy steel hull, as the ship cut its way through the water. Futrelle and I had been thrown on a pile of empty sacks, which were slightly moist. There was a chill in the air, and I longed for the warmth and comfort of my cabin.

‘How are you, Doctor? Is there anything I can do for you?’

I blinked, attempting to clear my vision. ‘You can call a steward. Ask him to send two aspirin and someone to untie these ropes.’

‘We will attend to the aspirin, but I am afraid I cannot help you with the other. By the way, Swede apologizes for hitting you with his gun but you should not have tried to escape.’

I turned to face my fellow prisoner. ‘How are you, Futrelle?’

‘As well as can be expected in the circumstances. I was just trying to get Brandon here to explain what this is all about. So far, no luck.’

Brandon smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll be happy to explain, although I am a bit surprised that the two of you have not been able to deduce it for yourselves.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

Brandon put down the lamp and sat on a nearby crate. ‘Just that here, I have two of the most famous mystery writers of our time. Doctor Watson, you record the cases of Sherlock Holmes. And Mr Futrelle, you have your fictional detective, Professor Van Dusen, whom you call The Thinking Machine. Yet, neither of you have the slightest notion of what I have planned... But then, you have been investigating and asking a lot of questions. Perhaps you know more than you will admit to.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said, doing my best to outbluff this old poker player. ‘But, for the sake of the details, pray start from the beginning.’

‘I would be glad to, Doctor. Well then, I suppose if you want me to give you the complete story, I should tell you about a boy growing up in London.

‘I had a comfortable upbringing, good parents, a fine education. I also had a great love of games — anything competitive. At the university, I excelled at football and cricket, but most of all I loved evening card games with the members of my teams. If someone outstripped me on the playing field, I knew it would not be long before I would be collecting their weekly allowance at the poker table.’

Truly, Brandon had a captive audience but I still had the freedom of protest. ‘This is all very fascinating, Brandon, but I do not see...’

‘Background, Doctor. I want you to understand today’s events in the light of what I have discovered in life. It is only then that you can understand, and perhaps accept, what is about to happen.’

‘Then please continue.’

‘Thank you, Doctor. Well, life was good and I felt quite content with my studies and sport. Still, my existence appeared to lack meaning. I had no direction that would allow me to make my mark on the world. Ironically, it was a game of poker that helped me to find that direction.

‘I was playing with some of the older students and losing rather badly to a fellow named McKee. The rest of us looked on McKee as an odd sort, because he belonged to some peculiar political groups, and his bookshelves were filled with Marx, Engels and other socialist thinkers. But in his favour, he was a good card player and a congenial fellow, so we invited him into our games.

‘We were about to conclude for the night, with McKee holding most of the chips, when he offered a most interesting wager. He said he would bet all his winnings on one hand of poker. If he lost, we would recover our losses. But if he won, we would agree to accompany him to a meeting of the Marching Together League, a student socialist society. At first I refused, thinking that my evening’s losses were hardly worth diminishing my reputation, especially if my parents ever found out. But McKee assured me that my attendance would remain secret, and if anyone did find out, he would support my story that I was there to repay a poker debt. I did end up accepting his wager, as did the two other players at the table, who had lost even more than me.

‘Well, McKee’s luck held out, and on the following Thursday night we found ourselves at a smoky Oxford bar, listening to fiery rhetoric from some highly intelligent speakers. Except for one well-known history teacher, I did not recognize any of them. Yet, within their own circle, they were well regarded and respected. I began to consider my own values and soon concluded that money — while a worthy goal in games of chance — should not be used by the powerful to oppress the weak. Within a fortnight I had decided to join the Marching Together League.

‘After coming down from Oxford I told my father I wanted to take some time to see a bit of the world before entering the bottom rungs of his brokerage business. He seemed disappointed, but agreed to fund my trip as a graduation present. I said I would return in no more than six months, after touring Europe and visiting friends of my father along the way. He wanted this to be a business education, as well as a cultural experience. I felt guilty but deep in my heart I did not consider my acceptance to be an out-and-out lie. After all, I did plan to visit his friends and might, ultimately, decide to return to my father’s business. But, in the meantime, my travels would complete another type of education that began with the Marching Together League. I would make contact with socialist organizations throughout Europe, and look for opportunities to build a stronger alliance.

‘I looked up one of my father’s friends in Paris, but abandoned my business pursuits after this one stop. Instead, I devoted my time to the mission given to me by the league. The money given to me by my father was a more than ample stake to begin a successful career as a card player... Sadly, I never saw or contacted my parents again. I understand that my father died last year. You must understand, gentlemen, I loved my parents. I bear a great burden of guilt. Yet, I could not return to them and explain why I did what I did. They would never have understood.’

‘That’s a fine biographical account,’ said Futrelle, ‘but it does not explain why we are here, bound from hand to foot.’

Brandon, who had come to look somewhat melancholy, quickly regained his earlier enthusiasm. ‘Yes, gentlemen, to the point. As you know, the launching of this ship was greeted with a good deal of trumpeting. In fact, the Titanic is seen as a symbol of the infallibility of the British Empire and the capitalist system. If this ship sinks on its maiden voyage, the loss of confidence by capitalist countries will be immeasurable.’

‘You mean to sink the Titanic !’ I shouted. ‘Hundreds of innocent people would die! You cannot be serious!’

‘Oh, I am very serious. And as for those who will die, well, my burden of guilt will grow immensely. But remember, thousands, even millions die in wars. This one incident will bring us a giant step closer to world socialism.’

‘Brandon, stop this insanity!’ said Futrelle. ‘This ship does not have enough lifeboats. Only a fraction, if any, will be saved. And do not forget, you and your men will die too.’

‘No, no, not if we follow our plan.’ Brandon was pacing back and forth, like a professor before a blackboard. ‘A ship will be waiting for us a mile off the starboard side at around midnight. It has instructions to signal to us, to guide our approach. At 1 am two nitroglycerine charges will be set off by timers. One, in fact, is right here in this hold. Another is elsewhere in the ship.’

I looked around the hold but did not see any signs of a bomb. ‘Give it up, Brandon. Sinking a ship will not further your cause. If anything, the authorities of the world will band together to destroy you and your organization.’