by Blythe Baker
His eyebrow rose and then, despite himself, he laughed. “As you already know, I live in the neighborhood. I was out for a walk when I saw you enter this house. It was only a happy coincidence.”
First Edward and now Prideaux. I was apparently much too easy to follow. I made a mental note to work on becoming more vigilant about my surroundings.
“A happy coincidence?” I asked.
“Yes, because I’ve been wanting to speak to you, and planned to visit Ashton House this very afternoon.”
“In regards to?” I asked, letting my voice trail off.
“You came to me as a client in search of a missing person,” he said.
“I recall,” I said coolly, remembering the not so friendly terms under which we had parted. “If you are here for more information, I have told you already that there is nothing left for us to discuss. I do not wish to say any more, and if you cannot find Jimmy with the information I have given you, then I will have to find myself another detective.”
“I recall,” he said, smiling as he repeated my own response back to me.
“Then, why are you here?” I asked.
Achilles Prideaux placed both hands on the curve of his walking stick, which from past experience I knew to contain a hidden blade at the tip for protection, and held it in front of him, positioning it between us. “Because, Mademoiselle Beckingham, I wish to assist you in your search.”
Even with all of the unexpected events that had transpired in my life in the weeks preceding this moment—the explosion, Ruby Stratton’s murder, moving in with the Beckinghams, being attacked by Everilda—I still found myself shocked by Monsieur Prideaux’s words. He had told me earlier that he would not help me in my search and I had believed him wholly.
“Why have you changed your mind?” I asked, the words coming out in a sigh.
He smiled at me, his thin mustache stretching wide across his face. “Because I spoke hastily before. The truth is, I am always available to help a friend.”
I ran my hands down my olive-green tea dress, smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles before looking up at him. He really was a handsome man. His tan skin and slicked back hair complimented his looks nicely, if only he’d shave that horrid mustache.
I stepped towards him, hand extended, and he stepped forward to meet me, our hands clasping and shaking once.
Just then, Mr. Jacobsen reappeared in the doorway and his eyes widened at the sight of Monsieur Prideaux. “Miss Rose?” he asked warily, checking to be sure I was all right.
“The house is lovely,” I said, releasing Monsieur Prideaux’s hand. “I would be happy to call it home.”
Mr. Jacobsen’s nervousness dissipated at once as he clapped his hands in delight. “That is wonderful. And I’m sorry,” he said, turning towards Achilles. “We haven’t been introduced yet.”
“This is Monsieur Achilles Prideaux,” I said, placing a hand on Achilles shoulder and looking up at him. I met Monsieur Prideaux’s gaze with a wink and the overwhelming feeling that my adventures in London were only just beginning. “He’s a dear friend.”
Continue following the mysterious adventures of Rose Beckingham in
“A Cunning Death.”
Excerpt
From “A Cunning Death: A Rose Beckingham Murder Mystery, Book 3.”
First, I heard nothing. Then, slowly, a tinny ringing grew louder and louder until my entire body vibrated with it. I blinked against the gray haze in front of me, wondering whether I was somehow underwater. My chest felt impossibly heavy and it took several strong gasps before I could swallow any air. Each breath was acrid and ashy, burning my esophagus and scorching my lungs. I leaned forward, trying to get away from the fumes, and my face hit something solid. I reached for it and felt the hot leather upholstery of the front seat of the car.
Suddenly, everything came back to me all at once. The Beckinghams sharing the front seat with their driver, while Rose and I claimed the back. We were in Simla. At least, we had been…
Had I fallen asleep? That must have been it. I’d fallen asleep on the drive and was having a nightmare. I blinked hard in an attempt to wake myself up, but it didn’t work. The smoke made my eyes water and I could feel tears streaming down my dusty cheeks.
“Rose?” I called, sliding my hand across the seat in search of my friend. “Mrs. Beckingham? Mr. Beckingham?”
I listened for their voices, but I couldn’t hear anything aside from the sizzle of a nearby fire and the sound of someone coughing. Me. I was coughing.
“We will get you out, miss!”
There. Someone could hear me. I looked towards the direction of the voice and saw daylight streaming through what must have been the car window. Smoke and dust didn’t allow me to see very far, but I could see human shapes moving around the vehicle.
Again, a flash of memory. A man moving through the crowd, arm pulled behind his head, a scowl on his face. The crowded streets near the market place pressed against our car, making it almost impossible to distinguish individual people from the mass, but this man had made himself obvious. He’d jumped around people, dodging arms and legs as he headed straight for us. I’d watched him with a curious eye, but didn’t notice anything amiss until he swung his arm forward and released something.
With all the force of the initial blast, the horrifying truth came back to me.
Mrs. Beckingham gave a small yelp as the device landed inside the vehicle, Mr. Beckingham began to reach for it, Rose turned towards the commotion. My eyes, however, never left the man who had thrown the explosive. I watched as, content that his mission had been completed, he turned away from the car and disappeared back into the crowd. Then, darkness.
“Rose?” I shouted again, louder this time. “Answer me, Rose.”
The car door opened, and a sticky breeze rolled through the opening, dispersing some of the smoke. It was as though someone had pulled back a curtain. I could see the seat in front of me, gouged and dripping with something sticky. I didn’t linger on the sight, turning instead to where Rose had been sitting only a few minutes before. The seat was empty.
I could hear the sharp sounds of metal on metal coming from outside the car, and dusty silhouettes moved just outside the window. They were entreating me to calm down, to relax, to wait for help, but I leaned forward and swept my hand across the seat. I needed to find Rose.
Immediately, my hand landed in something warm and thick. I pulled back and held my hand up to the limited light coming through the door. Red dripped from my fingers, rolling down my wrist. I didn’t need to think about what it was. I knew.
The contents of my stomach threatened to reappear, and I swallowed them down. I tried to take deep breaths, but the air was too thick. Everything felt wrong. The entire world had turned to chaos.
I looked back to where Rose should have been sitting, and for the first time, I saw something. A hand resting on the edge of the seat, as if Rose had simply slipped down to the floor between the front and back seats and was trying to pull herself back up.
I reached for her hand, wanting to help her, but in the brief second before our hands connected, I pulled back.
She wore a cheap metal ring with a fake jewel in the center. I’d bought it at a street market a few weeks before and had only recently given it to Rose. It was now the only thing that allowed me to identify the hand as hers, as it was no longer attached to her body. Where it should have connected to her arm, there was only mangled flesh and blood.
My mouth opened in a scream, but nothing came out. I shouted for help, for Rose, for the hands of time to turn back and undo the tragedy that had befallen my best friend, but nothing happened. Then, I slipped into darkness.
My sheets and nightgown were soaked through with sweat. I wiped my hand across my forehead and then placed it in my lap, looking at the way my hand tapered down to my wrist. At the way the delicate bones ran from my wrist up to my elbow and to my shoulder. I’d never thought to be grateful for the everyday mechanics of my body, but in
that moment, I was so relieved to find my hand firmly attached to the rest of me.
I’d had to wash my sheets too many times to count since moving into my new London home. Something about living alone had brought the nightmares of the Simla explosion back to the forefront of my mind. They were more vivid, more enduring. On the ship from Bombay to London and at Ashton House, I’d been able to rouse myself from the dreams, but now I had to live the entire experience over again before my subconscious mind would release me. I woke several times a week in a pool of my own sweat, heart pounding in my ears, eyes wide and searching for a glimpse of the man who had ended the lives of the people I’d called family for the better part of ten years.
I kicked my blankets down to the end of the bed and swung my feet over the side. If the last few nights were to be any judge, sleep would be elusive now that I’d woken up. I tried to step carefully across the wooden floor. Aseem slept in the servant’s quarters, which were located just below my bedroom, and my sleeplessness had begun to worry him.
It felt strange to be worried about by a twelve-year-old, but I’d known since the moment I’d seen him aboard the RMS Star of India that he was wise beyond his years. And most importantly, Aseem was loyal. He made an incredibly useful errand boy and he asked few questions, which, in my opinion, was one of his best qualities. Still, if he heard me walking around in the middle of the night, he would mention it over breakfast and insist I take an afternoon nap.
I tip-toed to the curtains and pulled them back, letting in the moonlight. I’d assumed it was still the middle of the night, so I was surprised to see the beginnings of color leaching over the horizon. The sun would rise within the next hour, meaning I’d slept longer than I had all week.
I loved the view from my bedroom window, and found myself standing there, enjoying it frequently. Never in my life would I have thought I’d have my own house, especially not one so nice. But ever since I’d shed my old identity and stepped into the life of my dearly departed friend Rose Beckingham, doors I’d never even known existed were opening to me. With her inheritance, even though I had to collect it in monthly installments, I had a level of independence I’d never dreamed of. And more than that, I had the means to finally solve the mystery that had been plaguing me since I first left New York as a child: what had happened to my missing brother?
Something on the street below my window caught my attention, and I squinted down into the early morning darkness. A figure, a man in a long coat and a hat, lurked beneath a streetlight, standing just at the edge of the circle of light so his face was hidden in shadow. His shoulders were squared with my window, and based on the angle of his neck, I could tell he was looking up at me.
Startled, I stepped away from the window and back into the privacy of my room. I squeezed my eyes closed. Perhaps I was still dreaming. I shook my head and then resumed my position at the window. I glanced down hesitantly, and the man was still there. My pulse quickened.
Before I could do anything other than stare down at him in confusion and growing fear, he bowed slightly at the hips, tipped his hat at me, and walked away down the sidewalk. I watched him disappear when he turned at the end of the block.
As soon as he was gone, the terror that had gripped me at the sight of him began to fade, replaced with a flurry of questions. Who was the man? What did he want? What would he have done had I not chosen that moment to go to my window?
A chill ran through me. I didn’t know the man’s true intentions, but I knew enough to feel threatened. He had tipped his hat to me before leaving. He wanted me to know that he knew I’d seen him, and he wanted me to realize that he didn’t care.
I pulled the curtains closed and moved to sit on the edge of my bed. Even if I’d still been tired, it would have been impossible for me to fall asleep. Between the nightmares and the mysterious man, my brain was operating at full speed. I just didn’t want to move downstairs and begin the day so early because it would force the rest of the house to wake up, as well. Though I told Aseem and George, my driver, I was more than capable of doing things on my own, they each woke up as soon as I did, which meant we’d all been getting a rather early start since moving into the new house.
I sat on the edge of my bed long enough that I had almost convinced myself the man at my window had been a continuation of my nightmare. I’d been in the flux space between dreaming and waking, and the man had been nothing more than a figment.
When I finally went down for breakfast, however, and Aseem handed me an unmarked box that had been left on the sidewalk outside, I knew the man had been all too real.
“You didn’t see who left it?” I asked, taking the box from his hands and setting it on the dining room table.
Aseem shook his head, his dark brown eyes wide and honest. “No, Miss Rose. I went outside this morning and it was sitting in the middle of the sidewalk.”
I studied the box without touching it. Though I had seen Aseem carry it in rather roughly, part of me still felt as though it would explode at the slightest touch. Though, perhaps that had more to do with what had transpired in India than any real cause for concern.
“Were you expecting something?” he asked.
“No, I wasn’t, but thank you for bring this to me.” I nodded my head and Aseem, astute for his young age, took that as his cue to leave. He carefully pulled the dining room doors closed behind him, leaving me alone with the box.
I studied the package for a few more seconds. It appeared to be innocuous. Medium-sized, roughly the size of a dinner plate, and wrapped in plain brown paper, it could have come from anywhere and been meant for anyone. Yet, somehow, I knew it was intended for me. The man standing outside my window had meant for me to see him lurking there. He meant for me to find this package. Despite an overwhelming urge to throw the box into the fire and go about my day as though the entire incident had never happened, I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I knew what secrets the box contained. So, steeling myself, I moved forward, slipping my finger beneath the careful wrapping, and tore it open.
Sitting in the perfect center of the box was a chess piece. A pawn, to be exact. I had never been any good at chess and I’d played very infrequently, but still I recognized the piece. Beneath the pawn was a thick card folded in half. Without touching the pawn, I grabbed the card and slipped it from the bottom of the box. Unfolding it, I began to read.
Miss Dennet,
I hope you will not mind my use of your previous name. I do not fancy pretenses, and calling you Rose Beckingham would be a pretense of the falsest kind. As my greeting has no doubt made you aware, I am familiar with your story. Your investigation into the recent murder of Frederick Grossmith brought you to my attention. I was impressed with your handling of the case and sought to understand why an heiress would busy herself with the death of a man of no importance. The answer to that question lead me to the truth that you are not an heiress, but a pretender.
If you find yourself frightened at my knowing your secret, I urge you to be calm. I do not intend to share my knowledge with anyone. In fact, I wish to share some knowledge with you. If you are able to earn it.
In my research into you and your purpose here in London, I learned of your search for your long-lost brother, Jimmy. I hold a key piece of the puzzle that could lead you to Jimmy. The piece is yours should you choose to put your detective skills to work and solve a crime for me.
A person will be murdered this weekend in Somerset. If you can apprehend the killer after the crime has been committed, the information I have will be yours.
I eagerly await your decision.
“And you did not see the person’s face?” Achilles Prideaux asked, pouring me a cup of tea.
I shook my head. “No, I only saw a shadowy figure and then I awoke to the mysterious package.”
“And there was nothing distinctive about the package?”
I thought back on it, trying to recall any other details, but there was nothing. “Nothing aside from ordinary wrapping paper.
It was not even addressed.”
“How do you know it was meant for you, then?” Achilles asked.
“Because of the letter inside.” I did not tell Monsieur Prideaux that the letter was addressed to my true identity, Nellie Dennet, and not to Rose Beckingham, but that hardly mattered. In either case, I was the intended recipient.
Achilles sat down in the chair across from me and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Tell me everything again.”
I’d tried to keep the mysterious package to myself, not wanting to worry anyone in my household with its contents, but it had proven to be impossible. Whoever had sent it knew my true identity, and they forewarned me of a murder. Wasn’t it my duty, then, to report it? I wanted to take the matter to the police, but I could not do that without showing them the letter. And I could not show anyone the letter without revealing my secret and announcing to the world that I was not Rose Beckingham. So, I’d gone to Achilles Prideaux. Although he was a detective, he was a private detective, which meant I was not required to show or tell him anything I did not wish to. This fact had been proven when Achilles agreed to help me search for my brother, Jimmy, despite the fact I had withheld from him that Jimmy was my brother. As far as Monsieur Prideaux knew, I had hired him to track down an old friend who had disappeared.
So, I’d left home just after breakfast and arrived at Achilles’ house less than ten minutes later. I’d had no idea at the time I purchased my house how convenient it would be to live so close to a detective.
I repeated the story. I walked Monsieur Prideaux through waking from my nightmare, the shadowy figure below my window, the package Aseem found, and the letter and pawn inside. I left out all incriminating details that pointed to my true identity, and I had intentionally left the box and its contents at home, lest their examination by the detective reveal more of my own secrets than I wished him to guess.
