A Subtle Murder

by Blythe Baker

  Then, over the humming of the propellers, I heard a single shout. I couldn’t tell what the voice said, but I heard it. And by the way Dr. Rushforth turned his head, I knew he heard it, too.

  The voice sounded again, this time closer. “Rose!”

  Without hesitation, I screamed back. “In here! Help, I’m in—”

  Dr. Rushforth lunged for me, trying to keep me from shouting. As his hands grabbed at my collarbone, I forced the hairpin into the dense flesh of his shoulder. He shouted and fell to the floor in a heap. Knowing I likely wouldn’t have another opportunity, I made a beeline for the door and ripped it open, practically throwing myself into the hallway and directly into the arms of Achilles Prideaux.

  “Are you hurt, Rose?” he asked, his eyes concerned but frantic, searching around for my attacker.

  I opened my mouth to answer, and then stopped, reminding myself who I was supposed to be. I was Rose Beckingham.

  “I’m all right,” I said, the accent coming out strained. I’d been doing the British accent for nearly a month, but just five minutes with my regular voice, and I was already finding the adjustment difficult. “Dr. Rushforth is still in the room. He killed Ruby and he tried to kill me.”

  Monsieur Prideaux lifted his walking stick in front of him, and with a quick flash of his wrist, a thin, sharp blade protruded from the end. He tightened his grip on the stick and moved towards the door. Before he could make it to the door, though, Dr. Rushforth burst from the room. He had retrieved the gun and was pointing it at Achilles.

  “Stand back,” he shouted. “Do not move or I will shoot.”

  “Do you intend to kill us both?” Achilles asked. His voice was even and professional. Even though Dr. Rushforth had the gun, it felt as though Achilles held the power.

  “If necessary.”

  “What story will you tell, then?” Achilles asked. “How will you explain our deaths?”

  “A crazed murderer. A murder-suicide. I will find a reasonable explanation.”

  “There is no reason in any of this,” I said, taking a step towards Dr. Rushforth, trying to place myself between the gun and Achilles Prideaux. I didn’t want to see an innocent man shot and killed because he had been trying to save me.

  Dr. Rushforth opened his mouth to speak, but voices echoed down the hallway, distracting him. Monsieur Prideaux and I turned to see Captain Croft, the Worthings, and a mess of crew members running down the hallway towards us.

  “There’s no way out,” I said, turning back to Dr. Rushforth. “Put down the gun and give yourself up.”

  Dr. Rushforth looked from my face to the people moving towards him down the hallway. His eyes were wide, face pale. Then, unbelievably, he looked back at me and smiled.

  “My dear, there is always a way out.”

  Then, he lifted the pistol to his temple, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

  20

  Mrs. Worthing did not leave my room all night. She slept on the floor next to my bed in a pile of spare blankets, though I tried several times to convince her to go back to her own bed.

  “You’ve been through a trauma, dear. I can’t leave you when you need me most,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears.

  I stopped pressing the issue when I began to realize that, perhaps, Mrs. Worthing needed me slightly more than I needed her.

  Though Dr. Rushforth had killed himself less than four feet from me, everyone in the hallway had seen it. The spectacle was not one that could be easily ignored. The blood. The smell of gun powder. The sound. It had taken me back to Simla, to the explosion that started it all. I had a basis for how to handle such gory sights. I locked them away in the back of my mind, thinking on them as little as possible. Mrs. Worthing, however, had no such coping mechanism. If sleeping on the floor next to me helped her in any way, I would not be the person to discourage her.

  I knew we were set to dock briefly in Aden the next morning, so I woke up earlier than usual, sleep having evaded me most of the night anyway. Mrs. Worthing, however, seemed to have been thoroughly exhausted by the previous day’s excitement. She slept on her nest of blankets, mouth open and snoring while I slipped into a long white skirt, black-toed oxford heels, and a pink sweater. I did not bother to hide the green and purple bruises around my neck or the scar on my cheek. If everyone on the ship hadn’t yet become familiar with the tale of how I discovered Dr. Rushforth was the killer, they would know by breakfast. So, there was no sense in trying to blend into the crowd any longer. I slipped from the room quietly, managing not to wake Mrs. Worthing.

  I spotted Lady Dixon and Jane on their morning walk, and surprisingly, Lady Dixon stopped to speak with me.

  “I hear Dr. Rushforth was the killer,” she said, her voice fluctuating between a question and a statement.

  I nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  She pursed her lips. “I never liked the man.”

  If I’d learned anything in the previous week, it was that it was much easier to simply agree with Lady Dixon than to argue. As I nodded in blind agreement, I noticed a large brooch hanging from the side of her purse.

  “Did you find your brooch?” I asked.

  She looked down at her bag, a smile spreading across her face. “Yes, Jane found it last night. It had been in our room the entire time.”

  I peeked around Lady Dixon to see Jane standing a little taller behind her. “I’m sure Lady Dixon is quite grateful to you, Jane. With as much searching as the two of you did, it is a wonder it was in your cabin all along.”

  Lady Dixon patted the brooch with three fingers and then smiled up at me. “A wonder, indeed, but I am beyond glad to have it back in my possession. It is one of the few things I have left of my mother’s.”

  Jane’s smile faltered ever so slightly, and when I raised an eyebrow in her direction, her cheeks flamed, though her eyes never left mine. I could see her pleading with me not to voice my suspicion aloud, and I winked at her. Her secret would be safe with me. It was a clever plan, after all. Lady Dixon loved the brooch more than anything, and she would certainly cherish the person who found it for her. She did not need to know the person who found it had also been the person to take it.

  I left the two women to finish their walk, and wove my own path around the deck, through the dining room, and into the small café that was just opening for the day. I looked at the table where I’d sat with Dr. Rushforth the morning of Ruby’s murder. A chill ran down my spine when I realized how coolly he’d behaved, especially after having killed someone only hours before. I tried to push thoughts of him away, but I suspected it would be a long time before I went a day without thinking of Dr. Rushforth. On the bright side, however, with Dr. Rushforth’s suicide, the secret of my true identity was safe—for now.

  I took up residence in a wicker chair at the bow of the ship, watching as we neared port.

  As soon as the ship dropped anchor, two white boxes, roughly human-shaped were brought up from below deck and moved off the ship. And then local police flooded the promenade. Even though I’d given my full statement to Captain Croft, explaining everything I knew, the police still made a beeline for me. I repeated my story to several officers, but by the time the third officer came to question me, Achilles Prideaux—once again arriving to save me in the nick of time—stepped in. He spoke to the police in low tones, using a language I did not know. I had no idea what he said, but the officers seemed satisfied with his explanation and left.

  “Thank you once again, Monsieur,” I said, rising from my chair for the first time in hours.

  Achilles tapped his walking stick on the wooden deck once and smiled. “Do not mention it. Though, I must warn you, I will be disembarking here in Aden before continuing on to England on a later vessel. So, I will not be around should you require my assistance again.”

  “Why are you stopping here?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Business calls.”

  “Then, I suppose this is goodbye, Monsieur.”

  “Only
if you wish it to be.” Achilles Prideaux reached around to his back pocket and pulled out a small white card, handing it to me.

  The card simply said his name and provided an address and telephone number. Achilles pointed to the address on the card. “Call on me at my home in London should you ever find yourself in need of my services.”

  He turned on his heel and began walking towards the gangplank.

  “Oh, Monsieur Prideaux,” I called after him.

  He stopped and looked over his shoulder at me.

  “How did you know where to find me last night?” I asked. The question had kept me up most of the night.

  “A small Indian boy tipped me off.” He smiled and then was gone.

  After he left, it occurred to me that I had no idea exactly what services Achilles Prideaux provided. Later that day, I asked a middle-aged crew member whether he had any knowledge of Achilles Prideaux.

  “The famous detective?” he asked.

  I tilted my head at him in confusion.

  “I’m almost certain that is who you mean. He just disembarked this morning to smooth over the matter of the murder with the local authorities.”

  I thanked the man for his information and fingered the business card in my coat pocket.

  I’d spent the last week playing detective while a real detective had been living just across the hall. What insights he could have provided. I now wondered whether, much like Dr. Rushforth, Achilles Prideaux didn’t have some inkling that perhaps I wasn’t all I claimed to be. Surely that was what he had meant on our first meeting when he had spoken of my keeping a dangerous secret. He could not guess exactly what that secret was, but he had obviously sensed I was playing some sort of dangerous game.

  For most of the ship’s voyage, I’d wished to never see him again. But now, suddenly, I found myself rather hoping our paths would once again cross.

  The next two weeks of the voyage passed much more peaceably than the first. After Aden, we passed through the Suez Canal and continued on to the ports of Said, Malta, Marseilles, and Gibraltar, before crossing the stormy Bay of Biscay.

  On one of the last days of the trip, the sun was just beginning to set, the sky a wash of blues and oranges, and I found myself standing at the bow of the ship. The English coast was a thick strip on the horizon. I knew in less than a day, I would be at Southampton, the last port before London. Soon I would be standing on English soil.

  In London, Mr. and Mrs. Worthing, who I had grown rather fond of, would release me into the care of the remaining Beckingham family. None of the waiting Beckingham relations had seen the real Rose since childhood so, with a little luck, I might just pull off my continued pretense. After that, my new life would officially begin. The thought sent a flutter through my stomach.

  A small cough came from behind me, and I spun just in time to see Aseem wave to me from the door to the decks below. I hadn’t seen him since our meeting in the maintenance closet, but I knew he was responsible for sending Achilles Prideaux to save me. I smiled at him warmly and waved in return. He disappeared below the deck, and I hoped he would manage to escape the ship when it docked at its final destination. The thought of what would become of such a young boy alone on the London streets left me feeling sick. But if any child could take care of himself, it was Aseem. He seemed incredibly capable.

  I turned back to the horizon. Even though I had looked away for only a few seconds, the sky already seemed darker. The blue had faded to a deep Indigo, the same shade as the ocean.

  Despite the distraction brought on by the murder of Ruby Stratton and the death of Dr. Rushforth, I knew true danger still lay ahead. I had to maintain my false identity as Rose in order to fool the rich Beckingham relations who would be anxiously awaiting my return in London. Claiming the inheritance meant for Rose was the only hope I had of completing a secret, personal mission I had put off for too many years.

  I reached for the thin chain that always hung around my neck, pulling the locket free of my dress. I’d taken out the small note folded inside enough times to know the messy scrawl of the message by heart: Help me.

  I squeezed the locket and then replaced it beneath the protective layer of my clothes.

  “Hold on a little longer,” I whispered into the sea wind. “I’m coming.”

  Continue following the mysterious adventures of Rose Beckingham in

  “A Grave Welcome.”

  Excerpt

  From “A Grave Welcome: A Rose Beckingham Murder Mystery, Book 2.”

  Stepping off the gangplank and touching solid ground for the first time in three weeks, I felt as though I was discovering a new continent. I was Magellan finding the East Indies, Roald Amundsen landing at the North Pole. Of course, London had been long discovered before the likes of Rose Beckingham set foot there, but that thought didn’t dampen my excitement. I had arrived.

  I looked back up at the hulking mass of the ship behind me. The RMS Star of India had borne me over rough seas, both figuratively and literally, and I was grateful to her for bearing the journey so well.

  “Watch it!”

  A woman carting a steamer trunk and two rambunctious children plowed into my shoulder, nearly knocking me back. I stopped to straighten myself, adjusting the brim of my beige cloche hat over my curls and smoothing out the travel creases in my tea gown. The dress had felt perfectly adequate for the weather in India, but the air in London had a chill to it. The wind bit against my exposed skin.

  “Is there no better place for you to stand?”

  A man with a twirled mustache stood only a few feet away with his arms full of luggage, sneering down at me so I wouldn’t be able to miss the fact that I was directly in his path and being an utter nuisance. My cheeks flamed with embarrassment and I scrambled to get out of his way and away from the passengers disembarking the ship. Everyone had seemed so carefree while we were at sea—even with a murder investigation ongoing for most of the voyage—but now everyone looked harried. They scurried away from the ship and into the maze of the city like each one was already late for a meeting.

  I turned on my heel, spinning in a full circle in search of Mr. and Mrs. Worthing, the couple who had acted as my chaperones for the duration of the voyage from Bombay to London. In all honesty, they had done little in the way of protecting me. Under their care, I still managed to unknowingly befriend a murderer and nearly be murdered by the same man. However, I couldn’t blame them for that. I chose to dive head first into the investigation of who had killed Ruby Stratton, which placed me in a considerable amount of danger. In fact, the majority of the ship’s passage had been spent trying to get away from the Worthings so I could investigate. But even still, I wanted to bid them farewell. I needed to thank them for their kindness and generosity.

  As more and more passengers continued to move down the gangplank and fill the area surrounding the dock, it became more unlikely I would find the Worthings. Surely, they hadn’t left without seeing me one last time? Mrs. Worthing had pulled me in for a cursory hug on our way out of the cabin, and Mr. Worthing had hurried her along, insistent on the fact we would have time to say goodbye once we were on land. But now, they were nowhere to be found.

  Pulling my modest steamer trunk along behind me, I weaved my way through the crowd of people reuniting with family members and asking for directions towards their destination in the city. The crush of people didn’t feel unfamiliar. The noisy, crowded streets of Bombay had prepared me for that. However, the pale faces were striking. Everything about London—based on the little I’d seen so far—seemed pale in comparison to India. The sky was a thick gray color, hanging over the stone city like fleece. Where India had been golden sunshine and red dirt and tanned skin, London was faded and foggy and cold. A pang of sudden homesickness sprung up in my chest for the warm and vivacious country I would likely never see again.

  I shook my head and tried to look at the city with new eyes. I couldn’t wander around London in awe and wonder. I was supposed to have been here before.
More than that, I had to create the illusion that I’d lived in London before. The slate gray city should feel like coming home. I closed my eyes and tried to channel the other Rose’s enthusiasm for the place. All the time I knew her in India, she told me repeatedly how much she missed London.

  “You would love the shopping there,” she said one day while we sat on her bed, fanning ourselves from the heat of the Indian summer. “Custom-made hats and dresses in any fabric you could imagine.”

  “You can find custom-made hats and dresses in Bombay,” I countered, fingering the hem of my bright yellow sun dress.

  Rose fell back on the bed, her blankets nearly swallowing her up. “It’s not the same. London is where fashion lives and breathes, Nellie. By the time the latest fashions arrive here, everyone in London is on to something new. I can’t wait to get home.”

  The memory fell upon me like a stone, crushing the breath out of me. In that moment it was hard to believe Rose could be dead. A tear fell from the corner of my eye, and I swiped at it with my gloved hand, dabbing away the moisture so as not to smudge my makeup. I had assumed Rose’s identity five weeks ago, yet I still felt entirely inadequate. I didn’t have her dramatic flair, and I worried everyone could see that. Of course, having supposedly survived what had killed her parents, Rose would have good reason to seem less enthusiastic now.

  Lost in thought, I’d wandered across the street from the ship and down a narrow side street. Mrs. Worthing would have opted for the least busy passage into the city, so I knew I had a better chance of finding her and her husband there than on the main roads. Still, the stream of cars and passengers coming away from the docks filled the street and the sidewalks. I was a helpless fish caught in the current. I swiveled my head, standing on my toes to try and see above the crush of the crowd, but finally, I sunk down onto my feet and let myself be washed away.