<strong>FATHER PRESCOTT,</strong>you emerged from one of the<em>Majestic's</em>interior cabins carrying your suitcase.  As you closed the door, you noticed you had left blood on the door knob.  You did not bother cleaning it.  What was the use?  You stared at the door for a moment before marching down the hallway.  Your vision was blurry and your head hurt viciously.  A migraine, you thought.  An accursed migraine.  As you climbed to the upper deck, you felt refreshed by the morning air.  Cold and crisp, albeit oily and tarnished by the cruise-liner's smokestacks.<br/><br/>There was yelling nearby on the top deck.  A man screaming at a woman.  The man was older and balding, with a sizable stomach obscured by suspended pantaloons.  The woman was of the same build, so you naturally assumed that she was the man's wife.  The man was actually strangling the woman, but the only thing you thought just then was that the man was missing his hat.  How uncommon.<br/><br/>Marital discord was very common aboard cruise liners.  You thought it was because couples had to spend so much time cooped up together.  It was not uncommon for the constabulary to summon you aboard the<em>Majestic</em>to read a deceased woman's last rites before she was interred in a pauper's grave.  The deceased today was a young, pretty woman.  She had red, mossy hair, and a pleasant freckled face.  Even in death, her form had been appealing, if you stared at her from a certain angle.  She had been disemboweled with a kitchen knife.  The knife, like most evidence discovered at the scene of a crime, was in police custody.  And the killer?  Unknown.  The police had no leads.<br/><br/>"A pity this," a constable had muttered.  It was always a pity when a young woman was killed, but little had been done to stop the reoccurrence of such an event in Southampton.  It was not publicized, either.  Not in the newspapers.  And at the time, Southampton had several, including the Southampton County Chronicle, the new Hampshire Advertiser, and the century-old Hampshire Chronicle.<br/><br/>You stared down from the deck and saw the famous psychoanalyst, Dr. Edmund Brockman, emerge from the ship.  Next to him, a beautiful red-haired woman.  How strange, you thought.  From this position, she bore an uncanny resemblance to the deceased.