The Sedgemoor Strangler and Other Stories of Crime

The Problem of Stateroom 10

The conversation in the first class smoking room had taken a sinister turn.

“I once met a man who knew of a way to commit the perfect murder,” said Jacques Futrelle, the American author. “He was offering to sell it to me — as a writer of detective stories — for the sum of fifty pounds. I declined. I explained that we story writers deal exclusively in murders that are imperfect. Our readers expect the killer to be caught.”

“Now that you point it out, a perfect murder story would be unsatisfactory,” said one of his drinking companions, W.T.Stead, the campaigning journalist and former editor of the Pall Mall Gazette, now white-bearded and past sixty, but still deeply interested in the power of the written word. “Good copy in a newspaper, however. In the press, you see, we need never come to a conclusion. Our readers cheerfully pay to be held in suspense. They enjoy uncertainty. They may look forward to a solution at some time in the future, but there’s no obligation on me to provide one. If it turns up, I’ll report it. But I’m perfectly content if a mystery is prolonged indefinitely and they keep buying the paper.”

“The classic example of that would be the Whitechapel murders,” said the third member of the party, a younger man called Finch who had first raised this gruesome subject. His striped blazer and ducks were a little loud for good taste, even at sea.

“Dear old Jack the Ripper?” said Stead. “I wouldn’t want him unmasked. He’s sold more papers than the King’s funeral and the Coronation combined.”

“Hardly the perfect murderer, however,” commented Futrelle. “He left clues all over the place. Pieces of flesh, writing on walls, letters to the press. He only escaped through the incompetence of the police. My perfect murderer would be of a different order entirely.”

“Ha! Now we come to it,” said Stead, winking at Finch. “Professor S.F.X. Van Dusen. The Thinking Machine.”

“Van Dusen isn’t a murderer,” Futrelle protested. “He solves murders.”

“You know who we’re talking about?” Stead said for the benefit of the young man. “Our friend Futrelle has a character in his stories who solves the most intractable mysteries. Perhaps you’ve read “The Problem of Cell 13”? No? Then you have a treat in store. It’s the finest locked room puzzle ever devised. When was it published, Jacques?”

“Seven years ago — 1905 — in one of the Boston papers.”

“And reprinted many times,” added Stead.

“But The Thinking Machine would never commit a murder,” Futrelle insisted. “He’s on the side of law and order. I was on the point of saying just now that if I wanted to devise a perfect murder — in fiction, of course — I would have to invent a new character, a fiendishly clever killer who would leave no clues to his identity.”

“Why don’t you? It’s a stunning idea.”

“I doubt if the public are ready for it.”

“Nonsense. Where’s your sense of adventure? We have Raffles, the Amateur Cracksman, a burglar as hero. Why not a murderer who gets away with it?”

Futrelle sipped his wine in thoughtful silence.

Then young Finch put in his two-pennyworth. “I think you should do it. I’d want to read the story, and I’m sure thousands of others would.”

“I can make sure it gets reviewed,” offered Stead.

“You don’t seem to understand the difficulty,” said Futrelle. “I can’t pluck a perfect murder story out of thin air.”

“If we all put our minds to it,” said Stead, “we could think up a plot before we dock at New York. There’s a challenge! Are you on, gentlemen?”

Finch agreed at once.

Futrelle was less enthusiastic. “It’s uncommonly generous of you both, but—”

”Something to while away the time, old sport. Let’s all meet here before dinner on the last night at sea and compare notes.”

“All right,” said Futrelle, a little fired up at last. “It’s better than staring at seagulls, I suppose. And now I’d better see what my wife is up to.”

Stead confided to Finch as they watched the writer leave, “This will be good for him. He needs to get back to crime stories. He’s only thirty-seven, you know, and toils away, but his writing has gone downhill since that first success. He’s churning out light romances, horribly sweet and frothy. Marshmallows, I call them. The latest has the title My Lady’s Garter, for God’s sake. This is the man who wrote so brilliantly about the power of a logical brain.”

“Is he too much under the influence of that wife?”

“The lovely May? I don’t think so. She’s a writer herself. There are far too many of us about. You’re not another author, I hope?”

“No,” said Finch. “I deal in objets d’art. I do a lot of business in New York.”

“Plenty of travelling, then?”

“More than I care for. I would rather be at home, but my customers are in America, so I cross the ocean several times a year.”

“Is that such a hardship?”

“I get bored.”

“Can’t you employ someone to make the trips?”

“My wife — my former business partner — used to make some of the crossings instead of me, but no longer. We parted.”

“I see. An international art-dealer. How wrong I was! With your fascination for the subject of murder, I had you down for a writer of shilling shockers.”

“Sorry. I’m guilty of many things, but nothing in print.”

“Guilty of many things? Now you sound like the perfect murderer we were discussing a moment ago.”

Secretly amused, Finch frowned and said, “That’s a big assumption, sir.”

“Not really. The topic obviously interests you. You raised it first.”

“Did I?”

“I’m certain you did. Do you have a victim in mind?” Stead enquired, elaborating on his wit.

“Don’t we all?”

“Then you also have a motive. All you require now are the means and the opportunity. Has it occurred to you — perhaps it has — that an ocean voyage offers exceptional conditions for the perfect murder?”

“Man overboard, you mean? An easy way to dispose of the body, which is always the biggest problem. The thought had not escaped me. But it needs more than that. There’s one other element.”

“What’s that?”

“The ability to tell lies.”

“How true.” Stead’s faint grin betrayed some unease.

“You can’t simply push someone overboard and hope for the best.”

“Good. You’re rising to the challenge,” said Stead, more to reassure himself than the young man. “If you can think of something special, dear boy, I’m sure Jacques Futrelle will be more than willing to turn your ideas into fiction. Wouldn’t that be a fine reward?

“A kind of immortality,” said Finch.

“Well, yes. I often ask myself how a man would feel if he committed a murder and got away with it and was unable to tell anyone how clever he’d been. We all want recognition for our achievements. This is the answer. Get a well-known author to translate it into fiction.”

“I’d better make a start, then.”

The young man got up to leave, and Stead gazed after him, intrigued.

Jeremy Finch was confident he’d not given too much away. Stead had been right about all of us wanting recognition. That was why certain murderers repeated their crimes. They felt impelled to go on until they were caught and the world learned what they had done. Finch had no intention of being caught. But he still had that vain streak that wanted the world to know how brilliant he was. The idea of having his crime immortalised through the medium of a short story by a famous author was entirely his own, not Stead’s. He’d deliberately approached the two eminent men of letters in the smoking room and steered the conversation around to the topic of murder.

He wanted his murder to be quoted as one of the great pieces of deception. In Futrelle’s fine prose it would surely rank with Chesterton’s “The Invisible Man” and Doyle’s “The Speckled Band” as a masterpiece of ingenuity. Except that in his case, the crime would really have happened.

It was already several weeks in the planning. He had needed to make sure of his victim’s movements. This crossing was a God-send, the ideal chance to do the deed. As Stead had pointed out, an ocean voyage affords unequalled opportunities for murder.

He had made a point of studying the routine on C Deck, where the first class staterooms were. His previous transatlantic voyages had been second class, luxurious enough for most tastes on the great liners. His wife Geraldine always travelled first class, arguing that an unaccompanied lady could only travel with total confidence in the best accommodation, her virtue safeguarded. This theory had proved to be totally misfounded. Another dealer, a rival, had taken cruel pleasure in informing Finch after Geraldine’s latest trip to New York that he had seen her in another man’s arms. The news had devastated him. When faced with it, she admitted everything. Finch shrank from the public humiliation of a divorce, preferring to deal with the infidelity in his own way.

So for the first days of the voyage he observed his prey with all the vigilance of Futrelle’s creation, The Thinking Machine, getting to know his movements, which were necessarily circumscribed by the regularity of life aboard ship. He thought of himself as a lion watching the wretched wildebeeste he had singled out, infinitely patient, always hidden, biding his time. The man who was picked to die had not the faintest notion that Finch was a husband he had wronged. It wouldn’t have crossed his lascivious mind. At the time of the seduction, six months before, he’d thought lightly of his conquest of Geraldine. He had since moved on to other lovers, just as young, pretty, impressionable and easily bedded.

He was due to die by strangulation on the fourth evening at sea.

The place picked for the crime, first class stateroom 10 on C Deck, was occupied by Colonel Mortimer Hatch, travelling alone. By a curious irony it was just across the corridor from the stateroom where Jacques Futrelle was pacing the floor for much of each day trying to devise a perfect murder story.

Mortimer Hatch was forty-one, twice divorced and slightly past his prime, with flecks of silver in his moustache and sideburns. His shipboard routine, meticulously noted by Finch, was well established by the second day. He would rise about eight and swim in the first-class pool before taking breakfast in his room. During the morning, he played squash or promenaded and took a Turkish bath before lunch. Then a short siesta. From about three to six, he played cards with a party of Americans. In the evening, after dinner, he took to the dance floor, and there was no shortage of winsome partners. He was a smooth dancer, light on his feet, dapper in his white tie and tails. Afterwards, he repaired to the bar, usually with a lady for company.

It was in the same first class bar, on the third evening out from Southampton, that Jeremy Finch had a second meeting with Stead and Futrelle. They were sharing a bottle of fine French wine, and Stead invited the young man to join them. “That is, if you’re not too occupied planning your perfect crime.”

“I’m past the planning stage,” Finch informed them.

“I wish I was,” said Futrelle. “I’m stumped for inspiration. It’s not for want of trying. My wife is losing patience with me.”

“Nil desperandum, old friend,” said Stead. “We agreed to pool our ideas and give you a first-class plot to work on. I have a strong intimation that young Jeremy here is well advanced in his thinking.”

“I’m practically ready,” Finch confirmed.

“Tell us more,” Futrelle said eagerly.

Stead put up a restraining hand. “Better not. We agreed to save the denouement for the night before we dock at New York. Let’s keep to our arrangement, gentlemen.”

“I’ll say this much, and it won’t offend the contract,” said Finch. “Do you see the fellow on the far side of the bar, mustache, dark hair, in earnest conversation with the pretty young woman with Titian-red hair and the ostrich feather topknot?”

“Saw him dancing earlier,” said Stead. “Fancies his chances with the ladies.”

“That’s Colonel Hatch.”

“I know him,” Futrelle said. “He’s in the stateroom just across from mine. We share the same steward. And, yes, you could be right about the ladies. There was a certain amount of giggling when I passed the door of number 10 last evening.”

“All I will say,” said Finch, “is that I am keeping Colonel Hatch under observation. When he leaves the bar, I shall note the time.”

“Being a military man, he probably keeps to set times in most things he does,” said Stead.

“Even when working his charms on the fair sex?” said Futrelle.

“That’s the pattern so far,” said Finch, without smiling. “I predict that he’ll move from here about half past eleven.”

“With the lady on his arm?”

“Assuredly.”

The conversation moved on to other matters. “Are you married?” Futrelle asked Finch.

“Separated, more’s the pity.”

“Not all marriages work out. Neither of you may be at fault.”

“Unhappily, in this case one of us was, and it wasn’t me,” said Finch.

After an awkward pause, Stead said, “Another drink, anyone?”

At eleven twenty-eight, almost precisely as Finch had predicted, Colonel Hatch and his companion rose from their table and left the bar.

“I’m glad we didn’t take a bet on it,” said Stead.

“I think I’ll turn in,” said Futrelle. “My wife will be wondering where I am.”

“Good idea,” said Finch. “I’ll do the same. I need to be sharp as a razor tomorrow.”

Stead gave him a long look.

The next day, the fourth at sea, Colonel Hatch rose as usual at eight, blissfully unaware that it was to be his last day alive. He went for his swim, and the morning followed its invariable routine. Perkins, the steward for staterooms 10 to 14, brought him breakfast.

“Comfortable night, sir?”

“More than comfortable,” said the colonel, who had spent much of it in the arms of the redheaded heiress in stateroom 27. “I almost overslept.”

“Easy to do, sir,” Perkins agreed, for he, too, had enjoyed an amorous night in one of the cabins on D deck. At the end of an evening of fine wine and fine food there are sometimes ladies ready for an adventure with a good-looking steward. “Shall you be attending the service this morning, or will you promenade?”

“The service? By jove, is it Sunday already?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve done more than my share of church parades. I shall promenade.”

“Very good, sir.”

The colonel felt better after his Turkish bath. For luncheon, he had the fillets of brill, followed by the grilled mutton chops and the apple meringue. He then retired for an hour. Perkins had thoughtfully folded back the counterpane.

The latter part of the afternoon was devoted to cards, afternoon tea and conversation. He returned to his staterooms at six to dress for dinner. His starched white shirt was arranged ready on the bed.

At ten to seven, the colonel went to dinner. The seven-course meal was the social highlight of the day. The first-class dining room seated five hundred and fifty, and there were numerous young women travelling alone, or with their parents. He was confident of another conquest.

Meanwhile, Jeremy Finch did not appear at dinner. His murder plan had reached a critical point. He was lurking behind a bulkhead in the area of the first class staterooms, aware that whilst the passengers were at dinner, the doors had to be unlocked for the stewards to tidy up and make everything ready for the night.

Finch waited for Perkins to open Colonel Hatch’s staterooms. Methodical in everything, he knew what to expect. As each room was attended to, the steward left the door ajar, propped open with the bin used to collect all the rubbish.

Finch entered the cabin and stepped into the bathroom whilst Perkins was tidying the bed.

On Sunday evenings, there was no dancing after dinner. Colonel Hatch didn’t let this cramp his style. He was as smooth at conversation as he was on the dance floor. He sparkled. But for once he experienced difficulty in persuading a lady to adjourn with him to the bar for champagne. The little blonde he’d targeted said the stuff gave her terrible headaches, and anyway Papa insisted she retired to her cabin by ten o’clock, and personally made sure she was there. The colonel offered to knock on her door at half-past and share a bottle of claret with her, but the offer was turned down. At half-past, she told him, she would be saying her prayers, and she always said extra on Sundays.

Hatch decided this was not to be his night. He returned to his own stateroom.

At eleven-forty that Sunday evening, Able Seaman Frederick Fleet, the lookout on the crow’s nest, sounded three strokes on the bell, the signal that an object was dead ahead of the ship. It was too late. Nothing could prevent the Titanic from striking the iceberg in its path and having its under-belly torn open.

On C deck, high above the point of impact, there was a slight jarring sensation. Below, in steerage, it was obvious something dreadful had happened. At some time after midnight, the first lifeboats were uncovered and lowered. The confusion of the next two hours, the heart-rending scenes at the lifeboats, are well documented elsewhere. The women and children were given priority. It is on record that May Futrelle, the wife of the writer, had to be forced into one of the boats after refusing to be parted from her husband. Futrelle was heard to tell her, “It’s your last chance: go!” It was then one-twenty in the morning.

Futrelle would go down with the ship, one of about fifteen hundred victims of the sinking. The precise figure was never known. W.T.Stead also perished.

Between one and two in the morning there were pockets of calm. Many expected to be rescued by other vessels that must have picked up the distress signals. In the first-class lounge, the eight musicians played ragtime numbers to keep up the spirits. Some passengers got up a game of cards. Well-bred Englishman don’t panic.

Stead, Futrelle and Finch sat together with a bottle of wine.

“Whether we get out of this, or not,” said Stead, “I fear it’s our last evening together. If you remember, we had an agreement.”

“Did we?” said Futrelle, still distracted.

“The murder plot.”

“That?”

“It would do no harm to put our minds to it, as we promised we would.”

“I thought of nothing worth putting on paper,” said Futrelle, as if that was the end of it.

“Yes,” said Stead. “It defeated me, too. My brain can’t cope with the intricacies of a fictional crime. But I fancy Mr Finch may have interesting news for us.”

“What makes you think so?” Finch asked without giving away a thing.

“I believe you had a plan in mind before you ever joined the ship,” said Stead, “and I think you were tickled pink at the prospect of disclosing it to us and thus providing Mr Jacques Futrelle with a perfect plot. Is that correct?”

“In broad terms,” Finch conceded.

“Capital. And tonight you put it to the test.”

“You mean he actually killed someone?” said Futrelle in horror.

“That is my strong belief,” said Stead. “Am I right, Mr Finch? Come on, the ship is sinking. We may all perish. We deserve to be told.”

Finch sat back in his chair, vibrating his lips, deciding. Finally he said, “If you’re so well informed, why don’t you tell it?”

“As you wish. On the evening we met, you were a shade too eager to raise the topic of murder. You must have known of Futrelle’s ingenious books — the stories of The Thinking Machine. You wanted your perfect murder enshrined in fine prose by a great writer.”

“The theory, you mean?”

“No, sir. More than a theory. I first had my suspicions when you spoke to me of the great shock you suffered at the news of your wife’s infidelity on some transatlantic crossing. A real motive for murder.”

Finch shrugged.

Stead went on, “Yesterday evening in this very bar you drew our attention to Colonel Hatch in intimate conversation with a young lady. You told us precisely when they would leave together, and you were right. It was obvious you had made a study of his movements.”

“True. I didn’t hide it.”

“His routine was central to your plan.”

“Indeed.”

“Tonight you didn’t appear for dinner.”

“How do you know? I may have come late.”

Futrelle spoke. “Actually, I saw you. I was late going to dinner. I spotted you hiding in the corridor near my staterooms. It was clear you weren’t bothered about missing the meal. You had something else on your mind.”

“And that,” added Stead, “was the murder of Mortimer Hatch, your wife’s seducer. Cunningly you waited for an opportunity to gain admittance to his staterooms. The steward went in to tidy up and prepare the bed, put out the pyjamas, and so forth. You crept through the open door and hid in one of the rooms, probably the bathroom, which happens to be closest to the door. How am I doing?”

“Tolerably well.”

“You waited for the Colonel to return, and as it happened, it wasn’t such a long wait. He came back early, having failed to sweet-talk tonight’s young lady into the bar, let alone into bed. You killed him cleanly in his own staterooms, either with a blow to the head with some heavy object, or strangulation. Opened the porthole and pushed the body through. By then it was dark, and nobody saw. You left, unseen. I raise my glass to you. Perfect revenge. A near perfect murder.”

“Why do you say ‘near perfect’?”

“Because we rumbled you, old man. A perfect murder goes undetected. And isn’t it ironical that you chose tonight of all nights?”

“You mean it may not have been necessary?”

“We shall see.”

“Is this true?” Futrelle demanded of Finch. “Did you really murder the Colonel?”

Finch smiled and spread his hands like a conjurer. “Judge for yourselves. Look who’s just got up to dance.”

They stared across the room. In the open space in front of the band, a couple were doing a cake-walk: Colonel Mortimer Hatch, reunited with his flame-haired partner of the previous night. Some of the women had refused to leave the ship, preferring to take their chances with the men.

Stead, piqued, gave a sharp tug at his beard and said, “I’ll be jiggered!”

“Caught us, well and truly,” said Futrelle.

Finch chuckled and poured himself more wine.

“What an anticlimax,” said Stead.

“On the contrary,” said Finch. “Do you want to hear my version? I might as well tell it now, and if either of you survives you must put it into writing because it was an undetected murder. I killed a man tonight in the Colonel’s staterooms, just as you said. Strangled him and pushed his body out of the porthole. Nobody found out. Nobody would have found out.”

“Who the devil was he?”

“The degenerate who seduced my wife. They’re notorious, these stewards.”

“A steward?”

“Perkins?” said Futrelle.

“They’re in a position of trust, and they abuse it. Well, Perkins did, at any rate, aboard the Mauretania, and I suffered the humiliation of being told about it by an acquaintance. So I took it as a point of honour to take my revenge. I made it my business to learn where he’d signed on. Discovered he’d been hired as a first-class steward for the maiden voyage of the Titanic.”

The two older men were stunned into silence.

Eventually, Stead said, “You’ve certainly surprised me. But was it perfect, this murder? Would you have got away with it? Surely, his absence would have been noted, not least by the passengers he attended.”

“The method was foolproof. Of course there would be concern. The Chief Steward would be informed he was missing. It might even reach the Captain’s ears. But the possibility of murder wouldn’t cross their minds. Even if it did, can you imagine White Star conducting a murder inquiry in the first-class accommodation on the maiden voyage of the Titanic? Never. They would cover it up. The passengers Perkins attended would be told he was unwell. And after we docked at New York it would be too late to investigate.”

“He’s right,” said Futrelle. “He was always going to get away with it.”

“What do you think?” asked Finch, leaning forward in anticipation. “Worthy of The Thinking Machine?”

“More a matter of low cunning than the power of logic, in my opinion,” said Stead, “but it might make an interesting story. What say you, Jacques?”

But Futrelle was listening to something else. “What are they playing? Isn’t that ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee’?”

“If it is,” said Stead, “I doubt if your story will ever be told, Mr Finch.”

At two-eighteen, the lights dimmed and went out. In two minutes the ship was gone.