The Transatlantic Conspiracy

by G. D. Falksen

  •••

  It wasn’t until much later that Rosalind felt herself snap out of whatever trance she had succumbed to over the course of the day. Quite suddenly, dressed in a ball gown, standing in the grand concourse, she felt jolted awake. She’d had a wonderful day, a wonderful dinner; but how was that possible? Her best friend was dead. As she waited for the arrival of her new friends—acquaintances, really; people she barely knew—she watched the line of Second Class passengers as they were herded up into the gallery. At Neptune Station, they were tossed a proverbial bone; they could watch the ball, but of course they couldn’t participate. Dancing was a First Class privilege only. But, oh, how lucky they were to be let out to watch . . . or so Father’s thinking went.

  Rosalind began to shiver, even though the temperature was perfect. She felt sick and angry. And she couldn’t tell whether she was upset because of the parade of the “lesser” passengers—all of whom looked quite happy to be let out, if only to watch the First Class passengers dance—or because of Cecily’s conspicuous absence. Rosalind’s friend had lived for balls like this.

  Perhaps a bit of both, she thought. But no; it was more. She thought of Inspector Bauer, of how dismissive and contemptuous he was of those in Second Class, of how certain he was that Cecily’s murderer had to be one of them. One of those lesser humans.

  “I thought I might find you hiding somewhere,” a voice said in her ear. “Your gown is a wonder.”

  Rosalind turned away, trying not to take any pleasure in how dashing Erich looked himself. She didn’t want to disappoint him, but she was in no mood for dancing. “I am not hiding,” she replied. “I am contemplating.”

  “Are they not much the same thing?” Erich asked, perhaps trying to evoke some laughter. “What is troubling you, Rosalind? Cecily?”

  “Of course,” Rosalind answered. “I keep thinking that I’ve accepted this. That she is gone, that the . . . the shock cannot get any worse. And then I think about her, lying there, dead, and it does get worse. One minute, I’m well; the next, I’m a wreck. And then . . .” She stopped. The idea! Speaking to this boy so openly. What must he think of me? “I apologize. This is none of your concern. I shouldn’t be troubling you with all of this—”

  “No,” Erich said. “No, no. You need to talk about this. If it will help, I should like to be the one to listen.”

  Rosalind gave a slow nod.

  “I am grateful for that . . . Erich,” she said.

  Erich reached out and touched her cheek. Rosalind tensed, but his fingers were warm and soft and she did not pull away. But then she remembered herself and quickly turned, lest someone see them.

  “As I told you before,” he said, “I am so very sorry for the death of your friend. If there were any way I could have prevented it, for you, I would gladly have done so.”

  “The . . . sentiment is appreciated,” Rosalind said, still half turned away. “But I fear that there was nothing any of us could have done.”

  “Yes,” Erich agreed. “Who can fathom the criminal mind? What drives a man to steal? To kill?”

  Rosalind looked at him again, suddenly torn between trusting him and trusting no one. She glanced around. There was no sign of Inspector Bauer’s men in the vicinity. Had they given her the night off? Or had they simply lost track of her? More likely they were hidden from view, but watching all the while.

  “Erich,” she murmured before she could think better of it, “I am going to tell you something that I probably shouldn’t tell you. It may very well put us both in danger.”

  Erich drew closer. “Yes? What is it? Please, you can tell me anything.”

  “I don’t believe that Cecily was killed for her jewels,” Rosalind whispered. “In fact, I’m certain that is not what happened.” She fought to collect her thoughts. “I don’t believe it was about robbery. I know it sounds strange, but I remember seeing her jewelry laid out on the table. None of it had been touched. And I know you’ll say a man might panic after killing two people. But to have the courage to commit murder and then not to take the very jewels for which he’d murdered? I cannot believe that.”

  Erich frowned. “I see,” he said slowly.

  “As do I,” Rosalind insisted. “I saw. I remember everything about that room. Like it is a picture in front of me. Every time I close my eyes, I see . . .” She shook herself. “That’s not important. What matters is that there is something else going on. I don’t know if Inspector Bauer and the others have the right man, but even if they do, I am certain his motive was not the one they suspect.”

  Erich ran his fingertips along his chin. Rosalind wondered if she had offended him with her talk about the murder. But after a little while, he turned back to her, his lips pressed into a tight line.

  “You know,” he said, “I think that may be so. But until you spoke of Bauer and the wrong man in custody, I had been trying to dispel this terrible thought of mine.”

  “You agree with me?” Rosalind gasped.

  Erich’s face grew grim. The light that had always been there seemed to have been extinguished from his eyes. “Yes, and it is worse than that. I think . . . I fear . . . that my friend may have had something to do with it.”

  “Your friend? You mean Jacob?” Rosalind stared at him. “What on earth for? That’s impossible—”

  “One would think, yes?” he interrupted, avoiding her eyes. “But I think . . . I think Cecily may have been killed by Jacob and Alix together.”

  Rosalind was speechless. “But why?” she demanded.

  “That I do not know,” Erich replied. “But I have given it some thought. The two of them seem a little too familiar for people who have only just met. Surely you have noticed that?”

  He nodded toward the dance floor. Indeed, as if he’d magically conjured the display for proof, there were Alix and Jacob, spinning through the crowd, entwined, almost rapturous.

  “I . . . Well, I just assumed Alix was coping with the death of our friend by trying to forget it,” Rosalind stammered, unable to stop gaping at them. “And Jacob was a distraction . . .” She turned back to Erich. “Forgive me for what I’m about to say. I know he’s your friend, but he’s not terribly intelligent. I don’t think he could do it.”

  Erich averted his eyes once more. He appeared visibly ashamed to be harboring such evil thoughts. “I used to think as you do of him. That he was a happy-go-lucky sort, a committed soldier, a personable companion, nothing more. But I’ve never spent time with him like this, in such close quarters. There are certain things that Jacob has said since we arrived . . . certain things I have seen him do when he thought I was not watching.”

  Rosalind felt her heart thudding in her chest. “What has he done?”

  Erich sighed. He forced a smile at her. “No. I cannot do this. I cannot betray his confidences. I must beg your pardon. I should not talk about Jacob like this. It could all be coincidence. Here I am, impugning my friend’s reputation on conjecture, without a piece of evidence.”

  Rosalind nodded, as much out of frustration as out of admiration for this boy she’d only just met. She could hardly expect him to tell her the sordid details of his friend’s conduct when there might be no actual connection to the murder; it was incredible enough that Erich had told her of his suspicions in the first place—and that he even had them.

  “I won’t pry,” she assured him, “but I won’t assume that Alix or Jacob were involved without proof.”

  “Thank you,” Erich said, sounding relieved. “I suppose I shouldn’t have said anything. It is only that . . . I want to help you, Rosalind. And I promise you this: whoever is behind the death of your dear friend—Jacob, Alix, even the captain of the train—I will not rest until I find the culprit. I will not rest until you have justice.”

  Rosalind laid a hand on his arm. She was troubled by his words, his tone, his outlandish theory that Alix von Hessen was
a murderer. But at the same time, she believed in his intention: he did want to help her. And he had his own reasons, clearly, if he thought his friend was not a friend at all, but rather a criminal in disguise . . . “To have justice, we will need evidence,” she said. “Something we can bring to the police.”

  “Agreed,” Erich said. “We will begin with Jacob and Lady von Hessen. God willing, we may eliminate them as suspects.”

  “A faint heart never solved a mystery,” Rosalind said, as much to herself as to him. Secretly, she prayed that they could be eliminated. Again she felt that terrible weight of memory. Her two best friends, her hosts for a joyous and carefree spring, were gone. One dead, one missing. Her heart thudded again. Perhaps Charles had been murdered, too, before they’d boarded the train? Or perhaps he’d sensed mortal danger and had run to protect himself? But no, Cecily would have been panicked in either instance . . .

  “We will watch them,” Erich continued. “Like hawks, yes? You will watch your friend Lady von Hessen. I will watch my friend Jacob. If she reveals anything, you come to me. If he reveals anything, I come to you. And together we will go to Inspector Bauer and force him to see the truth.”

  “Do you think it will work?” Rosalind asked, snapping back into the present, forcing herself to focus on some course of action over which she could have a semblance of control. She peered out at the dance floor, where Alix and Jacob were still twirling.

  “It is the only thing we can do. So we must hope that it works.”

  “And if it isn’t them?” she asked.

  Erich sighed. “Then we will have a very long list of suspects.”

  She drew closer, narrowing the distance between them. “Why are you doing this for me?” she asked. “You didn’t even know my friend.”

  “As I said, I had my own suspicions,” Erich replied. “You simply brought them to light. And besides, though I may not be a dashing officer, a man does like to think that he may be a hero to a beautiful young woman from time to time.”

  Rosalind couldn’t help but smile at the compliment, though she felt awkward doing it. “You make a very good knight-errant,” she said. “All you need is the shining armor.”

  Erich extended his hand. “That I cannot obtain. But I wonder, Fräulein Wallace, if you would be so very kind as to join me in the next dance.”

  Rosalind hesitated. She wanted to ever so much, but she found herself unable to put Cecily out of her mind. Everything had happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, so awfully. Then again, it was a ball. And a dance was only a dance. Cecily would have danced. Moreover, she would have wanted Rosalind to dance, so that she could pretend to be scandalized. Rosalind could almost hear her old friend’s carefree giggle.

  “Herr Steiner,” Rosalind said. She took his hand, smiling and fighting back tears at the same time. “I thought you might never ask.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Upon the train’s departure from Neptune Station the next morning, Rosalind met Alix in her room. And as instructed, she spent the next few hours watching the girl “like a hawk.” Not that she particularly minded; nor was it particularly difficult to watch her. They’d adjourned to the Red Parlor after breakfast and sat together until lunch. Whatever had sparked Alix’s bizarre fervor the other night, the flame had died. Now Alix was simply sad, appropriately so. She spent the entire morning talking of Cecily, of the adventures they’d shared at school, of Cecily’s troublemaking and generosity and joie de vivre. She and Rosalind had both wept as often as they’d laughed.

  By midafternoon Rosalind was certain Erich’s suspicions were entirely unfounded. What reason could Alix possibly have for killing Cecily? Was Alix even capable of killing someone? She was a true product of the aristocracy, sheltered and naive about so many things. Perhaps it was Jacob’s doing alone. Or perhaps Erich had a wild imagination and had mistaken Jacob’s odd private behavior for something more sinister. Regardless of what the truth proved to be, Rosalind was determined not to be swayed by assumptions, even if she did trust Erich’s own motives.

  And she did. Didn’t she?

  •••

  Rosalind finally parted company with Alix in the late evening. As she made her way down the corridor back to her own compartment, she realized she was not the least bit tired. She didn’t wish to go to the library and engage with that phony librarian, but she needed something to help her fall asleep. Perhaps listening to a little music on the gramophone by her bedside would do the trick. Otherwise she might be reduced to pacing back and forth.

  When she entered her room, she felt certain that something was out of place. At first she did not know what. Her things were as she had left them, strewn about, and a quick check showed that she was alone. She turned in circles until she spotted what was different: a cylinder lay in the receiving tray of the pneumatic post machine.

  How odd.

  Who could possibly be sending her messages? Not Alix, surely; they had only just parted. Erich, perhaps? She smiled a little at the thought. Then her smile faded. More likely Inspector Bauer, inquiring about whether she was satisfied with the performance of his spies . . .

  Rosalind opened the cylinder and unfolded the slip of paper within. It was a short note, only three lines long, but it was enough to make her dizzy:

  I am alive. I am on the train.

  Meet me in the last baggage car at midnight.

  I will explain everything.

  At first she thought it might be from Cecily—impossible though that was—but there could be no mistaking the handwriting.

  It belonged to Charles.

  Rosalind dropped the cylinder and sank to the floor, her head swimming. Charles? On the train all this time? But how was that possible? Why hadn’t he boarded with them? Why hadn’t he said something before now? Why hadn’t he been there when Cecily was killed?

  Rosalind shut her eyes tightly and concentrated on breathing for a short while. It was all just a dream, she thought. Some insane fever dream. She was at home, deathly ill. Cecily was still alive. None of this was real.

  But when her lids fluttered open, she was still clutching the note. Cecily was dead, and her brother was alive, demanding to meet in the last baggage car at midnight. Rosalind’s chest felt tight, as if she couldn’t suck enough air into her lungs. She forced herself to stand. She needed to get out, away from the blasted train and its claustrophobic compartments. She needed to think.

  Stumbling to the door, she braced herself against it and straightened. She couldn’t lurch through the hallways like a madwoman. No, she needed to compose herself. Nobody could see that her heart was pounding. Nobody could see the panic inside, provided she kept an even keel. After another deep breath, she opened the door and went outside. There was no one in the corridor, which was good. Most of the cars were deserted, in fact. As she made her way toward the rear of the train, she passed only an occasional porter. It was a little past ten o’clock, and it appeared most of the passengers had gone to bed.

  When she reached the arboreal car, she managed something approximating a relaxed state. She wandered up and down the paths for a few minutes, collecting her thoughts. Once or twice she stood still and closed her eyes, listening to the birdsong.

  I didn’t know there were birds here, she thought.

  Ah, but of course, they weren’t real. Just a recording played on the speakers to help with the ambience. What was real aboard this train? It was so hard to distinguish . . .

  “Good evening, Rosalind,” said a voice from behind her. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Rosalind’s eyes popped open, and she whirled around in surprise. For a moment it felt like her heart had stopped. But there was no cause for concern. Quite the contrary: it was Erich. He stood a few paces away, smiling at her, still in his evening finery.

  “I am sorry, I did not mean to startle you,” he apologized.

  Rosalind shook her head. �
�It’s fine. I have simply been . . . confounded this evening.”

  Erich tilted his head and approached her. “You are upset,” he said.

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” Rosalind assured him.

  “But it is everything to worry about,” Erich replied. “I do not want you to be upset, Rosalind. You are too wonderful to be upset.”

  Rosalind laughed in spite of herself, and it made her feel quite foolish. She drew in a breath. “It has simply been a very trying day. And yet it hasn’t at all. And that is what’s so peculiar. I watched Alix, as we agreed I’d do . . . and I saw nothing untoward or suspicious. We both mourned.”

  “Your friend’s death is weighing on you,” Erich said with a nod. “I understand that.”

  “Yes,” Rosalind said. “And it has just become fresh for me again.”

  Erich took her hand and gently raised it to his lips. “I want you to know that I am here for you, Rosalind,” he whispered. “I want to comfort you. I would do anything in my power to make your sadness go away.”

  “Erich—”

  “You are such a beautiful woman,” Erich continued, his eyes aflame. “I simply cannot put into words how marvelous you are . . .” And then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. It was wonderful, and delicious, and Rosalind felt herself being swept away, dizzy and delighted and confused, until she could think of nothing but the kiss. The kiss and . . .

  Charles.

  Rosalind gasped and pulled away. She held on to Erich’s coat for a moment as she tried to steady herself. Breathing heavily, she looked up and managed to say, “Wait. I’m sorry. Wait.”

  Erich straightened. His lips quivered as he fought not to appear hurt.

  “Have I done something wrong?” he asked. “I am sorry, but I thought . . . I have great affection for you. I thought that you felt the same.”

  “I do,” Rosalind said. But no, that wasn’t quite true, and she couldn’t lie about such a thing, even to soothe his feelings. “I don’t.”