by Blythe Baker
“To get away from you, no doubt,” Achilles said. “Were you or were you not still in pursuit?”
“I was, but—”
Achilles dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “You’ve chased the killer to his death and left me with no one to question. Our employer is dead, and I cannot apprehend his killer.”
“You call him our employer as if we knew him personally. He was a client of yours, nothing more,” I said, aware I was downplaying the importance of my error. “Isn’t it enough that you’ve solved his murder?”
“I am not being paid to solve his murder, Nellie. I was hired to uncover the espionage ring operating within the local administration, and now both my employer and my biggest lead are dead.”
Hearing him use my real name jolted me back into the seriousness of my predicament. In the months I’d been with Achilles, I’d dropped my charade as Rose Beckingham ever so slightly. I only kept my false accent when we were in the company of other people, and I’d introduced myself to several people as Nellie Dennet in hopes I could reclaim my identity one day. But without Achilles by my side, I would once again be alone in the world, penniless, and without a clear path forward. As Rose, however, I would have a family and a fortune.
My parting with the London Beckinghams had been abrupt. I’d left a vague letter behind, informing them that I would not be going to New York with Catherine and Alice. Later, on arriving at Tangier, I’d contacted them again to let them know where I was and that I was safe. I had made an effort at a convincing excuse, saying I needed time away, but it felt insincere. Not exactly a burned bridge, but after the recent horror they’d been through in losing their own murderous son, my sudden departure was hardly kind. My aunt had written me recently, but I lacked the courage to read her letter. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wrote to tell me they would refuse to see me again and not to call on them should I ever return to London. Though Lord and Lady Ashton had only been my aunt and uncle for eight months, the thought of being rejected by them wounded me.
Leaving with Achilles Prideaux had been a mistake.
“Did you expect the man to confess his crime and all of his connections to you?” I challenged. “Even if he were alive, what information did you expect to gather from him?”
Achilles narrowed his eyes. “Is that a criticism of my investigation?”
“Do I need to explain myself? I’m sure the world-renowned detective has never heard a criticism, so perhaps you wouldn’t recognize it. Yes, it was.”
Achilles opened his mouth, taking a step towards me, ready for the challenge. But then, he hesitated. Like always, he considered his next action carefully and closed his mouth. He shook his head. “We do not work well together, Nellie. We are two individuals who are more accustomed to being alone than in the company of another. I’m afraid that tendency has spoiled whatever hope there ever was of a partnership between us.”
I heard the dual meaning. We would not be partners professionally or personally.
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, doing my best to swallow the impulsive side of me that seemed to cause so much trouble. I wasn’t sure if I really meant the words, but I needed to say them. I needed to be sensible and realistic about the fact that there was no future for us.
Shoving aside my emotions, I held the leather pouch out to him. “Here is the letter I took from the man’s pocket.”
Achilles opened the leather pouch carefully and pulled the letter out between two pinched fingers. He unfolded it as if he was afraid it would burst into flames. After a few quiet minutes, he refolded it and replaced it in the pouch.
“There may very well be more assassinations planned. I have to pass along this information to the British Embassy,” he said, tucking the item inside of his suit jacket. “Do you mind if I keep the letter?”
I shook my head. I’d grabbed the letter in an effort to appease the anger I knew would be directed at me once Achilles realized his suspect was dead. I’d intended to give it to him all along. It was a peace offering of sorts. “It is yours.”
He offered a quick bow, always the gentleman, and hurried from the room, leaving me alone once again.
I stood in the middle of the room for a moment, wondering if after eight months of floating between the two, it would be possible to split myself down the center again and decide between Nellie Dennet from New York and Rose Beckingham from London. Then, my eyes fell to the small writing desk in the corner of the room and the locked drawer where Lady Ashton’s letter had been waiting for me. I unlocked the drawer and pulled out the letter before I could convince myself otherwise. The wait was over.
3
Dearest Rose,
I cannot lie and say your decision to leave so suddenly did not cause Lord Ashton, Catherine, Alice, and myself a great deal of heartache, but I also must say that we understand. You, sweet Rose, have been through a terrible time. One tragedy after another seems to have befallen you, and it is no wonder you need time to yourself. I hope you know our door is always open to you, as is the offer for you to join the girls in New York.
Catherine and Alice arrived safely after a long voyage and have begun to furnish their rooms in their aunt’s home. My sister is so pleased to keep them, and though I would trust no one’s watchful eye as much as yours, I believe she will keep them both out of trouble. Alice asks about you frequently, so please do write her if you have the time. She would love hearing from you.
Your letter claimed you no longer wished to lay claim on your inheritance, but instead pass on the fortune to us, and while your generosity is astounding, I hope you know we would never allow such a thing to take place. Especially after the harm my Edward caused you. We have used a small portion to pay off a few mounting bills, but otherwise, the money is yours. Lord Ashton has authorized the withdrawal of your monthly allowance from a bank there in Tangier should you have need of it. If you find yourself leaving Tangier, let us know and we can ensure you are taken care of wherever in the world you decide to call home. Though, let it be said, I hope you’ll call London home again soon enough.
Love, Lady Ashton
P.S. – George sends his regards. He has resumed his duties as our driver with the utmost grace and humility despite our termination of him earlier in the year. Should you return to London, though, I believe you would once again find a loyal employee in George. And Mrs. Worthing wanted me to send along a letter from her, as well. You’ll find it enclosed.
I dropped down into the rickety chair in front of the desk and held the letter to my chest as if to absorb the words into my very soul. I felt undeserving. Of the inheritance meant for the real Rose Beckingham and the kindness her relations had heaped upon me. A small part of me would have been relieved to find a note from the Beckinghams decrying me as a heartless woman they would no longer call niece. Then, I wouldn’t have had any choice to make. I would have carried on as Nellie Dennet, making my way in the world as best I could with no family of my own and no connections. But now, I had options.
My body sagged under the weight of indecision, and I decided the day had been altogether too exhausting. I tucked Lady Ashton’s letter back into the drawer along with Mrs. Worthing’s letter—while I would be happy to hear from the older woman, I had no desire to read her rambling London gossip at that exact moment—and fell back onto the bed and straight to sleep.
I awoke to three quick knocks at the door and noticed the shadows in the room had grown longer, the light filtering through the window turning orange as the sun dipped below the horizon. Achilles had been gone awhile, and despite the several hour nap, I felt no more refreshed.
Achilles stomped into the room, his cane pounding into the floor with every step like he wished to leave indentations. “No one will listen to anything I say. I went to the embassy, but no one had heard of me. Not a soul. Can you believe it?”
It had taken me a few weeks to notice the conceit in him. The way he would flow into a room or a crime scene with no introduction and begin telling peopl
e what to do. But once I spotted it, I couldn’t help but pay attention.
He continued speaking without any input from me. “The situation is now being looked at by the police as a local murder case and they do not want an ‘outsider’ intruding. An outsider!”
He paced across the room several times before taking up position at the window, looking down at where the officers had been swarming earlier in the afternoon. “The only person in Tangier who regarded me as a great detective was the government minister who hired me. And who is now dead. So, with no way to communicate with the local government, I believe it would be best for the two of us to return to London where my reputation is better-known. There, I will be able to warn the authorities of an assassination plot and be taken seriously.”
I’d woken up from my nap without a decision but listening to Achilles talk about returning to London seemed to solidify something inside of me I hadn’t been consciously aware of. I knew what I wanted to do, what I needed to do. It suddenly felt obvious.
“I believe, Monsieur Prideaux, that it would be best for you to return to London alone,” I said, reclaiming the fake British accent I’d used as Rose Beckingham. Though I hadn’t used it in a few weeks, the lilt of the words came back to me naturally, as if I’d never stopped.
Achilles raised an eyebrow at the sudden change, studying me for a moment. “You do not wish to join me, Rose?”
He hadn’t called me Rose in several weeks, either, and I could tell it took effort for him to revert back to the habit.
I shook my head. “It isn’t that, exactly, Achilles. It is simply that I feel pulled in another direction. You wish to warn the officials of the plot to assassinate high-ranking officials, which I believe is a right and noble cause, but that is a task you can do alone. There is no place for me in the mission. So, I believe travelling to India once more would be a better use of my time and abilities.”
“You have no plan to return to London, then?” he asked in a tone I couldn’t read.
“Not at present,” I said. “The letter I discovered this morning made mention of a similar attack in Simla. After the explosion last summer and my recovery afterward, I was rushed away secretly and placed on a boat to Europe without any time to process what had happened or discover the truth. I would like to go back to the place where it happened and come to know the events that lead to the deaths of ‘my parents’ and my companion, Nellie Dennet.”
Achilles pressed his lips together until they were pale white and as thin as his mustache. “You would rather carry on in your charade? You’d rather play Rose Beckingham than be yourself? Is that your true aim in taking up this accent and going back to India, starting your life over once again?”
“I’m surprised that after so much time with me, you are not glad for me to be playing someone else. Though you may deny it, Achilles, you grew rather tired of Nellie Dennet’s company.” I smiled at him, hoping it looked warmer than it felt. “And my true aim is to unravel the mystery of what happened that day in Simla. The evidence may be scattered and long past being useful, but if the Beckinghams were killed by an assassin like the man who killed your employer, for reasons it turns out had nothing to do with local politics, then I feel it is important to know who ordered and carried out their deaths and why.”
Achilles made no move to respond to my claim that he had become tired of my company, he simply shook his head. “You cannot go to India alone. Especially to Simla. Someone there sought to kill the Beckinghams for a reason. If you return, there is no guarantee you will be safe.”
“You brought me to Tangier as your partner knowing we would be in frequent danger. Forgive me, but I do not see the difference.”
“You are not alone, first,” he said, holding up a finger to make his point. “But I also brought you along under the belief that most of the danger in our investigation would be from petty criminals, not highly-organized and skilled international assassins. Frankly, you are out of your depth.”
I thought of how many times my life had been threatened in the preceding eight months, how many times I had faced death and walked away unharmed and couldn’t help but, yet again, disagree with Monsieur Prideaux.
“Frankly, that is my decision to make,” I said sternly.
Achilles took a step towards me, twisting his cane back and forth into the floor like he was squishing a bug with it. “I brought you with me to Morocco because I thought I was protecting you. I thought it was an offer of a new life free from the charade of being Rose Beckingham. Of course, I now see I have only succeeded in introducing you to a greater danger neither of us fully understand yet. So, you may resume the charade of being Rose Beckingham if you like where you will be free to enjoy the wealth and ease of being a Beckingham. But do so back in London.”
Achilles truly was a handsome man. His face sagged after a busy day, the skin beneath his eyes gray and sunken, but he had a warmth to his skin that spoke to his many exotic adventures around the world, and his eyes sparkled with secrets. It was what had drawn me to him from the start. That and his faith in me when so many others saw me as a broken girl picking herself up after tragedy.
“You once told me I’d make a fine private detective like yourself,” I said, clasping my hands tightly together in front of me. “Do you still feel that way?”
He ran a hand across his forehead, wiping away sweat that wasn’t there. “You have a talent for observation that no one can deny, but you walk too willingly into danger. If I’d realized that, I would never have encouraged your fascination with crime. I regret involving you in this and placing you in the way of danger.”
I pulled my lips into a tight smile. “Thank you for your honesty, Monsieur Prideaux. When do we leave for London?”
His eyebrows raised in surprise before he collected himself. “Two days is the soonest we’ll be able to leave. I intend to lay low and remain discrete until then.”
The door to my room closed with a thud behind me, and I hesitated in the hallway, holding my breath to see if I’d woken anyone. I heard nothing in the hallway or behind the door next to mine, the room where Achilles Prideaux had been sleeping for the past two weeks since arriving in Tangier. When I felt confident no one was coming for me, I firmly gripped my small case of belongings and moved carefully down the hallway, avoiding the squeaky spots in the floor.
I’d allowed Achilles to believe he’d convinced me to return to London because I knew I would not be free of him otherwise. For reasons unknown, he’d made himself my caretaker, ending any opportunity of our friendship and partnership turning into anything more, and making me feel like a caged animal. If I returned to London with Achilles, he would have deposited me at my aunt and uncle’s house like a parcel. He’d led me to believe he valued my opinion and my abilities, but I had come to see that he viewed me as a child to be watched and protected, incapable of determining her own destiny. Achilles believed the investigation had become too dangerous for me, and that was apparently the end of the discussion. He intended to leave me in London while he went back to working the international assassin case by himself. And while I had no issue with him working the more official end of the investigation, I refused to be pushed out simply because he thought he could handle the risks and I couldn’t.
So, just as I’d told Achilles earlier, my sights were set on India. I’d made a few enquiries and learned that a ship set sail from port in the morning. Wherever it was bound, I planned to be on it. From there, I would make my way to India.
The night was still dark, and the ship wouldn’t set sail for many hours yet, but I knew if I’d waited until the morning, Achilles would have stopped me or followed me onto the boat. And in many ways, having him along for the trip to India would have been worse than not going at all. The attack in Simla was personal, not just another case for him to dissect and solve. It had disrupted my life in the cruelest way, and if the believed terrorist attack was actually a planned assassination, I wanted to find out for myself.
The real Rose
Beckingham deserved justice, and so did I.
4
I was grateful for Lady Ashton’s letter encouraging me to once again take up the mantle of Rose. I’d been afraid I may have burned bridges in departing London so abruptly and without a proper goodbye, but she’d offered me endless grace and the return of my inheritance, which had come into use sooner than I ever would have guessed.
I wandered the dark streets of Tangier, keeping careful watch for anyone who might have been following me, Achilles or otherwise, until the bank opened. Then, I pulled out the funds my uncle had freed for me and walked directly to the ticket office to buy passage to India. I sent a letter to my Aunt and Uncle, informing them they would next hear word from me in Bombay in hopes they would be kind enough to make funds available to me there, as well. Then, I boarded the ship and set sail, leaving Achilles Prideaux and Tangier behind.
The voyage was uneventful, which pleased me to no end. I had more than enough time to plan what I would do upon arriving in India, and I was able to grow completely comfortable again with the accent and mannerisms of Rose by practicing on the other passengers on board. Since no one knew anything of Rose Beckingham or the trouble that had befallen her, my behavior was scrutinized even more closely—people were more wary of strangers than a familiar name. And it seemed my performance drew no noticeable looks or attention.
As soon as the ship docked at my ultimate destination I retrieved my luggage and went to the nicest hotel in Bombay—only the best for Miss Rose Beckingham—and secured a room for myself. Unlike the small room in Tangier, my new suite had a paned window with a built-in seat that I could sit in to look down at the garden below. There was also a four-poster bed with silk sheets, and a separate sitting room with velvet sofas and sliding wooden doors for privacy.
