by Blythe Baker
There was no question that my amateur sleuthing skills would all be trained on Colonel Stratton, but now I needed to figure out how to proceed. I would not be able to simply ask the Colonel whether he had murdered his wife, and even if the questioning could be more subtle, there was no way he would consent to a conversation with me. I’d seen his face after he’d caught me on the stairs during his argument with Captain Croft. I was the last person he wanted anything to do with. I would have to find another way to gather clues.
Just then, a crew member walked by, pulling a massive steamer trunk behind him.
“There are valuables in there. Please be careful. Don’t just throw it in with the cargo. Treat it kindly.” A woman was trailing behind him, barking orders. She wore a brown, shin-length skirt, a long-sleeved top, and a knitted vest over it, a hand pressed to her felt hat to keep it from blowing away in the wind.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the crew member—a middle-aged man with red cheeks and a bald spot. He looked as though he wanted to throw the woman overboard, but instead he just continued nodding, assuring her he would take great care of her belongings.
“If that trunk is lost, I will be in London with absolutely nothing,” she said. “Everything I own in the world is in there.”
“I understand, ma’am. Everything will be fine. The hold is full of valuables, and we do our best to take special care of them.”
The duo disappeared down a flight of stairs that lead below deck, and I shook my head as the woman’s droning voice continued to drift up to me. How many different ways could the man have assured her he would keep her belongings safe? It was ridiculous. Hundreds of passengers had their belongings stored below deck to be collected upon their departure, and they weren’t hounding the ship’s crew about keeping them safe.
Then, an idea struck.
Hundreds of passengers had their belongings stored below deck. Including Colonel Stratton.
I rose to my feet, stretched, and followed the same trail the woman and crew member had just cut across the deck towards the stairs that lead into the belly of the ship.
The passageway was narrow and illuminated by small yellow lights bolted into the ceiling. The lights stretched my shadow halfway down the stairs. I moved steadily downwards for what felt like several minutes before finally reaching the ground. The woman’s voice had disappeared by the time I reached the landing, so I had no way of knowing exactly which path they’d taken. A seemingly endless white hallway stretched out on either side of me, and after a few seconds of internal debate, I went to the right. Identical doors dotted the walls, and I jiggled every handle as I passed. Each door was locked. There was no signage anywhere that clearly stated ‘crew only,’ but the narrow hallway, lack of good lights, and skimpy décor gave me that vibe. Passengers weren’t expected to wander these halls.
Suddenly, a door opened further down the hallway. With nowhere to hide, I was entirely exposed, but luckily the crew member—the same one from the deck just a few moments ago—was headed the opposite direction, his back to me. The woman was nowhere in sight. He turned into another corridor, and I quickly moved down the hallway and pushed on the door he’d walked out of. It was unlocked.
The room in front of me was massive. The ceilings were low, eight-feet tall at most, but the space stretched at least half the length of the ship, and was stuffed full of large furniture, cars, stacks of wooden crates and trunks with thick rope netting laying over the top and fastened into hooks in the floor. It was a museum of people’s lives. One stack had bundles of canvases leaning against trunks and arranged into precarious towers, oil paintings peeking out from under cotton coverings. Another was crates of wine and liquor, vineyard names stamped on the side in blue ink. It was a quick peek into the lives of the people on board the RMS Star of India. I thought of my own belongings, loosely packed into a cheap trunk the Worthings had purchased for me from a shop down the street from the hospital. I hadn’t been able to pack any of my things because the authorities thought it was too risky for me to return to the house I’d called home during my stay in India. They weren’t yet sure whether the explosion was a planned attack or random, so my survival was being kept quiet until I was safely out of the country. If someone were to peek into my trunk, the only thing they’d learn was that I had far more books than clothes.
As I meandered the rows, enjoying the glimpse into the lives of my fellow passengers, I realized I had no hope of finding the Stratton’s storage area. The piles were positioned inside of squares painted on the floor and each square had a number and letter label, but I had no way of knowing which was registered to Colonel Stratton.
“What are you looking for?”
The voice scared me, and I screamed, jumping back and slamming into a car. The sheet covering the vehicle caught on the bracelet around my wrist and slipped to the floor, revealing the shiny burgundy paint color. But I couldn’t focus on that. A young Indian boy, no older than twelve, wearing a stained cream tunic and long black pants was peeking out from behind a stack of wooden crates.
“Who are you?” I asked, taking a step towards him and crouching down.
“My name is Aseem,” he said in perfect English, a white grin splitting his face. “Are you looking for your luggage?”
I had so many questions for the boy, but still I nodded.
“What’s your number?”
I narrowed my eyes at him and he pointed to a spot next to my feet. I followed his finger and saw the “H56” painted on the floor. “Oh, I’m not sure,” I said.
“Name?” he asked, his voice all business. I felt as if I’d fallen and hit my head. What was this child doing down with the cargo?
I hesitated. “Stratton.”
He raised one dark, feathery eyebrow, and then waved for me to follow him. He moved quickly, his feet silent on the floor, as we wove down the aisles and around cargo. Finally, he stopped and pointed to a modest area along the wall. B36. A navy-blue steamer trunk with gold fixtures was the only item in the space.
“The Colonel had everything but this trunk removed from the space this morning,” Aseem said, glancing sideways at me. “I know your name isn’t Stratton.”
I looked down at the child. His cheeks were flushed and his hair was mussed in the back from sleep. “How long have you been down here?” I asked.
He looked away from me. “Just a little while.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said.
“Then we both have our secrets,” he responded, turning back to me. His eyes were wide and dark, and I felt exposed as he studied me. The boy was young, but smart.
“How did you know this space belonged to the Strattons?” I asked.
He shrugged his thin shoulders.
“Have you been hiding down here?”
Suddenly, his cool demeanor vanished. He looked up at me, eyes wide and panicked. “Please don’t tell anyone. I haven’t taken anything or done anything wrong. I just wanted to leave Bombay, but I couldn’t afford a ticket.”
I held out a hand to stop him, and he bit back his words, lips tucked in. “I won’t tell anyone you are here.”
“Thank you so—”
“If,” I said, interrupting him. “You help me.”
He tilted his head to the side. “How can I help you?”
“Hiding down here has given you an insight into the ship’s passengers that I don’t have. Plus, you move quietly, and are clearly adept at gathering information.”
Aseem didn’t need any more convincing of his talents. He crossed his arms and nodded. “What do you need to know?”
“You said the Colonel had everything removed from this space this morning. How did you know that?”
“A few members of the crew came down this morning and loaded everything up,” he said, waving his hand over the nearly empty square. “The blue trunk wouldn’t fit on the luggage cart, so they said they’d come back for it. They never did.”
The trunk was small and unassuming, and the only access I had to th
e Strattons private life unless I wanted to break into their cabin.
“Are you going to look inside?” Aseem asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” I admitted. It was true. Once I opened the trunk, I would be crossing an invisible line in the sand. I would officially be violating the Stratton’s privacy, and throwing myself into the midst of something I didn’t yet understand. I’d already come this far, however. It seemed like a waste to walk away without at least taking a peek. “Aseem, would you guard the corridor?”
Aseem’s face split in a mischievous smile, and he ran silently across the floor, his slight body leaning against the wall next to the entrance.
I crossed the painted line on the floor, stepping into the space reserved for the Stratton’s belongings. The steamer trunk sat in the center of the space, almost as if it had been staged that way. It didn’t seem like an item that had been accidentally left behind. It looked like bait. As I knelt down on the cold floor, my dress fanned out around me, I had to wonder whether I wasn’t falling into a trap.
The trunk had a latch, but if there had ever been a lock, it was long gone now. I flipped the latch, dropping it up onto the lid where it clanked with a satisfying metal sound, and then lifted the lid up. The hinges on the back of the trunk squealed as it opened, the sound echoing off the metal walls, making me wince. I knew Aseem and I were likely the only people around—most everyone was enjoying the ship’s amenities before lunch—but still, I imagined crew members charging into the cargo hold, hauling me to my feet, and escorting me to Captain Croft. When the room remained silent aside from my labored breathing, I looked down into the trunk.
It appeared to belong to Ruby. Gauzy gowns, long stockings, and a number of different hats were tucked neatly into the bottom. The hats had been settled on top of everything so as not to crush the paper flowers affixed to them. I pulled them out and set them carefully on the floor next to me. Then, I removed the dresses one by one, refolding them into a neat pile. Each one was more elaborate than the next, featuring layers of lace and satin, delicate hemlines, and thick ribbons running around the center.
As I pulled out the last gown, however, it revealed a small label in the back wall of the trunk. It was a square piece of cloth glued to the paper lining. Someone had written on it, but the ink had faded with time. I leaned forward to read it.
Elizabeth Stratton
London, England
Elizabeth? Could that be Ruby’s full name? She wouldn’t have been the first woman to shirk the formal moniker in favor of a more unique nickname, that was for sure. The trunk clearly belonged to a woman. Maybe the Colonel had a sister? Or a mother?
“Miss, someone is coming,” Aseem hissed. He had come up behind me, though I hadn’t heard his footsteps. “I heard talking in the hallway. It’s growing closer.”
His eyes darted around nervously.
“You can go, Aseem,” I said. “Thank you for your help.”
He sighed with relief and began backing away towards the maze of cargo. “You know where to find me, miss.”
I glanced back at the door, and by the time I turned around, Aseem was gone. It seemed as though he would be more useful than I had initially thought.
Mindful of his warning, I grabbed a pile of the dresses from the floor next to me and dropped them into the steamer trunk. As they landed in the bottom in a tangle of fabric and ribbons, I noticed the corner of the trunk lining peeling up. I quickly reached in to smooth it down, but when I pushed on it, the whole bottom of the trunk shifted. Knowing I was short on time, but unable to walk away from the puzzle before me, I hurriedly wedged my fingers between the cardboard trunk bottom and the wall of the trunk and pulled up.
It lifted out easily to reveal a second compartment below the main one. The trunk had a false bottom, but why? Since I couldn’t yet hear the approaching voices or footsteps, I estimated I had maybe another minute left. I pulled the bottom out, dumping the dresses once again on the floor next to me.
A stack of folded letters sat in one corner. I opened one, and scanned over it quickly, looking for any details that jumped out. The letter was addressed to Ruby and signed, “Love Always, Mo Mo.”
A secret affair, perhaps? Ruby was young and had a taste for handsome men, so it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to believe her capable of such a thing. However, the letter merely discussed the rainy weather in London and a new coat the writer had bought for winter. And the handwriting, although careless and uneven, looked distinctly feminine. The letters were looped and curled in a way few men would take the time to do. Also, the paper was the palest shade of pink. However, I could glean little else from the contents.
Now I heard them. The sound of the approaching voices Aseem had warned me of. They sounded near enough that I knew I was almost out of time.
I glanced hastily at the rest of the letters, but nothing stood out to my eyes. Ruby had been involved in a correspondence she wished to keep secret, but I did not know with whom, aside from the nickname “Mo Mo.”
Other than the letters, the trunk contained a small silver locket engraved with the letter ‘M’ and a single photograph. The voices in the corridor were just outside the door, so I had but seconds to look at the image. The picture showed a young girl—blonde and no older than seven—sitting in a white wicker chair against a black backdrop. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair fell in ringlets around her cherubic face. She had wide eyes that seemed to stare into mine, and I found myself captivated by her. Could she be “Mo Mo?”
“Where is Stratton’s space?” a voice asked.
“I’ll have to check the ledger,” a second voice answered. “Howard said he emptied the space this morning, but the Colonel insists he is missing a piece of luggage.”
I hadn’t heard the door to the cargo hold open, but the voices were echoing around the room, and by the sound of it, they would be standing before me in only a few minutes. As quickly and quietly as possible, I replaced the letters and the photograph in the bottom of the trunk, repositioned the false bottom, and stacked the dresses in as nice a pile as time would allow. I lowered the lid, letting it thud softly closed.
“The Strattons are in space B36,” the second voice said. “Shocking about the wife. Do you think the husband capable of murder?”
The men were nearly upon me, and I knew I needed to get out fast. I couldn’t cut across the aisle lest they see me. My only option was to hide in one of the nearby spaces and hope they wouldn’t look too closely. If only I had Aseem’s penchant for quiet movement and finding clever hiding spots.
I ducked across the gap between the Strattons’ space and B37, which had a large collection of marble busts and sculptures filling the small square, and ducked behind a rather muddy depiction of King George V.
“The Colonel seems hot-tempered enough to kill. His wife was murdered last night, but he still found twenty minutes to scream at Howard in the hallway. That missing trunk must be full of gold,” the man said.
Or full of secrets, I thought. The trunk didn’t seem as if it would be of much importance to Colonel Stratton, being filled with dresses and hats, but perhaps the bottom compartment wasn’t as secret as it seemed. The letters had been addressed to Ruby, but that didn’t mean she had received them. Perhaps the Colonel was keeping them from her, but why? And who was the girl in the photo?
The men rounded the corner, both wearing white uniforms and matching caps. They pulled a luggage cart behind them.
One of the men—tall with a mop of blonde hair hanging across his forehead—bent down and picked up the trunk. “It’s definitely not full of gold. It barely weights ten pounds.”
He dropped it onto the cart with a thud, giving little concern for the safety of the contents.
“Then I suppose it will actually make it to his room,” the other man said. “If it had been full of gold, I may have told the Colonel we couldn’t find it.”
I suddenly wondered whether Lady Dixon’s brooch hadn’t been stolen after all. If all the crew were
as trustworthy as the two men currently rolling the steamer trunk away, I was going to have to keep an eye on my own belongings.
The men left, but I stayed hidden for several more minutes out of an abundance of caution. I wished I’d kept even one of the letters as evidence. Of what, I wasn’t sure, but the hidden compartment felt important. People didn’t make a habit of hiding things of no import. When I finally came out of my hiding place and moved towards the door, I called out for Aseem, but my voice echoed off the walls without response.
7
Mr. and Mrs. Worthing spent the second half of the afternoon and half of dinner talking about how invigorating they had found their game of badminton.
“Our partners were less than adequate at the sport, but the exercise felt invigorating,” Mr. Worthing said, talking to a half-full table that had fully grown weary of the subject.
I did my best to smile and nod, but even my thoughts began to wander as the discussion drug on and on. It didn’t help that in addition to the starting absence of Ruby Stratton, we were also missing the company of Colonel Stratton and Dr. Rushforth. Colonel Stratton’s absence made sense—his wife had just died. It would have raised more than a few eyebrows if he had appeared at dinner as though nothing had happened. Dr. Rushforth’s absence was unexplained, but not altogether worthy of note. There was no assigned seating, and as I’d witnessed only that morning, he enjoyed eating at the veranda café on occasion.
