A Fatal Journey

by Blythe Baker

  Word of our arrival must have spread quickly, for the next day we already had guests at the house. I returned from a late morning walk around the property where I breathed in “the dangerously thin air,” in time to see the newcomers drive up.

  A young man in a British soldier’s uniform exited the vehicle and extended a hand to help an elegant red-headed woman out after him. As the couple made their way to the door where Mr. Hutchins was standing to greet them, a rare smile on his face, a blonde gentleman stepped from the back of the car, as well. He also wore a uniform, though his seemed noticeably more distinguished, decorated with patches and pins. He heard my feet on the gravel and turned towards me, bowing.

  “Are you with the Hutchins’ or a guest at today’s festivities?” he asked in a baritone voice.

  “Neither.” I smiled, extending a hand to him. “Or both, perhaps. I am staying in the bungalow with Mrs. Hutchins and her son, though I scarcely know them. And seeing as I had no prior knowledge of any such festivities, I may not be an invited guest.”

  The man tilted his head to the side, a wide smile spreading his lips thin and drawing attention to his thin mustache that was not unlike the one I’d so detested on Monsieur Prideaux’s face, though this one was blonde rather than black. “I am unaccompanied today, so you are welcome to say you are arriving with me if anyone gives you any trouble.”

  The flirtation in his voice was unmistakable.

  “And who shall I name as my companion?” I asked.

  He bowed again. “Forgive me. Lieutenant Graham Collins.”

  “Rose Beckingham,” I introduced myself.

  Recognition of my name flashed across his face as he glanced towards my cheek where the scar was likely obvious in the midday sun, but his startled expression was replaced with a smile in a second. I wondered how many times I would earn a similar reaction during my time in Simla. It had only been eight months since the bombing, and I doubted sensational news like that would fade into memory after such a short amount of time.

  The Lieutenant stayed close to my side as we passed Arthur Hutchins at the door. Mr. Hutchins smiled at the Lieutenant and offered the surliest of grimaces to me, and walked into the dining room. Since I’d had breakfast that morning, the table had been set with three additional place settings and a large bouquet of flowers from the garden had been brought in, filling the room with a lovely scent.

  Mrs. Hutchins introduced me to the two people I’d seen getting out of the car in front of the Lieutenant, Mr. James Clarke and Miss Jane Dayes. Mr. Clarke seemed more interested in the food than in any actual conversation and Miss Dayes passed the time by complimenting every single detail of the table and room several times over, until even Mrs. Hutchins looked weary of thanking her. The conversation was stilted, which I attributed to Mrs. Hutchins’ lunch guests being at least four decades younger than she was. Even her middle-aged son had little in common with the guests. But as conversation revealed, Miss Dayes was the daughter of a government official who had once offered Mrs. Hutchins a favor of some kind, and she’d felt it necessary to repay his kindness by subjecting his daughter to an uncomfortable meal.

  Admittedly, my attention was fixed on a large window looking into a central atrium filled with a stone garden and several small plants. The conversation at the table, even that of the handsome Lieutenant, could not hold my interest. I wanted to go into the marketplace in Simla where the attack on the Beckinghams—and myself—had occurred. I wanted to see the place where it had happened and attempt to relive the memories I had spent eight months repressing. The bomber’s face had always been a mystery to me, a gap in my otherwise crystal-clear memory. I could recall the scent of singed skin, the sizzle of the car’s upholstery, the color of the dust in the air. But not the face of the man who had so altered my life.

  The door from the kitchen opened and Mr. Barlow appeared, looking as gray and lifeless as ever, despite the beautiful day. He took in the table with a cool eye, stopping on every face including mine, and then bent down to whisper in Mr. Hutchins’ ear. As soon as the message was delivered, Mr. Hutchins nodded, and Mr. Barlow left. I couldn’t imagine what kind of message Mr. Hutchins could receive that would be important enough to interrupt a meal, but more than that, I couldn’t imagine being the person who delivered those messages. Mr. Barlow’s job as the private secretary to the perpetually sour-faced Mr. Hutchins had to be a source of anguish, and suddenly, I could understand why he looked so grim and lifeless. In a position such as his, I wouldn’t have found much joy, either.

  “Were you acquainted with the General, Lieutenant Collins?” Mrs. Hutchins asked, interrupting Miss Dayes in the middle of a long-winded compliment about the meal.

  The Lieutenant’s mustache flicked in a peculiar way that caused me to take notice.

  “Who do you mean, Ma’am?” Lieutenant Collins asked.

  “Surely, the lady is talking about General Thomas Hughes,” Miss Dayes said in a loud whisper, as though she were letting the table in on the secret, but attempting to keep it away from someone in the other room.

  “Who is Thomas Hughes?” I asked, unable to contain the question. The conversation had thus far been very uninspiring, and I was in desperate need of some kind of stimulation. Anything worth whispering about during lunch conversation was worth my notice, surely.

  “Our Rose just arrived in the country a few days ago,” Mrs. Hutchins said by way of explaining my ignorance. “She was in Morocco, I believe she said. Is that right, dear? Morocco?”

  I nodded impatiently, turning to the Lieutenant for an explanation.

  He turned towards me, his face pulled taut like a canvas stretched too tight over a frame. “General Thomas Hughes was a soldier stationed in Simla for the summer. He passed away last week.”

  “Oh, that’s horrible,” I said, deflating slightly. Discussing the death of a man I didn’t know was not the scintillating conversation I’d been searching for.

  Miss Dayes leaned forward to look past her companion, Mr. Clarke, who was on his third piece of chicken with no sign of slowing. “If you’ll forgive me Lieutenant, you left out the detail that the man hanged himself in a public place.”

  Intriguing.

  “Is that right?” I covered my mouth with my hand, feigning shock. The death was horrible and surprising to be sure, but I’d seen enough in the previous eight months that little could truly shock me anymore. I turned to the Lieutenant. “I can understand why you might have left out such a detail. If you knew the man, I’m sure it is difficult to recall such facts.”

  The Lieutenant sat up straighter. “Returning to Mrs. Hutchins’ original question, I actually did not know the General personally. I’m sure we crossed paths once or twice, but we were not acquaintances. I learned of his death at the same time as everyone else.”

  “He hanged himself in the reading room of a club,” Miss Dayes continued. I was very pleased to learn that when she wasn’t spending all her time on useless compliments, she was quite the gossip. “It is surprising someone didn’t walk in while he was setting up the rope. How he managed to go through with it undisturbed is a wonder.”

  I furrowed my brow. “It is unusual for a suicide to happen in public. Most people reserve such things for the privacy of their own dwellings.”

  Mrs. Hutchins curled her lip and shook her head. “It’s a nasty business. Unforgivable in a spiritual sense, I say.”

  “Surely the man endured something great in order to resort to such a measure,” I said, defending the deceased man’s soul while also fishing for details.

  “I’d never heard of the man before learning of his death,” Mrs. Hutchins said.

  Miss Dayes shook her head. “My father mentioned knowing the name, but otherwise, I have no connection to him.”

  The Lieutenant felt my eyes on him and sighed. “I also know nothing of him. His death remains a mystery to everyone I have talked to. Those who did know him say he was a pleasant man in good spirits.”

  Mr. Hutchins
and Mr. Clarke continued eating as though no one else was even at the table, and I sagged slightly in resignation. I was in Simla on personal business, but I couldn’t help but wish there had been more info on the man’s death. Perhaps, Achilles Prideaux was right about me. I couldn’t go anywhere without finding a bit of trouble.

  “In happier news,” the Lieutenant said, turning to me. “Myself, Mr. Clarke, and Miss Dayes have plans to take a picnic to some ancient ruins tomorrow if you would like to join, Miss Beckingham?”

  “That would be lovely,” Mrs. Hutchins said, clapping her hands together.

  Lieutenant Collins quirked his lips to one side of his mouth for a second, clearly displeased at the thought of the mother-son duo tagging along on our outing. But then he turned to her with a smile. “Of course, you and your son are also more than welcome to join us, Mrs. Hutchins.”

  The woman waved him away. “I have little desire to be out of doors more than necessary, Lieutenant. But you are kind to invite us. Isn’t he kind, Arthur?”

  Her son turned to her and gave a nod that thinly veiled his apathy.

  I briefly debated turning the man down. I wanted to get into the marketplace as soon as possible, but I also knew little of the area. Although I’d spent just as much time in Simla as the Beckinghams, I didn’t know the place as well. My attention was always on Rose, so I had little energy left for sight-seeing or meeting people beyond the immediate family. Having a few of my own connections in the city could be beneficial to my search for the perpetrator of the attack.

  “I would love nothing more than to talk with you all further,” I said, looking down the table at Mr. Clarke, who was still eating, and Miss Dayes. When I finally turned to the Lieutenant, I couldn’t ignore the sparkle in his eyes, or the way it reminded me of a particular Frenchman. Something in my stomach clenched at the memory, but I pressed it down and smiled back at him.

  The ruins the Lieutenant mentioned were so near the Hutchins’ bungalow we could have walked, but we chose instead to take a car. It was a short drive, but long enough that I exhausted all possible conversation topics with Mr. Clarke and Miss Dayes. The two of them took to canoodling together in the seat—so close that I thought Mr. Clarke would crush the paper flower adorning the waist of Miss Dayes’ dress—their fingers entwined with one another. Miss Dayes pointed out the window at every landmark as we passed it, acting as though she’d never seen the world through the window of a car before. I had no issue with ignoring her and her beau completely, instead focusing on Lieutenant Collins, who was already proving to be a great connection to have in Simla.

  “The theater is a good way to spend an afternoon,” he said, tilting his head to the side like he wasn’t sure. “The screen flickers in and out sometimes, but it is a cool place to go during the heat of the day. Though, if you can attend, the polo matches are also great fun. The young soldiers are not properly trained in the sport, but the crowd never seems to mind.”

  “And do you compete in the game?” I asked.

  “Do I strike you as a young soldier?” he asked, blonde eyebrows raised. “I would fall off the horse and break a hip, I fear.”

  I smiled and pursed my lips. “I’d say as much about Arthur Hutchins, perhaps, but I believe you would make good competition for a good number of young men.”

  His mustache twitched in a smile. “You better be careful with your tone, Miss Beckingham, or I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Please do!” I said. “It was meant as one.”

  I worried the Lieutenant was already a bit too ensnared by my flirtatious tone, but he seemed to me the kind of man who, unlike his companion Miss Dayes, did not gossip openly with those he only slightly knew. If I wanted his help finding out information, he would have to trust me as a friend. So, a friend was what I intended to be. If he mistook my kindness as intentions towards a relationship of another kind, then that couldn’t be helped.

  The site was an intricately carved stone temple, dedicated to the Hindu deity Hanuman. Colonnades with cloverleaf archways ran down both sides of a wide courtyard, and crumbling stone stairs led from the walkway to a grassy area in the center. Miss Dayes pulled on her soldier’s hand until he followed her into the grass where they spread out a blanket. Lieutenant Collins and I trailed behind them, our hands pressed firmly to our sides.

  “Have you had the opportunity to visit any of your friends since you’ve been in the city?” he asked.

  “I do not have many friends here. I only came into town a few days ago,” I reminded him.

  “But this is not your first time in Simla, correct?” he asked. Then, he looked apologetic. “I have no desire to remind you of worse times, but I’ve heard your name before in connection with the city.”

  I was so accustomed to talking to Londoners who only knew Rose Beckingham as a little girl that I was not prepared for what it would be like to meet people who knew her or knew of her shortly before her death. It was a reminder that I needed to be much more thoughtful in my responses.

  “Yes,” I said, nodding slowly. “You do not need to worry. I’m well aware many people heard of the accident when it happened and will remember my name still.”

  The Lieutenant slowed his pace, allowing more time to converse before we reached the couple ahead of us who were opening a wicker basket and lying out our lunch of cold meats and cheeses with ripe fruits. “I was in Simla at the time, Miss. Everyone was heartbroken for you and your family. I’m sure it was a devastating time. Shortly after everything happened, I found myself wishing to reach out to you and offer condolences, but I was not an acquaintance of you or your family, so I thought it would be intrusive. Then, I heard you left the city, and no one expected you to return. Imagine my surprise when I ran into you by pure happenstance yesterday.”

  “A happy coincidence amongst sad circumstances,” I said, offering him a smile.

  It could have been the light or the warmth of the day, but I thought I noticed a blush creeping into the Lieutenant’s face. “If we do not hurry, I fear Mr. Clarke may eat the picnic lunch for himself.”

  I laughed. “He has an appetite to be sure.”

  “Enough for him and three other men.” Lieutenant Collins shook his head and offered me his arm, leading me down the stairs and across the grass.

  After lunch, Miss Dayes dragged the food-weary Mr. Clarke up and down the stairs and through the arches, stopping every so often to pose in front of the architecture as though she were the star in a film. Lieutenant Collins and I stayed on the blanket, watching as our companions explored the ancient site.

  “Why have you come back to Simla?”

  The question surprised me, and I turned to the Lieutenant with a puzzled expression on my face, as though I hadn’t heard him, though I certainly had. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sure my manners are unforgivable, bringing up your life’s tragedy twice on the same outing, but I only wonder why you came back to this place?”

  “I’ve met many unforgiveable men, and you are not one of them, Lieutenant.”

  He smiled at me, his blonde mustache turning up on one side.

  “But to answer your question,” I said, glad for an excuse to dive back into the subject. Now that the Lieutenant had mentioned the bombing twice in the same afternoon, I could ask him for my favor without fear of him being suspicious of my motives. “I came back to Simla to find a measure of closure for myself. The last eight months have been difficult”—more physically than emotionally, considering the murder cases I had been involved in, but the Lieutenant did not need to know that— “and I hoped coming back to the place where my family was murdered would grant some kind of spiritual peace.”

  Lieutenant Collins nodded, his eyebrows drawn together. “You left the city so quickly after the attack. I’m sure being back here will help, if only in the smallest sense.”

  I shrugged my shoulder and pinched the soft fabric of my rose-colored tea gown between my fingers. My legs were tucked up underneath me, and I was pro
pped up on one arm on the blanket, leaning towards Lieutenant Collins. It all seemed very familiar. To anyone walking by, we probably looked like a couple, the same as Mr. Clarke and Miss Dayes. Well, not exactly the same, because we were not holding hands and running around the ancient temple like escaped children, but we looked friendly with one another. I hoped we were friendly.

  “It has given me a slight comfort to be in the last place I spent with my family. The memories are hiding around every corner, though there is one memory I have been desperate to reclaim but can’t seem to conjure.”

  Lieutenant Collins raised his brows in a question.

  “I cannot see the perpetrator’s face,” I said, my voice low. “I know I saw him seconds before the attack, but his features have been wiped from my mind like a drawing in the sand. It is quite frustrating.”

  “It seems best that you not recall him at all,” the Lieutenant said. “He is not worthy of a space inside your head.”

  I nodded slowly. “You may be right, but that information does not make my desire to see him any less. I think putting a face to the memory would help me to view the monster as a man rather than a demon. I think it would allow me to move on from the incident in a way I have not been able to these past eight months.”

  Lieutenant Collins leaned back on his hands and turned his face to the blue sky. He was quite a handsome man, his jaw strong and pronounced, blue eyes bright and deep. In another life, I would have grabbed his hand and pulled him behind me the way Miss Dayes did with her beau. I would have giggled when he spoke and done my best to catch his eye in a crowd. In this life, however, more important matters hung over every situation like clouds heavy with rain, demanding my immediate attention lest I be caught in the downpour.