by Blythe Baker
“Correct,” I said. “I’m actually in need of your help.”
I paused, but he quickly gestured for me to continue. All business.
“I need you to find a missing person for me. A person from my past.”
“In Bombay or London?” he asked. All of his easygoing charm and playfulness had disappeared. I was now speaking to the famous detective Achilles Prideaux, not my casual acquaintance.
“Neither, actually,” I said, my fingers pulling nervously at the material of my dress. “New York.”
I could tell this piqued Monsieur Prideaux’s interest, but he simply nodded and let me continue.
“His name is Jimmy. The last time I saw him, which was over ten years ago, he had blonde hair that curled around his ears, freckles across the bridge of his nose, and a lean frame, though I’m sure he is much taller now.”
“Not unlike yourself, then?” Monsieur Prideaux asked.
I nodded and bit my lip. “Yes, not entirely unlike me.”
“Where did you last see Jimmy?”
“Five Points, New York City,” I said, doing my best not to linger on the fact.
At this, Achilles did little to hide his surprise. “That is a rough area. I wasn’t aware you had ever travelled in the United States.”
The fact was that I did not have to answer any of his questions if I did not want to. This was not a police investigation. I was questioning him, which meant I could choose to skip over any information I chose. Therefore, I chose not to answer this particular inquiry and moved on.
“After I saw him last, I found a locket Jimmy had once given me. Nearby, he’d left a single scrap of torn paper with two words scribbled on it: help me. After that, he disappeared. It has been many years since I received that note. I was only a child then, but now I am grown and I have the means to find him, so I would like to try.”
“Do you have the note?”
My heart ached at the loss. “No, unfortunately I do not. I recently lost the locket.”
Achilles twisted his mouth to one side, his thin mustache turning into a scribble on the right side of his face. “I need more information.”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid I cannot tell you much more.”
“Then I’m afraid I cannot help you,” he said flatly.
The words surprised me, and I leaned back in my seat, practically blown over by his words. “You cannot help me?”
“You are hiding something from me,” Monsieur Prideaux said. “I’ve known from the moment I met you that there is more to you than meets the eye, but back on the ship I did not wish to pry. Now, though, if I am to help you, you have to tell me everything.”
“What would you like to know?” I asked, growing angry. “I will tell you all I can.”
“What was a wealthy English heiress doing in an impoverished New York neighborhood as a child? What is your relationship to the Jimmy you seek?”
Those were two questions I could not answer without telling him my entire history. I would have to reveal my true name and identity. I would have to confess that I had stolen Rose’s inheritance away from the family I was now living with in order to use it to carry out this search. Two facts which, if discovered, could see me abandoned and penniless on the street. However, if I did not tell him, then Monsieur Prideaux would not help me and everything I’d endured would be for nothing.
I felt trapped in a cycle of lies and deceit that I could no longer find my way out of. Silence was my only option.
Achilles Prideaux noted my tight lips and shoved away from the table, standing tall and buttoning his suit jacket. “I’m afraid that is all I can do for you, then, Mademoiselle Beckingham.”
“Are you too noble to accept my money?” I asked, anger and frustration overflowing.
“It is not my habit to accept clients who conceal the truth from me,” he said. “I know this Jimmy is important to you, whoever he may be, but I cannot become involved in something I do not understand. As a private detective, I already have a precarious relationship with the police. If I take on a case that has criminal roots, I will find myself in more trouble than I wish. I am sorry, Mademoiselle, I really am. But I will not be able to help you until you are willing to tell me more.”
“I assure you my inquiry is wholly innocent. I simply need to learn the whereabouts of the man I described,” I said.
“Do you believe most criminals admit to being criminal?” he asked, a sad smile playing on his lips. “This business has taught me to take no one at their word.”
“Not even a friend?” I asked.
“Not even friends,” he said, and then after a long pause, continued. “Or acquaintances.”
I knew we weren’t really friends, but he was the closest thing I had in the city, and it stung to be told so clearly where our relationship stood.
“Then we have nothing further to discuss,” I said, pushing away my tea so violently some of it spilled onto the cream tablecloth. I immediately wanted to apologize, but stubbornness held my tongue. Achilles looked at the stain but didn’t say anything.
“Let me show you out.” He led me back through his small, yet orderly home, and I stepped back out onto the landing where, only a few minutes before, I had been so hopeful.
I wanted to storm off in anger, but hopelessness had begun to creep in. I turned back to him, studying his narrow face, his thin mustache. “Will you really not help me?” I asked.
His gaze was apologetic and yet resolute. “You know where to find me, Mademoiselle Beckingham. Call upon me anytime.”
With that, he closed the door between us, and I stepped back out onto the street.
14
I walked the streets for most of the morning. I knew the Beckinghams would worry about me. Lady Ashton was probably beside herself with concern. I hadn’t even left a note as to my whereabouts. However, I couldn’t bring myself to go home. Not just yet. It would be impossible to go back and sit through lunch and tea and hold polite conversation with the anger and frustration that was coursing through me.
Why wouldn’t Achilles Prideaux help me? He’d explained his side of things. Of course, he couldn’t become involved in a criminal affair, but why wasn’t my promise that I was involved in no such thing enough to reassure him? What had I ever done to make him doubt me?
Anger led to frustration, which led to despair. How would I find Jimmy now? My plan had hinged on gaining Monsieur Prideaux’s help. And he was supposed to be a world-famous detective. I could always hire another detective, but with the money the search would cost, I wanted to be certain I was paying for the best. And unfortunately, Achilles Prideaux was the best. Everyone else would be a poor imitation.
I found myself in front of The Chesney Ballroom before I could even ascertain where my feet were taking me. I didn’t know my way around London yet, so my feet had simply walked the streets they recognized. It was barely lunch time, but a sign next to the jazz club’s door listed it as open, and I had nowhere else to go. My feet hurt from walking and I had skipped breakfast to talk with Monsieur Prideaux. I was famished for lunch. I had enough money in my clutch for a small something, and a small something was significantly better than nothing, so I pushed through the door and stepped into the dim room.
The place was practically empty, save for a bored bartender wiping down the wooden bar and a man sweeping the floors. I was the only patron, and I was about to turn around and leave when a voice called out to me.
“Sit wherever you like,” the man said. He stepped forward until he was standing directly beneath one of the overhead lights, which cast long shadows over his eye sockets and across his mouth, giving him an almost ghoulish appearance. He had a mess of white hair on top of his head, adding to the effect.
I smiled at him, wringing my hands in front of me. I had never been to a restaurant by myself before. Prior to living with Rose and the Beckinghams in India, I hadn’t had the money for such a thing. And once I was in India, I accompanied the Beckinghams to functions occasional
ly, but I never had the time or opportunity to go out on my own. I felt oddly vulnerable. I could choose the table next to the bar, but that put me much too close to the bartender, who might decide to strike up a conversation. There was a small table in the back corner, but it seemed antisocial to sit as far away from every human in the room as possible. And the tables in the center of the room were under the harshest light, and I felt as though I would feel like an exhibit at the museum.
“Or I can choose for you,” the man said, clearly annoyed with my indecision.
I felt my face flush as I moved to a table near the bar, deciding it would be better to err on the side of awkwardness than sitting too far away and seeming rude.
The man handed me a menu and then lingered next to my table, arms crossed over his chest.
I glanced up at him several times, wishing he would walk away and leave me to make my decision.
“We don’t normally have people in here so early,” he said rather grumpily.
I didn’t respond for a few seconds and then looked up to see him staring directly at me.
“Oh,” I said in surprise. I hadn’t expected to be engaged in conversation. “I was just walking by and noticed you were open.”
He couldn’t very well be angry I had come in when the sign declared they were open. If he didn’t want patrons, then he shouldn’t have turned the sign. I kept all of that to myself, however.
The man grunted in response.
Even with his pressuring gaze, I managed to select a simple sandwich off the menu, and when he asked what I wanted to drink, I opted for a water.
“Can we at least put a lemon in that for you?” he asked. “It will give Joseph something to do.” He pointed over his shoulder at the bartender who was stacking up glasses in a pyramid shape.
“Sure,” I said, smiling, hoping I could melt the man’s heart with kindness.
“Water with a lemon,” he said, snapping.
The bartender jumped into action. “Sure thing, Tom.”
Tom? As in, Tom Chesney?
I was surprised to hear the grouchy older man who had grumbled at me the entire time he took my order was the owner of the restaurant. Based on his personality, however, I was not surprised to learn he was one of the suspects in Frederick Grossmith’s murder. He hadn’t struck me as a particularly kind person. Or a particularly patient one.
I needed to talk to him. I couldn’t pass up this opportunity. I was one of the only people in the entire club and the owner was milling around the room by himself. I felt certain I wouldn’t get another chance like this one to talk with him. The bartender, Joseph, brought me my water with lemon, and I smiled at him, trying to figure out how I would broach the subject of Frederick’s murder in a way that wouldn’t make Tom suspicious.
I hadn’t yet come up with an idea when Tom pushed through the swinging doors that led into the kitchen and headed towards my table with my plate. He dropped it onto the table in front of me and stood back.
“Anything else I can do for you?” he asked. I was surprised his words could be so polite, yet the question could still sound so insincere.
“This all looks delicious,” I said, smiling up at him.
He nodded and turned away, and I panicked.
“Tom?”
He turned at the sound of my voice, his eyebrows pulled low over his eyes, suspicious. “Who’s asking?”
I laughed nervously. “Sorry, my name is Rose Beckingham.”
His mouth was a stern, straight line. “Who are you to me?”
“We do not know one another, if that is what you’re asking.”
“Yet, you seem to know me,” he said.
“Well, the club is named after you, isn’t it?” I asked.
He nodded but said nothing else.
“I recently heard some sad news that involved your club,” I said. “That is when I learned your name.”
“What news would that be?” he asked.
I would have thought the death of an employee would be big news, but apparently Tom didn’t think so.
“An employee of yours was recently murdered, correct?” I asked. “Or, at least, that’s what I heard.”
“Where did you hear that?” he asked, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“The police questioned me as a witness in the murder, and I believe the officer mentioned the victim’s place of employment.”
At this, he raised his eyebrows. “You witnessed the murder?”
“No, not exactly,” I said. “I was near the scene of the crime. I saw Frederick arguing with another person, but I left before he was killed.”
Tom nodded and then shook his head. “Good thing you didn’t stick around. There may have been two murders,” he said.
“Do you think so?” I asked. Somehow, I had never considered that possibility. That I could have been one of the victims if I hadn’t left when I did. The idea sent a chill down my spine.
He shrugged his large shoulders. “There is no way to know for sure, but you should consider yourself blessed. No one wants to be witness to a grisly crime like that.”
“Do you know that from experience?” I asked, rather indelicately.
Tom raised an eyebrow at me. “No, but I can imagine. Can’t you?”
“I suppose I can,” I said, briefly recalling the image of Rose’s severed hand sitting in the seat next to me after the explosion, blood dripping down the leather interior.
“I would have liked to see who pulled the trigger, though,” I said. “It would have been nice to give Frederick justice.”
“A lot of people think Frederick got his justice,” Tom said flatly.
“You mean people think he deserved to die?” I asked, surprised Tom would admit such a thing.
“Some people,” he nodded.
“Are you one of those people?”
Tom jutted his lip out defiantly. “Let’s just say I didn’t consider Frederick to be an upstanding citizen. When you live the way he did, you take your life in your own hands.”
I was suddenly grateful I never knew Frederick. I’d talked to three people who did know him and none of them seemed particularly sad about his death. He seemed like trouble.
“Why did you hire him if you felt that way?” I asked.
“Well, I didn’t know he was no good when I hired him,” Tom said. “He proved himself to be trouble over time.”
“How so, if you don’t mind my asking?” My sandwich sat in front of me, all but forgotten. I’d come into the club to rest and find something to eat, but now food was the furthest thing from my mind.
Tom pulled out the chair opposite me and lowered himself into it with a sigh. “I suppose it doesn’t much matter if I tell you, now that he is dead. Frederick was stealing from me.”
I gasped, surprised that he would reveal such information to me, a stranger. “How do you know?”
“Well,” he said, shifting in his seat. “I don’t know for certain, but I’ve had my suspicions for a while. It was never a lot of money missing, just small amounts here and there. But it happened often enough that I began to take notice every night Frederick worked the bar. I never caught him in the act. Now that he is dead, I haven’t had any money go missing. So, that as much as confirms his guilt in my mind. Though, of course, it doesn’t matter now. No justice in it for me.”
“Why didn’t you confront him?” I asked, riveted. If Tom really believed Frederick was stealing money from him, that could have been his motive. Perhaps, Tom had accused Frederick and things had gone poorly. Bad enough that he killed him.
Tom folded his hands on the table in front of him and leaned forward, leveling his gaze at me. “When I hire someone, I give them my trust. I promise to treat them fairly. Accusing them of thievery or anything else without proof wouldn’t be fair. I wanted to be certain before I even considered confronting him.” He leaned back. “Even though I didn’t have solid proof, I did feel rather confident Frederick was behind the missing money, so I planned to fire hi
m when he showed up for work. But then he never showed up, and the police arrived instead, bringing news that he had died.”
“Do you know if Frederick had any enemies?” I asked.
Much like Everilda had, Tom laughed. “The man was not very popular. It would take much less time to list all of his friends.”
“Anyone who stood out recently?” I reached for my sandwich and took a bite, trying to make the conversation seem as casual as possible.
“Are you with the police or something?” Tom asked.
Clearly, nonchalance was not my strong suit. “No. I just feel connected to the case because of my proximity to the time and place of the crime.” And the fact that my family’s chauffeur may be the murderer.
Tom nodded, not looking wholly convinced, but comfortable enough to answer my questions. “No one especially stands out, but I do know Frederick and Arthur Burton had another run-in recently.”
“Arthur Burton?” I repeated.
“Yeah. I suppose most people know him as Artie. He and Frederick were always at one another’s throats over one thing or another. Artie liked to drink and occasionally he would get carried away with some of the female customers, pawing at them when he shouldn’t be, and then skipping out on his bill at the end of the night.”
“He wouldn’t pay? Why would you let him back in if he didn’t pay?” I asked.
“He always settled up before we let him back in,” Tom said. “Frederick would hunt him down and get the money. Even if he was a thief, that’s one thing I’ll miss about Frederick. He was never afraid to track people down and get any money the club was owed.”
I wondered whether Frederick’s penchant for tracking down debtors wasn’t what got him killed. If he had sought out Artie for payment, who knew what could have happened?
“He went to Artie’s house to force him to pay?”
“Went to his girl’s house, more likely. Artie’s usually hanging around the place at the end of the next block. Old brick house with a faded blue door,” Tom said, standing up. “It’s been nice to talk with you, but I have a few things left to do before our afternoon customers come in. Is there anything else I can get for you?”