A Fatal Journey

by Blythe Baker

  The sky was a clear blue that looked more like a painting of the sky rather than the real thing. Birds sang in the trees and a soft breeze rolled down from higher up the mountain, bringing with it the fresh smell of clouds and pine trees. It was a lovely day, marred only by the dark nature of my thoughts.

  Rashi had described the man she’d seen that day as a ghoul, a demon. She knew who Major McKinley was and what he looked like, so if he had been the one coming from the library, she would have known it. Though, she couldn’t even be sure the demon-like man had come from the library. He could have simply been walking down the hallway past the library. Wrong place at the wrong time.

  However, another thought plagued me. The man condemned for the Beckingham bombing had described the true assailant as a skeleton devil. Two people had described a man as being demonic. Was that a coincidence? Perhaps, a flair for the dramatic in both witnesses? Or, did it mean something?

  Though I could not recall the face of the man who threw the bomb that so altered my future, I could clearly see the rags he’d worn. They were thick, almost like blankets draped across his shoulders, hanging down in tatters. The garments could have been hiding any-sized frame beneath them. From a man the size of Major Mckinley, huddled beneath the clothing, to someone not much larger than myself stretching to their full height. My recollections did little to make the picture of the attacker any more clear, and unfortunately, the two sightings of a demon man did not help, either.

  I heard footsteps on the path and looked up to see Mr. Barlow coming around a bend in the trees. He wore his usual black suit and oxfords and looked incredibly out of place in the middle of a forest path. Though, Mr. Barlow looked out of place in most settings. His hollowed cheekbones, large eye sockets, and pale skin gave him the appearance of raw dough stretched over an unbaked pie, the dough sinking into the hollow places.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Barlow.”

  The man looked up without surprise, his eyes landing on me, sending a shiver down my spine despite the warm day. He tipped his head, holding onto the brim of his hat. “Miss Beckingham.”

  “Lovely day,” I offered, hoping to make the time spent walking towards one another slightly more bearable with light conversation.

  He nodded. “Did you meet with Miss Hughes today?”

  “Yes, I did.” I stumbled over the words, surprised by his sudden change of conversation.

  “How is she faring?”

  I didn’t know how much to tell Mr. Barlow. First, I hardly knew the man myself. Second, aside from sending along Mrs. Hutchins’ condolences, he did not know Elizabeth, either. It seemed disrespectful to tell him the woman might be having an attack of paranoia, especially since her paranoia could very well be justified.

  “As one could expect,” I said simply. Then, I lied. “She was grateful for my visit. Thank you for giving me her information.”

  Mr. Barlow tipped his head again. This time, because of the light coming through the trees on our particular stretch of the path, the sunlight cut across his face, leaving dark shadows beneath his eyes, and a thought appeared in my head without warning.

  Skeleton devil.

  I blinked the thought away, and by the time I refocused my eyes on his face, the shadow had passed and Mr. Barlow looked thin and pale as always. Unusual, but not malicious.

  “Of course,” he said. “You two have both suffered greatly, and I’m glad I could be the one to connect you.”

  Was it a trick of the light, or was he smiling? His thin, flat lips appeared to be turning up at the corners. Before I could further examine the expression or think of anything to say, we were passing one another, Mr. Barlow stepping to the far edge of the path to allow me room to walk, and then he was gone. I turned and watched his narrow frame round the corner and disappear into the trees.

  As soon as the man was out of my sight, I scolded myself for being so susceptible to suggestion. Yes, Mr. Barlow better fit the description of a skeleton than the bulky Major McKinley, but thinness was no reason to suspect a man of murder. Besides, Rashi had spoken more to the look of the man’s eyes than his physical description. Perhaps, the man I’d spoken to at the prison had misunderstood his prison mate’s description of who he believed to be the true bomber. Maybe “skeleton devil” referred to something other than physical appearance. Perhaps, and more and more I was beginning to think this the more likely scenario, the description simply meant that the man represented death.

  My shoulders rose to protect my neck as if from a winter chill. If the man really did represent death, then I would be wise to listen to Rashi’s warning. I’d have to be more careful moving forward in my investigation.

  Back inside the bungalow, I set out to find Rashi’s friend Jalini for no other reason than I needed something to do. Plus, it would be nice to have a friend inside the bungalow. So, I walked through the dining room and into the kitchen.

  The room was cramped with only a single window looking out over the backyard and offering any kind of daylight. I’d spent so long enjoying the life of a wealthy official’s daughter that I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to spend my days in the servant’s quarters.

  There were two women chopping herbs and preparing what was sure to be dinner for the evening. They both looked up as I came in, tipped their heads in greeting, and then went back to their work. I could feel in the air that they had just been talking, but had fallen silent on my account.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” I said.

  “Of course, not,” one of the women said. She was an English woman, a servant brought over from London, probably just for the summer to help in the rented bungalow. “You are welcome to go wherever you’d like, Miss Beckingham.”

  I smiled at her and her helper, an Indian girl with long black hair twisted into a bun at the base of her neck and a dark freckle on her chin. “And you two are free to continue your conversation. Please, don’t let me interrupt. I’m desperate for something to do. This bungalow is full of dreadfully boring people.”

  They both smiled, delighted with my honesty.

  “Don’t you both think so?” I asked. “Or are most homes you work in this quiet?”

  The Indian girl shook her head. “I have never worked in such an uneventful home. It makes the work easier, but I would almost rather have a large feast to prepare.”

  “I’m tired of making soup,” the English woman said. “It is all the Hutchins’ seem to want to eat. It takes almost no time at all, and then we are left to dust the same rooms that no one has used all day.”

  “And here I am complaining of boredom to you,” I said, laughing and shaking my head. “You both have it worse than me. I can leave whenever I’d like. I’ve actually just come from the White Tiger Club. Have you heard of it?”

  Both women nodded.

  “I met a girl there. Her name was Rashi,” I said, looking carefully at the Indian servant’s face. Obvious recognition lit up her eyes. “She told me I might find a Jalini working in my bungalow.”

  The English servant elbowed her friend. “This is Jalini right here.”

  Jalini gave me a shy smile, but I could tell she was delighted I knew her name.

  “She told me all of your secrets,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

  Jalini’s smile fell away, replaced by mild horror. I laughed. “I was prepared to tease you, but I wouldn’t dare break up a friendship over a joke. No, Rashi told me only the nicest things. So nice that I wanted to come back and meet you immediately.”

  Jalini opened her mouth to say something but was cut off by the sound of footsteps on the stairs followed by Mrs. Hutchins’ shrill shout. “Hannah!”

  The English servant stood up straight, dropped her knife on the table, bowed to me, and rushed out of the room.

  “I understand she is Hannah, then?” I asked, hitching my thumb over my shoulder.

  “Yes, Miss,” Jalini said. She continued working, keeping her head low.

  “While you have been subjected to endles
s boredom here, Rashi had nothing but excitement down at the White Tiger Club. If you count the death of a guest as excitement,” I said.

  “It was horrible news,” Jalini said. “Rashi was very distraught by all of it. She did not see the dead man, but the whole event left her shaken.”

  “As it would anyone,” I said. “Being so close to death is an uncomfortable experience. Though, Rashi also mentioned to me that she saw a man near the scene of the death that gave her an uneasy feeling. Did she mention that to you?”

  Jalini shifted her feet uncomfortably.

  “I do not wish to pry on information shared between friends, so you do not have to tell me if you don’t wish.”

  “It is not that I do not want to tell you,” she said. “It is that I do not want to tell anyone.”

  I leaned forward, unable to help myself. This conversation was taking an interesting turn I had not at all expected. If anything, I’d simply hoped for a better description of the man Rashi had seen, but it appeared as though Jalini may have had information of her own. “Tell anyone what?”

  “It is superstition,” she said quietly, shaking her head as though scolding herself for mentioning it at all. “A local tale whispered amongst silly girls in search of excitement.”

  “Then there is no reason you shouldn’t tell me. I am in search of excitement,” I said, gesturing to the fact that I was standing in the kitchen talking to the servants.

  Jalini sighed, set down her knife, and turned to me. “For the last year or so, villagers living on the western outskirts of the city have claimed to see smoke and movement coming from an uninhabited part of the forest. At first, they believed it to be nothing more than a stranger, someone passing through, but then people began to see a ghost moving between the trees.”

  “A ghost?” I asked, the disappointment clear in my voice. It sounded like it really was a local folktale.

  “A ghost,” she repeated, shrugging. “Others call him a skeleton. A demon.”

  Skeleton. Demon. I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise.

  “People have gone to investigate, and someone claims to have found a hut in the trees that the man uses when he is in the area, but no one has ever seen him. Not up close, anyway.”

  “What does this have to do with what Rashi saw?”

  “She believes she saw this man the day General Hughes died,” Jalini said.

  “And do you believe her?”

  “I try not to think about it. I do not wish to cause grief to anyone.”

  I tilted my head to the side, trying to draw her out. I wanted Jalini to trust me. “And by that, you mean it could suggest General Hughes was murdered?”

  Jalini closed her eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and then looked up at me. “For someone in my position, it is easier to do my job and not ask questions. So, that is what I am doing, and it is what I told Rashi to do.”

  “I understand. I really do. But what if staying quiet means this man has the ability to continue hurting people?”

  Jalini’s dark eyes bored into me. “You believe the tales?”

  “I don’t know.” This was true. I had no idea what I believed, but the timeline was convenient. The ghost haunting the forest started just about a year before, which was only a few months before the bombing. Was it crazy to think an assassin could have set up a camp in the area in order to secretly go about his evil deeds?

  “Neither do I,” she said, pressing her lips together and returning to her work of chopping vegetables.

  The kitchen door opened and Hannah returned, her mouth turned down in an exaggerated frown. “Mrs. Hutchins said the library was too hot, so I had to open all the windows on the second floor.”

  “But the birds—” Jalini started.

  Hannah nodded before Jalini could finish. “But before I was even to the bottom of the stairs, she yelled for me to close them to shut out the incessant singing of the birds.”

  The two women looked at one another and rolled their eyes, and I was pleased they felt comfortable enough to do this in my presence.

  “I will leave you two to your work,” I said, folding my hands behind my back and walking towards the door. “Tonight at dinner, I will try to convince Mrs. Hutchins that I’m growing thin from all the soup. Perhaps, then, she will allow you to cook something that requires actual preparation.”

  “Oh, would you?” Hannah asked, eyes hopeful. “That would be a relief.”

  I waved as I left. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  11

  I left a note in Mrs. Hutchins’ room that I would be late for dinner—knowing she wouldn’t see it until she got up from her spot in the library and went to her bedroom to change for dinner—and left. My investigation into the possible presence of an assassin in Simla had been insubstantial thus far. I had two vague descriptions and a handful of unrelated evidence, but nothing solid. I was desperate for anything that could let me know I had not allowed paranoia and stress to turn my mind. So, I headed for the western edge of the settlement where the ghost Jalini told me about was supposed to live.

  It was possible I was chasing a folktale, an imaginary figure whispered about to invoke fear and fill an evening with good conversation. But the ghost was all I had to go off of, so I had to try.

  As soon as I stepped from the main path and into the trees, I was glad I’d gone during daylight. The foliage from the trees was thick and shaded so that it looked like dusk rather than midday. I couldn’t imagine how dark it would be at night.

  I walked until my feet began to ache, and a larger part of me wanted to turn back and go home than potentially uncover evidence of an assassin. Luckily, it was at this point that I saw a small break in the trees.

  It was an almost imperceptible opening in the foliage, like a curtain pulled ever so slightly back by a curious hand, but it was there. I moved towards it and with every step, the outline of a hut became clearer. The roof had been disguised with dried pine branches and the walls were made of dirt and sticks so it would blend into the trees. For anyone not looking for a structure, it would be easy to miss.

  I moved behind a tree and waited, listening to the sway of the branches above me, to the flutter of bird’s wings, and the soft crackling of the forest floor beneath the wildlife. I closed my eyes and gave myself over to my sense of hearing, waiting for any sign that I was not alone, for any sign that I should turn and run. But there was nothing. Just the gentle sounds of nature. So, I stepped out from behind the tree and moved towards the hut.

  My heart hammered in my chest with every step. What if the hut was occupied by an insane man who lived alone and didn’t like being disturbed? I suddenly chastised myself for coming without a weapon. I’d been so excited by the possibility of a clue that I’d left the Hutchins’ bungalow armed with nothing but the clothes on my back and my curiosity. Neither of which would do me any good in a hand-to-hand fight.

  I walked around all four sides of the small hut, which took less than thirty paces all together because the structure was so small, and didn’t see any other doors or windows other than the one leading in through the front. There was one way in and one way out. If someone was hiding inside, I was sure to encounter them. They wouldn’t be able to slip out the back unseen. Knowing the longer I took to enter, the less brave I would become, I took a deep breath and pressed on the rough-hewn wooden door. It opened inward, and I stepped inside.

  The room was dark without any windows, but a small shaft of light cut in from the front door, splitting the room in two. One look around, and it was obvious I was alone. For now. To avoid meeting the owner of the hut, I decided to make my visit there brief. Wasting no time, I began looking around.

  Immediately, I noticed the large number of weapons. The entire right side of the hut was devoted to hammers, axes, and a bow and arrow hanging from the mud walls. A small wooden table sat in the middle of the room and was covered in lengths of rope, ammunition, and several small pistols.

  Whoever owned the hut, their p
urpose was not to enjoy a simple getaway from the bustling town. No, the hut was meant to be used as storage. A hiding place for weapons so the person could have relatively easy access to them without needing to keep them on his person or in his place of residence.

  I considered taking one of the pistols to use as protection should the owner return, but something stopped me. Perhaps, the idea that the gun could have taken innocent lives or that grabbing it and taking it with me would tie me to the assassin in ways I was not yet ready for. Either way, I turned away from the table and looked towards the left side of the hut.

  The final wall was quite unlike the others. Rather than weapons, I was met with long sheaths of fabrics in various colors. It wasn’t until I saw an embroidered belt that I recognized the long pieces of cotton as a traditional dhoti. So, the owner of the hut was a native. I thought so, at least, until I saw a box sitting in the corner. Inside were brown pastes and powders, as well as several towels covered in dark smears. Makeup.

  The dhoti and the makeup were there to disguise the assassin as a local Indian man. He came to the hut to disguise his appearance when necessary and grab weapons, which he would probably hide in the deep folds of his outfit.

  I stepped away from the wall and spun around the room, taking in everything. The man could be anyone. The descriptions given by Rashi and the man convicted of the Beckingham bombing meant nothing if the assassin had been in disguise. He could be someone I’d passed in the city. Someone I’d spoken to.

  Suddenly, I couldn’t spend another second inside the hut. I had to get out. I had to step back into the daylight and surround myself with people, regardless of whether I could trust them or not. The sense that I had taken on something much too large to handle was overwhelming, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

  I was stumbling towards the door when I noticed a knife hanging by the door from a hook. Unlike everything else in the room, the knife and the hook were polished to a shine, pristine. The blade was curved at an unusual angle and etched with vines and leaves that moved downwards and carried over to the handle where raised wood mimicked the feeling of vines beneath the user’s palm. At the bottom was a mark with two interwoven C’s. It was a beautiful weapon, easily the most distinguished in the room. And clearly, based upon how the owner cared for it, it was important. Before I could think better of it, I grabbed the knife from the hook, stashed it beneath my sweater, and ran through the door and into the trees without looking back.