by Blythe Baker
I hoped my vague hint at secrets would intrigue Everilda. I needed more time to plan my escape. There was a set of metal stairs at the back of the warehouse that disappeared upward toward the ceiling, and though I would have rather run out the front door and onto the street, the stairs seemed like a safer bet. She was firmly guarding the door and I didn’t want to move any closer to the gun than I currently was. I only needed to distract her long enough to move a bit closer to the stairs.
“You don’t seem like the type who would have any secrets,” she said, practically rolling her eyes. “The night we met, I noticed you dancing with a stiff-necked man who seemed to think he was superior to everyone and everything in the club. Those types of people have very uninteresting lives, in my experience.”
“I agree. Those people do tend to be a little dull,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow at me. “Are you trying to say you are not one of those people?”
I shook my head and leaned in slightly, whispering even though we were completely alone. “My name is not Rose, and I am certainly not a Beckingham.”
Everilda leaned back and lifted her chin, her eyes narrowed at me. “What do you mean?”
“I’m impersonating a dead heiress in order to obtain her inheritance money,” I said coldly, trying to match Everilda’s own callous demeanor. I wanted her to think we were the same—two women trying to look out for ourselves.
Her lips parted in surprise, though she quickly rebounded, adjusting her grip on the gun and then crossing her arms. “How did you manage such a thing as that?”
Once again, I was grateful for my interesting life story. It had saved me aboard the RMS Star of India when I used my tale to distract Dr. Rushforth as he attempted to kill me, and I only hoped it would be enough to save me now.
“I worked as a servant and companion to a Miss Rose Beckingham while she and her family lived abroad in India,” I said, speaking slowly and beginning to pace back and forth. “A couple months ago, she and her family were killed in a car explosion that I narrowly survived.”
“Is that how you acquired the scar on your cheek?” she asked, using the hand holding the gun to gesture towards my face.
I did my best not to flinch and nodded, my own hand absentmindedly caressing the dented bone. “Yes. I was lucky to escape with only the scar. I was also lucky to bear a striking resemblance to Rose, who was made unrecognizable by the blast.” A sob thickened the walls of my throat, but I fought it back. I couldn’t show any weakness. I swallowed and turned on my heels, continuing my pace. With every small lap, I shifted ever so slightly towards the back wall and the staircase. I hoped the movement was subtle enough that Everilda did not notice. “I easily passed for Rose Beckingham and made my way from India to London to claim my inheritance.”
“What do you intend to do with the inheritance? It must be very important for you to risk coming here and being found out by her family,” Everilda said.
I nodded. “I plan to use the money to locate a missing person. My brother Jimmy disappeared many years ago, and I hope to find him and then solve another old mystery that has plagued my family.”
I took several steps and then pivoted, sliding closer to the stairs, and then pacing back in the other direction. Everilda’s eyes were wide and eager. She was enraptured by my tale.
I continued. “When I was a young girl, my parents were the victims of a double murder in our New York slum. My brother, only a teenager at the time, disappeared on the same day. No one was ever charged with the crime, and the police believed my brother’s disappearance to be a sign of his guilt.”
Chancing a look back at the stairs, I was much closer than I had been at the beginning of my story. It would only take a few more paces for me to be close enough to make a run for the stairs and hopefully be able to make it safely up them before Everilda had time to fire her gun.
“What do you think happened to your brother if he did not commit the crime?” Everilda asked.
I shrugged. “He could have discovered the bodies of our parents and then run away in fear, staying away once he became an official police suspect. Or, perhaps, he saw the killer and then was too terrified to come forward. Either way, I need to find him and uncover the truth, which can only be done with Rose Beckingham’s inheritance funding my search.”
Even though telling the story had been a ploy to distract my attempted shooter, it felt surprisingly good to unburden myself. The secret had weighed heavily on my shoulders for weeks, and I relished the opportunity to reveal my plan to someone. Even if that someone still wanted to kill me.
Everilda shook her head in disbelief, a small smiling spreading across her face. “You lead a very interesting life, indeed, Rose.” She said my assumed name with a knowing look, and for a brief second, it felt like we were old friends swapping secrets. I wondered whether my reveal wouldn’t indebt us to one another. A secret for a secret.
“Unfortunately,” Everilda continued, dashing all hopes of a truce between us, “I still cannot let you leave here today.”
“But I understand why you did what you did,” I said. “Frederick blackmailed you and fooled you. He was possessive and abusive. He gave you no other choice.”
I did not believe Everilda had been forced into her decision, but now was not the time for honesty. The sand in my hourglass was nearing its end, and I had to do everything in my power to save myself.
“Your understanding will make it a bit harder to kill you,” Everilda said with a slight shoulder shrug. Then, she lifted the gun in front of her, both arms straightened so the barrel was aimed at my chest. “However, I will do my best.”
I dove sideways just as the shot rang out, the metal bullet striking the brick wall behind where I’d stood, sending dust everywhere. Not wasting a second, I propelled myself towards the stairs, kicking off my heeled shoes as I ran to move even more quickly. The cold metal stairs bit into the bottoms of my feet, but I barely felt it. Everilda roared in frustration below me, every sound echoing through the empty building, making it sound as though I was being chased by countless gunmen. Or gunwomen.
I didn’t turn around to see where she was because I could feel the vibration of her moving up the stairs behind me. I hunched forward as I ran, trying to make myself as small of a target as possible.
When I reached the top of the staircase, I noticed a door set into the far wall, and I ran for it with abandon. If I could get to the roof, I could scream for help and try to attract attention from the street below. Perhaps, if Everilda knew she would never get away with her crime, she wouldn’t shoot me.
Everilda reached the top of the staircase when I was only halfway across the room, and another shot blew a hole in the brick next to the door, letting in a smoking circle of daylight. My legs felt heavy and my bare feet were sliced and bleeding from the construction debris on the floor, but I pushed on. If I didn’t get outside, I wouldn’t survive. It was as simple as that.
I threw my entire weight into the door and the immobile slab of wood knocked the wind out of me. I stumbled backwards and it took me a few seconds to realize I needed to pull the door open, not push. Trying to make up the precious seconds I’d lost, I scrambled for the handle and flung the door open, stepping out onto the roof next to that of The Chesney Ballroom. Daylight blinded me, and I blinked against the sun. I wanted to keep running, but sensed I was already near the edge of the building and didn’t want to accidentally run off the side. I knew I was losing time, but I only hoped Everilda would be as disoriented as I was when she reached the roof.
Just as my vision began to come back, I heard the door behind me slam shut and then I was on the ground.
Everilda’s heaving chest was pressed into my spine, her hot breath against my neck. “Make a sound and I’ll kill you,” she hissed. It must have been an instinctive threat, because it was far too late to worry about making noise now.
I rolled underneath her, and she stood up, her feet positioned on either side of my hips, the gun point
ed at my face. The sun beamed behind her, silhouetting her so that she was nothing more than a dark outline.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said.
“I’ve already killed once,” Everilda said, her shadowy shoulders shrugging as if taking my life were of little consequence. “Whether I’m charged with Frederick’s murder or yours and Frederick’s, the sentence will be the same. I’ll be hanged. And killing you is my best chance of not being charged at all.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but Everilda’s fingers moved over the trigger and there was a deafening bang.
I was certain I’d been shot and I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the pain to consume me. Instead, I heard a scream and felt Everilda’s legs stumbling over my mid-section. I opened my eyes and saw her looking back towards the door, the gun swinging wildly in her hands. I followed her gaze and thought for sure I’d been shot, the blood loss causing hallucinations. Edward stood in the doorway, his shoulders broad, eyes alert and searching.
Everilda had been momentarily stunned by his arrival, causing her to fire the gun and miss, but she was rebounding quickly. If my math was correct, she had two bullets left in the gun, which was more than enough for her to kill both of us and escape. Just as she raised her arms to aim for Edward, I kicked my legs out to the side. Luckily, she was still within reach of me and my feet collided with her knees. She screamed and pulled the trigger, a shot ringing out just as she lost her balance and tumbled over the side of the building.
21
I stared, open-mouthed, at the place where just a few moments before Everilda had been standing. My body didn’t believe she was gone. Despite having witnessed her fall over the side, I kept waiting for her to return and take another shot.
“Are you all right, Rose?” Edward asked, kneeling down next to me, his hands moving across my shoulders and down my arms, assessing me.
I looked at him and then back to where Everilda had fallen over the edge. Edward followed my gaze and moved quickly to the ledge. When he looked over the side, he winced.
“She’s dead,” he said, turning back to me.
We didn’t speak as Edward helped me to my feet and led me back into the warehouse. It felt as though I was stumbling through a dream. Or a nightmare. It wasn’t until we were at the front door, only a few feet away from stepping onto the street, that I stopped.
“How did you find me?”
Edward seemed eager to leave the building, but he stopped and faced me. “I saw you behind the house looking in on George in his flat, and then I saw you take off down the alley. Whatever you were doing seemed urgent.”
“You followed me?” I asked.
“Aren’t you glad I did?” he responded.
I didn’t answer. Of course, I was glad. He’d saved me. But now I had to wonder how much he’d overheard. Did he hear my confession to Everilda? Did he know I was lying about my identity?
“I lost sight of you on the street and was about to step into The Chesney Ballroom to look for you when I heard the first gunshot. I came inside just as you reached the top of the stairs.”
If he didn’t come in until after the gunshot, then it was unlikely he’d heard any of my confession. And if he had, I supposed it was unlikely he would have bothered risking his life to save me.
“Why were you spying on George?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts.
I explained everything to him—how I had suspected George from the beginning and had been investigating the murder to try and rule him out. I explained why I went to The Chesney Ballroom in the first place and how I’d met Everilda. I told him that she was the person who had tried to shoot me the day before. And when I finished, Edward only nodded for a few seconds.
“So, George has a criminal past?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.
I nodded, head low. “I should have told you all as soon as I suspected him, but he swore he hadn’t committed the murder and he didn’t want to lose his position with your family. And now that Everilda confessed, I know he was telling the truth. Please don’t tell your parents about him,” I begged. “I truly believe he is a good man.”
Edward studied me for a few seconds and then clasped a hand on my shoulder. “We need to get to the police station.”
He pushed open the front door and we stepped out onto the street together. I could see a crowd gathering around where Everilda had fallen and I looked away quickly, not wanting to see. I’d seen enough human carnage in my lifetime. Unexpectedly, a sob rose in my throat.
The day had been an emotional rollercoaster. I’d come to warn Everilda of danger, and unknowingly stepped into it myself. Once again, I had nearly lost my life at the hands of a murderer.
“Are you all right?” Edward asked again, echoing what he’d asked on the roof.
I nodded, but the quivering of my lower lip gave me away. A tear rolled down my cheek.
Edward tilted his head, studying me, and then did the most surprising thing that had happened all day. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me into his side.
“Everything is all right now, cousin. You are safe.”
Cousin. Cousin.
I swallowed my tears and smiled up at him. Perhaps, he was right. Maybe everything was finally all right, after all.
22
The room was large and empty, the darkness broken only by the light streaming in through the windows that dotted the far wall. My footsteps echoed against the wood floors as I inspected the place.
“How do you like it, Miss Beckingham?”
I turned to the house’s current owner, a gray-haired man with a thick mustache and a kind, round face. “It’s beautiful, Mr. Jacobsen.”
He smiled and stepped backwards towards the door. “I will leave you to think on it for a few more minutes.”
I tipped my head to him and watched him walk back outside.
The house was perfect. The neighborhood was quiet, but close enough to the heart of the city that I could walk most places. Of course, that wouldn’t be much of an issue considering I would have my own driver. The Beckingham’s had fired George after Edward told them about his past, despite my request to my cousin to keep the secret. It seemed Edward had grown kinder but not that much kinder. But I immediately offered George a position at my future home, which he readily accepted. There was a guest house out behind this place where George could live and servant’s quarters behind the kitchen for Aseem. Both men had my complete trust, and I believed their shadier abilities, which made them less desirable by most employers, could be of future use to me.
I didn’t anticipate being at the center of yet another murder plot anytime soon, but life had been far from predictable the last few months, so it was better to be prepared for anything.
The police didn’t have any other leads, so they quickly accepted my story of Everilda’s confession, and were more than content to close the case on Frederick’s murder and Everilda’s death. Lady Ashton gave me quite the tongue lashing for investigating yet another murder and putting myself in danger, but Lord Ashton seemed rather impressed with my gumption. Likewise, I had become a star in Alice’s eyes. She wanted to talk of nothing but how I managed to escape the warehouse with my life and was very displeased that I had decided to buy a place of my own so soon after arriving in London.
However, having a place of my own seemed like a wise idea. Although everyone in the family now wholly believed me to be Rose Beckingham, having my own space would allow me to come and go freely without raising any suspicion. I would no longer need to sneak out of the house at dawn for clandestine meetings with any private investigators. Though, my only private investigator contact seemed to have gone the way of the wind. First order of business once I was settled in the new house would be to find someone else to commence the search for Jimmy.
Jimmy. It had been so long since I’d seen my brother. I reached for the locket that was now securely around my neck again and thought of the scrap of paper inside. “Help me,” scribbled in Jimm
y’s lazy penmanship. I didn’t know whether the words had been written before or after our parents’ murder. And despite my belief that Jimmy was still alive, I didn’t even know if that was true. He had disappeared without a trace. My only bit of confidence came from the fact that his body had not turned up bloody and mutilated the way our parents’ had. If the same person who killed our parents had killed Jimmy, certainly they would have done away with him in a similarly violent manner.
No, he was out there somewhere, and he needed me. He needed to know I didn’t believe he was a murderer and he needed to know someone cared about him.
A floorboard let out a long, slow creak in the room behind me, and I could tell someone was attempting to be quiet. Someone was trying to sneak up on me.
The house was mostly empty, but there was a candlestick on the mantle of the fireplace and I lunged for it, holding it in the air, ready to bring it down upon whoever sought to do me harm. I had been attacked enough times in the past several months and I wouldn’t allow myself to be surprised again. Another floorboard creaked and I tightened my hold on the metal candlestick, my blood pounding in my ears.
Then, a figure peeked around the doorway into the living room where I stood and my arm relaxed, though I remained alert.
“Monsieur Prideaux?”
Achilles stepped fully into the room and glanced from me to the candlestick in my hand, his mouth quirking up into a smile. “Were you expecting someone?”
“No, but you can never be too careful.” I placed the candlestick back on the mantle. “How did you find me here?”
He shrugged. “Do you forget I am a world-renowned detective, Mademoiselle Rose?”
“How could one ever forget with you constantly reminding everyone of that fact?” I smiled.
