by Blythe Baker
A Subtle Murder
Blythe Baker
Contents
Description
Newsletter Invitation
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Excerpt
About the Author
Description
Murder and intrigue on the Arabian Sea...
When Rose Beckingham sets sail for England, she brings more than a steamer trunk full of souvenirs from her years in India. She carries home the memory of a family tragedy and a secret so terrible it could destroy the new life she hopes to build in London.
But Rose isn’t the only passenger aboard the RMS Star of India with something to hide. Halfway across the Arabian Sea, death strikes and a murderer begins a deadly game only Rose can hope to end.
With a mysterious Frenchman haunting her steps, can Rose outrun her past? And can she stay alive long enough to decipher the clues left by a taunting killer? Or will murder call again before the first port?
Want to receive free mystery ebooks and other goodies? CLICK HERE and join Blythe Baker’s newsletter for readers!
1
Mrs. Worthing threw her head back in laughter, nearly losing her close-fitted hat. The sound echoed off the pristine white floors and ceilings, and I resisted the urge to press my hands into my ears to block the noise. Somewhere near nineteen million people lived in Bombay, and nearly every single one of them seemed to be milling around in the embassy lobby. Government workers in black suits and long coats, despite the heat, rushed by, anxious to get where they were going. As was I.
I’d been waiting in the lobby for half an hour and, while Mrs. Worthing beside me seemed to be enjoying chatting with nearby strangers, the exposure of the open space made my skin itch. All I wanted was to put a safe cushion of several thousand miles between myself and India.
I scanned the passing crowd as closely as I was willing, keeping an eye out for a familiar white boater hat with a red grosgrain ribbon. The crowd in the lobby parted for a moment, just long enough for me to catch my own reflection in a mirror on the opposite wall. I looked as I always had, curly blond hair cropped around my heart-shaped face, lips dark burgundy and plump. Except for the jagged scar running across my cheek, the bone slightly dented in from being fractured. That was new.
Suddenly, the embassy fell away, drifting out of sight like a fog, replaced by the crowded streets of Simla, the summer capital of British India. I sat in the backseat of a tightly packed car, pressed against the door. My shoulder ached from the squeeze, but a breeze rolled through the window and cooled my flushed skin. Soldiers and civil servants of the British Raj, along with their wives and families, often passed the hot season in the cool foothills of the Himalayas, but the day still felt balmy and I was grateful for the air rushing through the window.
Everyone in the car was laughing and talking, filling the small space with their warm breath, but I ignored them, favoring the scenes outside the window. Colorful buildings lined the wide dirt road, blurring together in a rainbow as we drove. But then, suddenly, the car lurched to a stop. A mass of people had formed in the street and traffic had come to a standstill. I couldn’t wait until we began moving again so I could feel the air pour through the window once more.
Slowly, the crowd began to disperse, and our car cut a slow, torturous path through them. People were pressed right up against the sides of the vehicle, and I worried we would run over their vibrantly colored summer linens.
Then, a man separated himself from the crowd. He was an Indian draped in plain-colored rags that hung from him in limp tatters. A beggar. I was examining his clothes so intently that I didn’t realize he was staring at me until he began moving towards our car, his bare feet kicking up tiny clouds of dust with every step. The conversation in the car continued as the man lifted his arms above his head, something pressed delicately between his fingers, and tossed an object through the open window of our vehicle.
I said nothing for a few seconds as my mind attempted to find a rationale for the man’s actions. However, there was none. I turned to the rest of the passengers in the car, watched as their carefree smiles melted into confusion, everyone turning towards the small object that had landed in the far corner of the front seat. A woman in the back beside me, a beautiful blond girl, opened her mouth in a scream, but the explosion drowned out the sound.
Ringing filled my ears and a sharp pain slashed across my cheek. My body curled in on itself as everything descended into chaos. After a few moments, I opened my eyes to see nothing but a brown haze of smoke and dust. I looked back towards where the girl next to me had just been, but I could no longer see her face. The seat beside me was now empty. Except it wasn’t. The smoke cleared for only a second before reconstituting, but it was long enough for me to see a blood-spattered hand lying on the seat next to me. A scream burned in the back of my throat.
“Are my little travelers ready?”
The voice jerked me back to the present. I was sitting on a low wooden bench along a wall of the embassy in Bombay, the busy streets of Simla having been only in my memory. Mr. Worthing was standing in front of me. He wore a white linen suit and a white boater hat, the red grosgrain ribbon matching his bowtie, which squeezed his neck and gave him the appearance of an overstuffed sausage. Mr. Worthing had worked at the embassy until the last hour, during which time he had tendered his resignation.
“Did everything go smoothly, dear?” Mrs. Worthing asked, waving goodbye to the near-strangers she’d made acquaintance with while waiting for Mr. Worthing to arrive.
“Absolutely,” Mr. Worthing said. “All arrangements have been made for our departure. England awaits.”
“Then let us not waste another minute,” Mrs. Worthing said. “Walk with me, Rose.” She looped her arm through mine, and together we walked out the embassy doors and loaded into a waiting car that was filled to the brim with our luggage.
The RMS Star of India was visible long before we reached the docks. Mr. Worthing talked incessantly about the ship as we neared it.
“A luxury liner, finest ship to ever set sail from India. Carries everything from passengers to cargo and royal mail,” he said. And then, at Mrs. Worthing’s displeasure at the thought of being stuffed into a room like a piece of mail, Mr. Worthing added, “Do not fret, my dear. All of that is below deck. We are in first class.”
Mr. and Mrs. Worthing were an odd couple—where Mrs. Worthing was all gossip and status, Mr. Worthing was a man of facts. They rarely agreed on anything, but they loved each other deeply, and I was grateful for their company. They had volunteered to act as my chaperones for the three-week duration of the voyage, ensuring I made it safely to London.
I began to see more and more people along the sides of the road carrying steamer trunks and luggage, headed for the ship. I could count each of the six decks of the ship towering over us as the driver pulled the car over on the side of the road not far from the docks. The hull of the vessel was black, like a giant’s freshly shined shoe, and looked to be over 500-feet long with black and red funnels stretching from the top of the ship into the sky. I’d never seen a vessel so big.
“Out you come, Rose,” Mr. Worthing said. I turned and realized he and Mrs. Worthing had already exited the vehicle, and his hand was outstretched toward me. I
took it and stepped into the road. “Wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” I answered, smiling up at him.
“The ship boasts six-hundred passengers, not including crew, and has all the modern amenities. The vessel’s quadruple-expansion engines guarantee a speedy voyage, as we pass through the Suez Canal, stopping at the ports of Aden, Said, Malta, Marseilles, and Gibraltar along the way,” he continued, sounding like a tour guide.
“Stop boring the girl,” Mrs. Worthing said. “If she’s anything like me, she only cares about the Turkish bath and the indoor swimming pool.”
We unloaded our luggage and Mr. Worthing tried to impress upon his wife the magnificence of the ship we were about to board, but it was obvious she cared little about what he was saying.
Mr. Worthing insisted he carry our luggage, so Mrs. Worthing and I walked slowly behind him as he struggled under the weight of our things. As we neared the gangplank, a young crewman, long and tan and blond, walked down towards us and offered assistance.
“Oh, sure,” Mr. Worthing said, shrugging as though it didn’t matter to him whether he received a drop of help or not, though sweat had begun to bead on his forehead, dripping from under his hat. “Might as well.”
“Tip the man,” Mrs. Worthing said, nudging her husband between the ribs with her pointy elbow.
The door at the top of the gangplank stood open for now, but soon it would close and I would be on my way to England. I’d come to India as a child and I was sad to say goodbye. However, recent events had made me eager for a fresh start. While Mr. and Mrs. Worthing dug through pockets and luggage, looking for a suitable tip for the young crewman, I turned and looked down at the country I was leaving behind, knowing it would likely be for the very last time.
During my reverie, a woman still on the ground, but heading for the ship, caught my attention. Her dark hair, covered with a white cloche hat, was tucked into a bun at the base of her neck, and she wore a light blue tea gown with loose sleeves that cuffed at her wrists. The woman was giddy, practically skipping towards the ship, smiling and waving to everyone as she passed. I wanted to turn away and roll my eyes at her lack of decorum, but something about her eyes stopped me. She cast sidelong glances at the crowd, as if she were expecting someone to jump out at her. Her smile faltered ever so slightly as she caught sight of someone in the crowd, but quickly she whipped her head back around and grinned.
“Miss?”
The blond crewmember was smiling at me, beckoning me into the ship where Mr. and Mrs. Worthing were waiting for me.
I turned back to find the woman again, but she had disappeared into the line of passengers waiting to board. Something about her had set me on edge, but that didn’t take much these days. I touched my ruined cheekbone with the tip of my gloved finger for just a second, and then pushed the woman from my mind.
I accepted the hand of the crewmember and stepped over the threshold and into the RMS Star of India. In three weeks time, I would be in London with my inheritance and an entirely new life. No need to dwell on the old one.
I wanted to explore the ship, but Mrs. Worthing insisted we go immediately to our stateroom and freshen up. Our tickets were in first class, so our room looked more like a flat than the boarding room I’d been imagining. I had my own private washroom and sleeping cabin with a door that lead to a shared sitting room where Mrs. Worthing and I agreed to meet in fifteen minutes.
I unpacked my steamer trunk into mahogany drawers built into the wall, and arranged my dresses on hangers in a modest but suitable closet. The cabin was small, but I couldn’t imagine I’d be spending much time in there with an entire ship to explore.
The yellow washroom light left much to be desired, but it would have to do for the next few weeks. I rarely used mirrors, anyway. At least, not until recently. Since the explosion, I checked my reflection several times a day to be sure the cream and powder was still in place over the scar on my cheek. I would never be able to completely hide the damage that had been done, but makeup did help disguise it, at least from a distance.
I ran my finger over the uneven skin, remembering the blood that had poured down my face and neck, the raw flesh that had been stitched together in the hospital while I faded in and out of consciousness. It was a miracle I’d survived at all. The bomb had been only a few feet away, having landed near the lap of—
A scream. For a moment I thought I’d imagined the sound, that perhaps the trauma had worked itself into my mind and twisted it, confusing past and present. Was I going mad, my nerves finally consuming me after weeks of flashbacks and nightmares?
Then, I heard a man’s voice. I pressed my hand to my heart, trying to slow its thunderous beat. The sound was coming from the state room next to mine. A man and woman were in the midst of a violent argument. I pressed my ear to the wall, but I couldn’t make out the words. Suddenly, the ship’s horn blew, sending me flying away from the wall. I laughed at my own skittishness, and then glanced once more in the mirror before hurrying to the sitting room to meet Mrs. Worthing.
We rushed up to the deck to watch as the ship pulled away from the dock. Fellow passengers pressed against the black railings and waved down to the crowd still onshore. Mrs. Worthing left after only a minute or two, while we were still close enough to land to see each individual face looking up at the ship. I, however, stayed behind. I wanted to watch India fade into the horizon, become a green blur in the distance. The sea wind swept across the deck and made me shiver, but still I stayed at the railing. When most everyone had cleared off to explore the ship and settle in, I lingered, lifting one hand and waving at the country I’d called home for so long. Saying goodbye to the trauma of my past.
When I finally turned, I felt lighter, though my ordeal was nowhere near over. India was in my past, but England lay ahead. I could only hope I had the courage to face the challenges that awaited.
2
I spent the afternoon marveling at the size and grandeur of the RMS Star of India. The Promenade deck, reserved exclusively for first class passengers, provided endless opportunity for the wealthy to lounge and consume, whether it be snacks, cigarettes, or tea. Wooden double doors lead from the outer deck to a wood-paneled salon where businessmen and present and past government officials sat in a loose circle discussing the British Raj and the post-war economy. I decided not to linger after one of the men, a walrus-like man with a thick beard, glared at me as though I’d interrupted their discussion by releasing an especially malodorous smell.
Wind blew across the ship, whipping skirts and making men hold onto their hats, but it was a refreshing change from the Indian summer. Many passengers were making use of the veranda café, sipping tea and starters while enjoying the cool sea air. Wooden beams stretched from the center of the ship out towards the railing, and a red and white striped fabric draped across them, providing shade. This was where Mrs. Worthing had decided to pass the time until dinner. As I walked by—quickly, so as not to be pulled into her conversation—she had already made several new friends and was laughing riotously, drawing the ire of every nearby passenger who wasn’t part of the group.
The rest of the A Deck was devoted to a smoking room, complete with a fireplace and exorbitant Persian rugs, and a reading and music room where I saw one man trying and failing to read while a woman attempted to play the piano on the opposite end of the room. The ship boasted many other amenities, too many to even think about all at once, but I made my way to the bow of the craft where I found a wicker lounge chair to occupy until dinner. Three weeks at sea meant I would have more than enough time to discover every nook and cranny of the ship, and all of the driving and unpacking had left me feeling drained. I lay back in the chair, crossed my ankles, closed my eyes, and let the afternoon sun warm my skin.
A loud horn sounded, startling me from my accidental nap. I opened my eyes and noticed everyone rising from their seats and stretching. While I’d been asleep, many of the women had changed from afternoon tea dresses into floor length
evening gowns, and the men wore dark suits and hats.
“Jane, honestly. Go and change for dinner before we are late.”
I turned to see an elderly woman in a green velvet gown leading a young girl of about sixteen by the neck. The shape and material of the gown hugged the woman’s bumpy mid-section in a rather unflattering way and her voice was shrill and harsh like steam escaping a kettle as she prodded the young girl along. As I watched them, the woman cast her hawk-like, watery eyes at me, giving me a good look from top to bottom.
“You ought to go change, as well,” she said, giving me her unsolicited opinion. “The dinner bell just rang. That is the sound that disturbed your nap, if you weren’t already aware.”
The woman didn’t speak as harshly to me as she did to the young girl, but she made it clear my presence on the ship brought her little joy.
I smiled at her, a fake toothy grin. “Thank you, ma’am. I did hear the bell, but I follow the fashionable custom of never arriving anywhere perfectly on time.”
That earned me a scowl from the woman and a curious glance from the young girl. I smiled at her, but the older woman almost immediately had her hand back on the girl’s neck, directing her away from me as though I had the plague and another second in my company would be the end of both of them.
Back in my cabin, I changed into a floor-length burgundy satin gown with ruched gold lamé layered on top. Fine gold embroidery decorated the handkerchief hem and the deep-cut neckline. I paired it with a delicate lace headband that helped to keep my curls tame. The humidity out at sea had given them more volume than normal. Finally, I checked my makeup once more in the mirror, and then slipped into a pair of gold t-strap shoes before darting out of the stateroom and up to the deck. I wasn’t the last passenger into the dining room, but the deck crowd had considerably thinned, and it took a few minutes of searching to find Mr. and Mrs. Worthing sitting at a table in the center of the room, their necks craned in search of me.
