by Blythe Baker
“I really couldn’t,” I insisted, waving her away.
Catherine tilted her head to the side, her eyebrows pulled together in the center. “You used to have such a sweet tooth. We couldn’t have baked enough desserts in the world to satisfy you.”
“Yes, I thought raspberry tarts were your favorite,” Lady Ashton said. “I had them made for you specifically.”
A jolt of panic raced through me, but I took a steadying breath and composed myself. “I’ve done my best over the years to curb my natural tendency towards desserts, but if you both insist, I will indulge.”
I took the tart from Catherine and bit into it, doing my best not to wince at the sweetness. Rose had always preferred sweet desserts much more than I did. When I did eat a tart, I preferred the natural bite of citrus and herb over the syrupy sweetness of a berry.
Lady Ashton looked at me expectantly as I chewed and swallowed. “Delicious,” I said, smiling and assuring her I enjoyed it. At their insistence, I ate two more tarts before finally excusing myself.
I moved lethargically up the stairs to my room, feeling as though I could be sick on the stairs. It had been a long time since I’d eaten so many servings of a dessert, and I hoped I wouldn’t be forced to do it again anytime soon.
I pushed open the door to my room, but it hit something and came bouncing back towards me. I yelped and threw out my hands to stop it.
“Sorry, sorry,” a small voice squeaked.
Alice came out from behind the door, her hands raised in apology, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“Alice?” I asked, moving into the room and pushing the door closed behind me. “What are you doing in here?”
The lid to my steamer trunk was thrown back and the things I hadn’t yet unpacked were scattered around the floor in stacks. I looked from the mess to Alice and back again. Was she spying on me? Had Edward sent her to snoop through my room in search of evidence I wasn’t who I claimed to be? I had no such evidence hidden in my room, but still the thought made my blood boil.
“I should have asked,” Alice said, lowering her face and throwing her hands over her eyes. “Tea was taking so long and I grew bored. I’m sorry.”
I shook my head, trying to push down my anger until I had a proper explanation for Alice’s actions. “You aren’t making any sense. Why are you going through my things?”
“I thought perhaps you may have brought something interesting back with you from India.” She looked up at me through her long eyelashes. Her features were pulled down into a forced frown, but her eyes were still bright with excitement.
I wanted to condemn her for going through my things without permission, but the thought of upsetting the person who liked me best in the entire house seemed too bleak to consider, so I smiled and lowered myself to the floor. I crossed my legs and resituated my dress over my knees.
“I’m sure you didn’t find anything very exciting,” I admitted, picking up a white embroidered cloche hat and setting it in my lap.
She nodded, the disappointment clear on her face.
“Sorry,” I said, tossing her my hat. She caught it just before it could land in her lap and quickly pulled it on. It fell over her eyes so she had to tilt her head back to see me. “I wasn’t able to pack very much before moving back here. All of my souvenirs were left behind.”
She grew somber. “Of course, I didn’t think of that.”
“That’s all right,” I said, dipping low to catch her eyes and smiling.
Alice stood up and made to leave. “I should leave you alone. My mother told me I should be sure to give you your space.”
I grabbed her hand before she could go. “I insist you stay. We could do something fun.”
“Like what?” Alice asked, immediately falling back to the floor, looking at me eagerly.
“We could play a game?”
She nodded, her brown hair falling around her face.
“Ask me any strange question you can think of and I’ll answer it,” I said.
Alice immediately screwed up her face in concentration. When she thought of a question, she rose up to her knees, hand held up in the air as though she’d just had a genius idea. “Have you ever been kissed before?”
“Alice!”
She smiled and crossed her arms. “You have to answer the question. It’s part of the game.”
I narrowed my eyes at her playfully. I had kissed a servant boy the Beckinghams employed when I was only fifteen-years-old. He snuck me flowers from the front garden and Rose teased me mercilessly after I confided how handsome I thought he was. But I couldn’t very well tell that story to Alice. Rose would never have kissed a servant boy. Even if she was friends with me, she still had standards, especially when it came to men. To my knowledge, though, she had never kissed anyone. And if she had, she hadn’t told me about it.
“I have never kissed anyone,” I said.
“Liar!”
“Why would I lie about something like that?” I asked.
“You’re beautiful and you were in India. It’s exotic and warm. Surely, the men swarmed around you,” Alice said, her eyes dreamy.
“I think your image of India is too picturesque. It was so hot that several months of every year were dedicated to sweating. No men wanted to be around me during that time.”
Alice shook her head. “I can’t believe it. I was sure you would have kissed someone before.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “But now it is my turn.”
Alice sat down and rubbed her hands together nervously.
That simple action brought to mind the chauffeur again. I had forgotten about him over mid-afternoon tea, but now he was front and center in my mind.
“Where does the chauffer sleep?” I asked, almost absentmindedly.
“George Hoskins?” Alice asked, her face screwed up in confusion.
I nodded.
“That’s a boring question. Ask me another,” she said.
“It’s my question,” I laughed. “You have to answer it.”
“All of the servants have rooms in the attic,” she said.
I felt a chill threaten to run down my spine. George lived in this house? What if, by some wild chance, he was a murderer? How would I be able to sleep knowing he was only one floor above me?
“But,” Alice continued, “George sleeps in the carriage house around back.”
“Carriage house?” I asked. “The family has carriages in 1926?”
“It’s only called the carriage house. It was converted into a garage for the cars several years ago,” she explained.
“Then George lives in the garage?” I asked, still confused.
Alice rolled her eyes, exasperated. “No, Rose. He lives in a room attached to the garage. We wouldn’t house someone in the garage, for goodness sake.”
The game continued on for a few more minutes, but Alice quickly became bored with my questions and she left to ready herself for dinner. In her absence, I finally had a second to think on the information I’d gathered.
Although I felt reasonably confident my suspicions about George being involved in the murder of Frederick Grossmith were just that—suspicions—I still felt like I needed to more thoroughly look into him as a serious suspect. I had already decided that it was not the time nor place to get involved with another murder investigation, but that was before someone within the Beckingham household had arisen as a person of interest. I couldn’t very well live in close proximity to a man who had possibly committed a murder without looking into it. Or perhaps leaving the matter alone would be the right thing to do. I fell back on my bed, riddled with indecision.
Then, the answer came to me. My own troubles were holding me back from investigating this most recent murder, so perhaps the solution would be to seek out the famous detective, Achilles Prideaux. I could ask him about assisting me in my search, and depending on his answer, I would know whether I had the time and opportunity to look into Frederick’s murder.
Yes, t
hat was the solution. It was time to call upon Monsieur Prideaux.
9
I rose before the sun the next morning and dressed as quietly as I could. I opted for a midnight blue pleated skirt, pale blue blouse, and a cream cardigan buttoned over the top to keep out the early morning chill.
As I tip-toed through the house, I didn’t hear another sound. All of the lights were still off, and even the kitchen, which was usually buzzing with maids and cooks, was silent. I slipped through the front door and into the foggy London morning.
The street the Beckinghams lived on was desolate, so I had to walk several blocks before I was able to flag down a cab. The driver gave me a curious look as I climbed into the backseat, but he was in no mood to turn down money. I handed him Monsieur Prideaux’s business card and directed him to take me to the address on the card. He nodded and pulled away without further question.
The cab pulled up in front of a long row of brick buildings that spanned the whole block. Each was four-stories tall with a large black roof that sat atop it like a straw hat.
“Do you want me to wait for you?” the driver asked as he handed me back the business card.
“If you would,” I said. I wasn’t sure how long my conversation with Achilles would take or if he was even home. I didn’t want to have to go to the trouble of finding another cab so early in the morning.
The driver agreed and leaned back in his seat, pulling his hat down over his eyes to, presumably, take a quick nap.
I walked down the street, reading the wooden signs affixed to the buildings until I came to ‘Building 300.’ The card listed Achilles’ flat number as 301 A, which was on the first floor. I mounted a short set of stone steps and knocked three times.
It was early, but not early enough that calling upon an old friend would be seen as suspicious. Achilles and I weren’t exactly old friends, of course, but he was the closest thing I had to a friend in London. I didn’t know anyone there aside from the Beckinghams.
After a minute or two with no answer, I knocked again, slightly harder than the first time. Part of me felt bad for potentially waking him up, but a larger part of me wished to speak to him and didn’t want to come back later. While I waited, I double-checked the business card to be sure I was at the right address.
“Are you here for Monsieur Prideaux?” a female voice asked.
I looked around, trying to discern where the voice had come from.
A whistle came from above me and I looked up to find a gray-haired woman sticking halfway out of the window directly above Achilles Prideaux’s door.
I stepped back so I didn’t have to strain my neck so much to see her. “Yes, I’m here for Monsieur Prideaux. He gave me his business card while we were—”
“He isn’t home,” she said, cutting me off.
“Oh.” My disappointment was obvious. “Do you know where he is?”
She waved her hand and rolled her eyes. “Probably off to some corner of the globe or other solving the murder of a duchess or hunting down a jewel thief. The last postcard he sent came from someplace called Aden.”
The port of Aden was where Achilles Prideaux had left the RMS Star of India. I’d assumed he was stopping off briefly to assist in closing the case of Ruby Stratton’s murder and Dr. Rushforth’s suicide and would soon continue his journey aboard a different ship, but there was no way to know for sure.
“Did he say when he would be back?” I asked.
The woman held up one finger and disappeared back inside. She was gone for several minutes, long enough that I questioned whether I should leave or not, and then she reappeared.
“His postcard was recent. I would guess he will be back sometime in the next few days. I can’t say how long he’ll stay, though. He travels frequently.”
“How do you know Monsieur Prideaux?” I wanted to know how credible her information was.
“I own the building,” she said. “He’s my favorite tenant. He always pays on time and he’s never here.”
With that, the woman closed the window and drew the curtains closed.
I turned back to the street where the cab driver was waiting. I’d snuck out with the intention of speaking to Monsieur Prideaux, but I had other plans, as well. Not all was lost. I climbed back into the cab, woke the driver, and gave him my destination.
“A cemetery?” he asked, merging with the early morning traffic.
I simply nodded and sat back in the seat, watching as the sunrise painted the sky in a wash of pastel pinks and yellows.
By the time we reached the cemetery, the sun was fully over the horizon, highlighting the dew drops on every blade of grass, turning the cemetery into a field of silver. Lady Ashton had told me about the stone marker she had dedicated to Rose’s parents, and immediately I knew I would have to visit. I’d been rushed out of India before I could attend any sort of memorial service for the family, and the explosion had made it impossible to send their remains back to London for a burial. So, the memorial stone would have to do.
“Shall I wait again?” the driver asked, prepared to sink down into the seat and wait for me.
I shook my head. “Home isn’t far from here. I’ll walk. Thank you.”
I handed him the money and a generous tip and waited until he disappeared down the street before stepping through the iron gates of the cemetery. I wove through cracked headstones and decaying flowers until I came to a freshly tilled plot of earth.
The stone was crisp and gray, standing out from the weather-worn, dull stones that surrounded it. Etched into the stone were each of their names, the letters deeply carved and painted black. William Alexander Beckingham and Elizabeth Rose Beckingham.
I bent down and ran a finger over the stone, tracing their names and whispering them into the morning air. Lady Ashton had offered to accompany me to the cemetery, but it was a trip I needed to make alone. I needed to make my peace with the people who had given me a home. I had worked for the family as a servant, but they had saved me from an orphan’s life. They had given me a companion in Rose, and now, they had given me a chance. A chance to right the wrongs of my past. I could never properly thank them for that if Lady Ashton was around.
“I’m sorry Rose’s name isn’t next to yours,” I whispered. “I wish she could be here with you. I wish everyone who came to visit you would think of Rose and remember what a wonderful person she was.”
My words grew thick with unshed tears, but I pushed on. I needed to say what was on my mind. “I will always remember her, though. I know that may not be worth much to you, but it is all I can offer. And Rose, I know you are here, too, if only in spirit. I want to thank you for what you’ve given me. For lending me your clothes and allowing me to take the window seat that day in the car. You saved my life. I wish I could trade places with you, but since I can’t, I’m trying to do the most I can with the life I have been given. I know you would understand, and I hope you are proud.”
A wind blew through the cemetery, lifting my short-cropped hair, and it felt like a sign. It probably wasn’t, but I was desperate for something, anything that would make me feel better about the choices I had made since the deaths of Rose and her family. Being the only person in the world to know of Rose’s death was a dreadfully heavy weight to carry around. Over the years we lived together in India, Rose had become a dear friend, and now there was no one with whom I could mourn her loss. I was riddled with guilt and grief, so I would accept even a random gust of wind if it would help lighten my load.
“I knew you would understand, Rose,” I said, beginning to feel foolish for spending so long talking to myself in a graveyard. “I miss you.”
I slipped from the graveyard quietly and began moving down the sidewalk in the direction of Ashton House. The sky had lightened considerably and the sounds of the day beginning were all around me. Cars rumbled down the road and voices drifted from the open windows of the houses that lined the streets. Large Elm trees hung overhead, creating an intricate web of light and dark on th
e ground.
The weight of the cemetery was already washing off of me. I hadn’t been able to meet with Achilles Prideaux like I’d wanted, but I was hopeful I’d speak with him soon. In the meantime, I planned to take in as much of London as I could and try to focus on having a normal life. The explosion had turned everything upside down, and what I need more than anything else was some stability. I needed some time to take a few deep breaths and relax.
As I turned onto the Beckingham’s road, a group of people up ahead caught my eye. The bright morning sun cast the group in silhouette, so I couldn’t see exactly what was happening, but whatever it was, it seemed exciting. As I walked closer, I could begin to make out the conversation.
“You said you met her aboard the ship?” a male voiced asked gruffly.
“Yes, she gave me this card.” The smaller figure held out a thin arm and handed something off to the couple in front of him. It was then that I recognized the boy’s voice and was able to place the man’s.
My aunt and uncle were standing on the street speaking with Aseem, the Indian stowaway I’d befriended aboard the RMS Star of India. He’d assisted me with my investigation into Ruby Stratton’s murder, and had wormed his way into my heart. Shortly before disembarking in London, I’d sought out the boy, handed Aseem the Beckingham’s address, and told him to seek me out should he find himself in any trouble. Apparently, his plans had fallen through and he was in need of my assistance.
I sped up, moving as quickly down the street as I could, and Lady Ashton looked over as I neared them, relief coloring her face. From her dress, I sensed she and Lord Ashton must have been out and had encountered Aseem in front of the house just as they were returning home again.
“Oh, Rose, thank goodness,” she said, brushing past a nervous looking Aseem and her husband to extend an arm out to me. “You can help us settle this.”
“This young boy claims to know you,” Lord Ashton said, hitching a thumb towards Aseem who cast his wide brown eyes up at me.
“Yes, we met on the ship,” I said, looking from my aunt to my uncle and then smiling down at Aseem. “How have you been?”
