The Secret of the India Orchid

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  Rachael entered and crawled up on the bed with Sophia. She pulled the netting shut behind her and grasped her hand. “Something is horribly amiss.”

  Sophia’s fog began to clear, and her heart stuttered. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been unable to sleep, and I heard my maid speaking with a servant in the hallway. There was some sort of upheaval in the nursery. The ayahs are upset, and something is wrong with Charlie. I went up to see for myself.”

  Fear gathered thick in Sophia’s stomach as she thought of the bloodstained Turkish rug in the downstairs study. “And?”

  “Amala Ayah is beside herself, but if I understood what she was trying to articulate, Charlie may have been witness to a serious crime.” Rachael paused. “I need to find Dylan, but I don’t know where. I cannot very well go down the hallway, looking in each guest room.”

  Sophia swept the mosquito netting aside and found her outer wrap, feeling horribly tired but painfully alert. “Let us see if we can get the whole story. In a few hours, when the house begins the day, we can question a servant about the location of your cousin’s room, should there be cause.”

  Rachael nodded and led the way through the darkened house to the nursery suite on the third floor. Muffled crying sounded from within, and Sophia didn’t bother knocking. She followed the sound through the playroom and into one of the bedrooms, where she found Amala Ayah sitting on her bed, cradling Charlie.

  “What is it?” Sophia sat down next to the weeping woman and touched her arm. “What has happened, Amala?”

  “Oh, miss,” the older woman sniffled. “I do not know what to do. Lord Pilkington’s valet will not give him a message, and Lady Pilkington has taken laudanum for a head pain and is deeply asleep.”

  “Let me help you.” Sophia rested her hand atop Charlie’s head. The little boy hiccoughed as though at the end of an exhausting bout of emotion. He clutched his wooden toy horse to his chest, tears still pooling in his eyes. “What happened?”

  Rachael gave Amala Ayah a handkerchief, which the nanny used to wipe her eyes and nose.

  “Master Charlie was in bed for the evening. I had gone to the servants’ sitting room with the others. When I returned, Charlie was gone.” Tears rolled afresh, and Sophia resisted the urge to pull the poor woman close.

  “I looked everywhere, but there were so many people. Finally, I found him in his father’s study.”

  Sophia’s heartbeat increased. “Was he alone?”

  Amala Ayah nodded. “Yes. But he had been in there for some time, hiding under his papa’s desk.” She rubbed the boy’s curly hair. “Earlier in the evening he had heard the other children say that Captain Miller had brought special treasures for this visit, and he hoped to take a peek at them.”

  Sophia looked at Charlie’s earnest little face. “Why did you go to the study, Charlie? Did you know the captain would be there?”

  “Maybe,” Charlie said, his breath catching. “He visits Papa in the study for a drink that Mama doesn’t like.”

  Amala Ayah smoothed his hair again. “They meet there for whiskey,” she murmured over his head to Sophia. “Lady Pilkington does not approve.”

  Sophia thought back to the desk in the study. It was large, and the back panel was slatted, not solid. A young child could easily fit beneath it and still see the room. “Charlie, will you tell me what you saw?”

  His eyes grew even larger, and he turned his face toward Amala, whose face crumpled and she rocked him like an infant.

  “Has he told you what he saw?” Sophia asked Amala Ayah.

  She nodded. “Partly.” She covered Charlie’s exposed ear with her hand, sniffing back her own tears. Leaning forward, she whispered, “Captain Miller was in there with a man who opened his father’s safe. They took something out, argued, and then the other man hit Captain Miller in the head many times with something Charlie couldn’t see.”

  Sophia closed her eyes. “Then did this man drag Captain Miller to the window and shove him out?”

  Amala Ayah’s eyes widened. “Yes! After Charlie told me what had happened, I took him to find his parents, but they were somewhere in the crowd. I eventually found Himmat, who said Lord Pilkington was in his study and had requested his wife attend him. Himmat left to find her, so I returned to the study with Charlie. His lordship was so distraught and frantic when he saw me there with his son. He ordered me to take Charlie away, to put him safely in his bed. He wouldn’t hear me.” Amala Ayah fell silent, still rocking the boy.

  Sophia looked up at Rachael, who stared at her.

  “How did you know about any of this?” Rachael asked.

  Sophia shook her head. “I have much to tell you. But first, we must determine which room belongs to your cousin.” Her heart ached as she looked at Charlie, who was miserable, afraid, and confused. She put one last question to the nanny. “Does he know the man who did this?”

  Amala shook her head. “He says he does not,” she whispered. “But when I asked, he was very quick to answer ‘no.’”

  Sophia bent forward and touched Charlie’s knee. “Charlie, will you help us? Do you know the man who hurt Captain Miller? We must find him so he cannot harm anyone else.”

  Charlie turned his face toward Amala Ayah, saying nothing. He shuddered, his small shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs.

  Sophia’s eyes burned. She turned the conversation to innocuous topics, attempting to quiet the tone of the discussions and help Charlie feel a sense of calm. She and Amala spoke for ten minutes, fifteen, and finally Amala murmured to Charlie, asking if he’d like a drink of steamed milk. He shook his head, and she frowned.

  “Are you certain? It’s your favorite; it helps you sleep.”

  Charlie’s cheek nestled against Amala’s shoulder and he stared straight ahead, not bothering to shake his head again. He remained silent, except for the occasional halting breath that followed his endless tears.

  “Would you like for me to summon your mother or father?” Amala tried again.

  Still he stared, quiet, unmoving.

  “Charlie, I am so sorry,” Sophia murmured. “We’ll not bother you more about it tonight. If you remember anything else, will you tell Amala Ayah?”

  The little boy shook his head, so subtly Sophia thought she’d imagined it. He blinked slowly, evidence of his fatigue. She stood and exhaled quietly. It was a conundrum she’d never before faced. How did one go about convincing a terrified child to give voice to his worst fears?

  She chewed on her lip in thought, then turned to Rachael. “We must locate Major Stuart.”

  Chapter 10

  Anthony awoke to an insistent knocking on his bedroom door. He glanced at the window to see dawn was only just breaking—early enough that his valet, Pierre, was still abed. Anthony’s heart pounded with familiar urgency. An early morning meeting rarely boded well. He batted aside the mosquito netting and rose, grabbing the house coat Pierre had placed neatly over the back of a chair the night before.

  He opened the door a crack, shoving his arm into the sleeve. “Dylan? What is it?”

  His friend stood in the hallway fully clothed, his face grim. “We have a witness to the crime.”

  The carriage traveled the distance from the Residency to the Firefly slowly, with several interruptions. Anthony sat across from Dylan, each lost in thought, each processing the information at hand. According to the only—and very young—eyewitness, Captain Miller had indeed been the victim in Pilkington’s study the night before.

  Since Sophia had known Dylan was the “official” investigator, and as such was the man to notify, she and Rachael had gone straight to Major Stuart, though Anthony found himself irritated by the fact.

  He preferred to take charge, but since his cover was to simply be a visiting member of London’s peerage, a lord from home who traveled the world at his leisure, too many direct questions
from him about a missing sea captain or private documents taken from a safe would have aroused unwanted attention. Major Stuart was the face of the investigation; Anthony would have to play second fiddle.

  He’d learned to play his role well, had always dealt with the frustrations of eking out information while not seeming to care one way or the other about anything, but with so much at stake and his focus alarmingly diverted by the presence of the one woman in the world he wanted, he found himself on edge. In a position to make mistakes.

  Nobody aside from Dylan Stuart knew it was his job, ultimately, to locate Miller and the packet of papers, one of which Anthony was sure was the Janus Document. It grated, though, that Sophia believed him to be useless.

  He shoved back his pride as the carriage came to yet another stop, this time behind two slow-moving bullock carts and an elephant with a monkey riding on its head.

  They eventually reached the slip where Miller’s ship sat docked. It was eerily quiet. There was little movement; Anthony noted three sailors on deck as he and Stuart made their way up the gangplank. Stuart was in full uniform, and he introduced himself and their purpose—to investigate the disappearance of their captain.

  The three sailors blinked, the surprised expressions appearing genuine, but Anthony knew better than anyone how easily people could be deceived.

  “Where are the rest of the crew?” Stuart asked the eldest of the three, a grizzled man named Smith who served as the ship’s cook and had likely spent the majority of his life at sea.

  “In the city, they are, sir.” The man spoke around a mouthful of tobacco. “We got three more days afore settin’ sail again. We take turns keepin’ watch, but ye’ll not see most of ’em afore we have to leave.”

  Dylan nodded. “We have orders to search Captain Miller’s cabin, Mr. Smith. You are the keeper of the keys, I see?”

  The other two sailors returned to their watch, wandering the deck in the morning sun and likely bored to tears. Anthony and Dylan followed Mr. Smith across the deck, down a short flight of stairs, and to a heavy oak door, which Smith opened with the ring of keys attached to a rope that served as his belt. With a nod, he stepped aside, but cleared his throat.

  Anthony paused at the threshold. “Yes?”

  “Sirs, the men will be needin’ to know, o’course, where the cap’n is, what’s happened. Ye’ll keep us informed?”

  Stuart nodded, withdrawing a small notebook from his pocket. “I will need the name of the captain’s first mate, if you please.”

  Anthony stepped into the cabin, which was large in comparison to many and well-appointed. A solid berth, desk, two chairs, and a small wardrobe filled the space. The furniture was of good quality and craftsmanship. Miller was—had been—a very successful merchant, and it showed.

  Stuart finished with the cook and closed the door behind him. Anthony began pulling open drawers in Miller’s desk, giving the contents of each a cursory glance. Then he came across a drawer that was locked.

  “Shall I request Mr. Smith back?” Dylan asked, his mouth turned up at the corner.

  “Not necessary.” Anthony smiled and withdrew a small packet from his pocket. Using the tools inside it, he picked the lock and had the drawer opened in short order. Inside was a large, leather-bound volume that proved to be the ship’s log. Anthony handed it to Stuart.

  Further examination of the drawer produced what Anthony had hoped to find—a false bottom that hid a smaller book, a personal diary. “Here we are,” he breathed and motioned to Stuart.

  Dylan, still perusing the official log, moved to Anthony’s side and looked over his shoulder at the diary. Anthony flipped pages until he found the dates he needed. He had only read a few entries before he realized that his assessment of the thief, Harold Miller, may have been made in haste.

  “What does it say?” Stuart asked.

  Anthony frowned. “Apparently Harold Miller, the man who stole the Janus Document, found his uncle, Captain Miller, in France. Harold was frantic. He told him, ‘I must leave the country at once. I am in possession of a packet vital to England’s security.’ Miller says his nephew had taken the packet into his own hands to keep it from another unnamed party or parties who wished to use it for financial gain.”

  Dylan softly read aloud the next passage from the captain’s diary. “‘I told Harold I wasn’t bound for home yet, that the cargo is full and my course set for delivery before returning to England. He was relieved, said that the voyage would give him not only distance from his enemy but time to consider the best course of action.’”

  Anthony looked at Dylan, his thoughts spinning. “If Harold had encountered trouble while trying to sell the document to his contact in France, it would make sense for him to paint himself in a hero’s light to his uncle so he could escape from the Continent. If he were truly innocent, why not return immediately to London and seek asylum with a trusted source in the War Department?”

  “He was Braxton’s subordinate, you say?” Dylan asked.

  Anthony nodded. There was another possibility that hovered in Anthony’s thoughts that he couldn’t share with Dylan, however, and it concerned Braxton himself. It wouldn’t be the first time the man had not told Anthony the entire truth of a matter. Anthony had completed at least two missions during his war years that Braxton later admitted had been a diversion to protect someone higher on the ladder than himself. There were often deeper layers of intrigue to these puzzles that necessitated a stretching of the facts.

  In short, Braxton may well be protecting someone again, and Harold Miller may have been the scapegoat. Supposing Harold had gone to France with a companion, perhaps a trusted colleague from the War Department, he may have been an unwitting accomplice to an act of which he was ignorant until the transaction was nearly upon them. If that were the case, Anthony admired the man’s courage to act. He had taken something worth millions and run with it, likely knowing the consequences would be dire if he were caught.

  Anthony flipped another page and read another entry. “‘I placed Harold’s packet of papers in my personal safe. I asked him about the contents, but he insisted nobody should know, that it represented danger for a large number of people.’” He paused, reading further, and then said to Dylan, “As the ship skirted South Africa, an illness swept through the crew, killing three before they made land. Several were sick but recovered. Harold succumbed and died after one day in port. Miller had him buried there.”

  Dylan nodded, looking at the official log. “He says the same thing here.”

  Anthony turned to the last few pages of the personal diary. He shook his head, his smile grim and without humor. “It seems Captain Miller looked at the papers once Harold was dead. The pages were all written in some kind of code.” He looked up at Dylan.

  “The Janus Document,” Stuart said.

  Anthony nodded. “I suppose I can’t blame him—­curiosity might have gotten the better of me, also. What he doesn’t say here, though, is what he planned to do with the packet, if he intended to hand it over to government officials or find someone else to buy it.”

  Dylan raised a brow. “Wise to not incriminate himself in his own diary.” He paused. “So after Harold’s death, Captain Miller had the Janus Document locked in Lord Pilkington’s safe.”

  “It appears so.”

  “And then, during the ball, the safe was opened, and Captain Miller was killed by an unknown assailant—who, we suspect, then stole the document.”

  “A fair summation.” Anthony sighed. He had been so close to retrieving the blasted document.

  “How is it you never met the man once you arrived? You were both at the Residency for several overlapping days.”

  Anthony shook his head, frustrated. “I could never pin him down. Each time I talked to someone who knew where he was planning to be, I followed up only to just miss him. I wonder if he was perhaps looking for a contact who
could help him either sell the document or decipher the code.”

  Dylan frowned. “Would that be easily accomplished? Who has access to the code?”

  Anthony shrugged. “War Department officials. Braxton.” Anthony himself had memorized the code and knew where the key was found. All correspondence between agents and the Home Office was communicated via that code. Each of the agents he worked with knew it as well, but it was something none of them ever admitted—to do so meant to risk one’s life. That Braxton had created a sensitive roster of information using such a familiar system had frustrated Anthony ever since the night Braxton had shown up in his library.

  Dylan consulted his timepiece. “I’m needed back at the post for an hour. Do you join me or return to the Residency?”

  Anthony reached for the official log, which Dylan handed him. He placed it back in the drawer but put the smaller diary in his coat pocket. “I believe I’ll chat with the three sailors up on deck. See if I can learn anything useful.”

  Regrettably, nothing useful came to light. Anthony spent the better part of the afternoon tracking down sailors in Bombay’s multitudinous bars, gaming holes, and brothels and introducing himself as a “friend helping Major Stuart with an investigation.” The few men he spoke to had no idea where Captain Miller had spent his days following the ship’s arrival, or with whom he might have spoken. The one assumption each of them made, however, was that he had gone to the Residency—a fact Anthony already had established.

  When he finished learning absolutely nothing of value, he returned to the Residency hot, tired, and dusty, the scent of Bombay’s squalor still heavy in his nose. He bathed, took tea in his chambers, and allowed his valet, Pierre, to fuss over the condition of his sweat-stained clothing.

  He put a hand to the back of his neck and rolled his head to release tension. He was tired. He hadn’t slowed down since leaving London and desired a vacation far away. Preferably with a bride named Sophia. “What has been the tenor of the gossip below stairs today, Pierre?”