by Blythe Baker
Mrs. Worthing knocked on my door before going to bed and insisted on laying her eyes on me before her mind could be settled.
“Promise me you will stay in your room, Rose,” she said, eyes wide and desperate. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”
I grabbed her hands in mine. Although Mrs. Worthing was certainly a silly woman, her heart had made more than enough room for me, and I was grateful. “I have no reason to leave, I assure you. I will meet you in the sitting room for breakfast?”
“Yes, please,” she said. “Crepes are on the program for tomorrow.”
I lay in bed for a while before falling asleep, staring up at the low ceiling of my cabin. In the light of day, surrounded by the other passengers, the idea of the Colonel murdering his wife didn’t seem too far-fetched, and it didn’t create any amount of unease inside of me. Lying alone in my room, however, with the Colonel living one wall away from me, I couldn’t help but feel unsettled. If he was the murderer, had he done it in their cabin? Had it happened only a few feet away while I slept in my bed, blissfully unaware of the horror Ruby Stratton was facing?
The image of Ruby Stratton looking into my face when I found her in the ladies room, eyes large and fearful as she told me she was afraid for her life, filled my mind as I drifted into a restless sleep.
9
Though Mrs. Worthing had asked me not to leave my cabin before I fell asleep, I somehow found myself in the hallway. The overhead lights flickered and then burnt out, casting the corridor in inky shadows that crept up the walls and swallowed the red glare of the emergency lights so I couldn’t even see my own feet on the floor. As blackness surrounded me, I began to feel the rush of cold water against my ankles. But still, I continued to move forward. Towards what, I didn’t know. I only knew I didn’t want to stand still. With every step, the water rose higher. It washed over my calves, my knees, my thighs until my dress fanned out around me on the surface of the water. The icy waves bit at my skin, sprouting goosebumps down my arms and legs. Was the ship sinking? Had we struck something? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a large ship had sunk, but Mr. Worthing had assured me and his wife both that the RMS Star of India was the best engineered passenger ship on the ocean, and it would be nearly impossible for us to sink.
The blackness began to dissipate, though the water was still pouring in at an ever-increasing rate, and faceless people began filing out of their cabins and trudging through the water next to me. I tried to stop them, ask what was happening, but no one seemed to be able to hear me. I reached out to stop a woman moving down the hallway holding the hand of a small child, but my hand moved straight through her as though she were an apparition. I screamed, and still no one budged.
Then, I heard the yelling. I spun in a quick circle, wondering whether someone hadn’t heard me and was trying to respond. But then I realized the screaming was muddled, coming from a room off the hallway. It was the same fighting I’d heard my first day on the ship. I turned to my left, and despite having walked for several minutes, I found myself outside the Stratton’s cabin, less than three feet from my own cabin door. The yelling grew louder.
“Help me!” I heard Ruby’s voice, desperate and hoarse, begging for help. I hadn’t been able to hear what she’d been saying the first day, but now the words felt as though they were echoing in my own head.
I took a step forward and tried to bang on the door, but it wouldn’t make a sound. I screamed and flailed my arms, but my fists remained silent against the metal.
I could hear Ruby struggling for breath, could practically feel her life slipping away, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t do anything to help her.
“I’m sorry, Ruby,” I began to scream, hot tears streaming down my face, as salty as the ocean water running through the hallway. “I’m so sorry.”
Then, everything froze. The water grew still and stagnant, the flashing emergency lights stilled, emitting a constant red hue, casting the hallway in a blood red. I reached for the Strattons’ door knob, and my fingers connected with the cool metal. With a trembling hand I turned the knob and pushed the door open.
The room was stacked high with boxes and cargo, everything from the storage space below deck. I called out for Ruby, but no one answered. Hesitantly, I tried for Colonel Stratton, as well, but still, nothing.
Then, I noticed the blue steamer trunk sitting on the bed. The latch had been flipped open, but the trunk was still closed. I wanted to see the photograph of the young girl again. I wanted to read more of the correspondence between Ruby and Mo Mo. I wanted to know what their relationship was, what they talked about. Had Ruby mentioned any marital problems to Mo Mo? Or, had Ruby known about the letters at all? It was possible the Colonel had been keeping them from her. I had to open the trunk again and see if I’d missed anything the first time.
I reached out for the trunk, and as my hand connected with the sides where it was edged in polished brass, I saw a single red drop run out from under the lid. It splattered on the white bed spread, but it was too late to stop. I was already lifting the lid. I dropped it and it clattered open. A scream stuck in my throat. The lid fell back with a thud, jolting the trunk and sending it tumbling to the floor. It tipped over, and Ruby’s lifeless body fell at my feet.
I woke up in a cold sweat, my nightgown drenched and clinging to me. The clock on the mantle said it was only four in the morning, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. The nightmare had been horrible, and I hadn’t thought anything could be worse than the dreams I’d had about the explosion in Simla. Whenever I’d closed my eyes in the weeks since the tragedy, I’d seen smoke and blood splatter, the corpse-like hand of my dear friend. Now, I was seeing Ruby Stratton.
Even in my mind, though, no killer emerged. I didn’t see a hint of the murderer or any clues I’d missed in my waking hours that had become clear in my subconscious. It was just the horror of her death.
Despite the dream, I touched up the finger curls in my hair, slipped into a purple tea dress—matching fringe hanging from the hem and the loose sleeves—and left the claustrophobic space of the cabin. I wrote a note for Mrs. Worthing and left it on the sitting room sofa, informing her I had not been murdered, but had, rather, gone on an early morning walk to let the sea air clear my head. I told her I wouldn’t be back until mid-morning. Hopefully the letter would stop her worrying.
As I moved through the ship, the dream clung to me like a fog. I knew it had been nothing but the imaginings of my overworked mind, but still, the image of Ruby Stratton’s beautiful face cold and pale in front of me resurfaced with each blink. And more, I wanted to know who had killed her. I wanted to know who had caused her such pain.
Thomas Arbuckle didn’t believe Colonel Stratton capable of murder, but I couldn’t yet rule out a single suspect. Far and away, the Colonel seemed like the most likely suspect. His behavior after his wife’s murder had not seemed to be the actions of a man deep in the throes of grief. Rather, he seemed guilty, lurking around the edges of rooms, taking all of his luggage from the cargo hold into his cabin, and trying to make a profit by blackmailing Captain Croft. But odd behavior alone was not a sure sign of guilt. I needed more evidence.
I was dimly aware in the back of my mind that my growing obsession with Ruby’s death was probably a reaction to my own recent trauma. The explosion had happened and I had run away from India. Now, I couldn’t run away from my thoughts and so I sought to distract them by focusing on someone else’s tragedy. Even knowing all of this, I couldn’t resist sinking deeper into the mystery of Ruby’s murder.
The ship was almost entirely deserted so early in the morning, save for a few crew members. I wandered the deck until the dark of night gave way to an orange and pink sunrise over the ocean. I made loop after loop, running my mind over the facts and the suspects, trying to see anything I’d missed. Finally, as passengers began to emerge from below deck, eyes still swollen with sleep, I hatched a plan.
Although I h
ad six suspects, one of them—Colonel Stratton—had made himself more obvious a suspect than the others. So, it only made sense for me to focus on him until I could either prove he had committed the murder or rule him out as a suspect. My first order of business, I decided, would be to speak with Captain Croft. Not only could he give me more information about Ruby’s death—considering he knew nearly everything that happened on the ship—but he had also been accused of the murder by Colonel Stratton. If anyone had a deeper insight into the Colonel’s thought process, it would have to be the Captain.
I decided I would see the Captain right away, before breakfast, even. However, that plan was quickly spoiled by the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Worthing.
“There you are, Rose,” Mrs. Worthing gushed, coming up behind me and wrapping me in a tight hug. “I was worried sick about you.”
“Didn’t you find my note?” I asked, pulling myself from her arms and smoothing down my dress.
“I saw it, but didn’t feel confident you had written it,” she said, eyes wide and watery. “What if the killer had written the note on your behalf to buy himself more time? You really shouldn’t leave the cabin so early. Nothing happens on deck before breakfast, so there truly isn’t any need.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said.
Mrs. Worthing decided that portion of the conversation was over, and transitioned from lecturing me into offering a broad smile, her hands pressed together excitedly. “We have the best news,” she said.
I raised my eyebrows, expectant. Mrs. Worthing nudged her husband, and he jolted as though he had fallen asleep standing up. He looked from his wife to me, and then seemed to remember something. “Oh yes, the absolute best news.”
“We spoke with the couple we played badminton with yesterday,” Mrs. Worthing said, pausing for dramatic effect. “And they said they would love to have a third team member.”
That was the amazing news they’d been waiting to tell me. Typically, I would have pretended to be as ecstatic as they were, but it was early, I hadn’t slept well, and confusion kept me neutral. “Isn’t badminton typically played in teams of one or two?” I asked.
“Yes, obviously,” Mrs. Worthing said, annoyed that I hadn’t seemed to catch her meaning straight away. “But they’ve agreed to rotate you in and out of the game between matches. We beat them so handily yesterday, I’m sure they are anxious to redeem themselves, and having you play with them is their only shot.”
“I don’t believe I’m even familiar with the rules of badminton,” I said, desperate for a way to avoid spending the day below deck with the Worthings. Guilt crept into my stomach. They were kind people who clearly only wanted the best for me, but I also found them to be the two silliest people I’d ever met. Too many hours spent with them each day, and I’d find myself going loony.
Mrs. Worthing tilted her head to the side, eyes narrowed. “Your parents always speak highly of your ability on the court,” she said, and then her eyes widened. Occasionally, the Worthings forgot about the accident, and would mention my parents in the present tense, and then catch themselves and feel incredibly uncomfortable.
“Of course, well…” I stuttered, fingers playing nervously with the hem of my dress. “I only meant it has been such a long time. I’ve probably forgotten the rules.”
“Nonsense, dear girl,” Mr. Worthing said, patting me on the shoulder. “You’ll be great. We can assist you if you forget any of the rules. Besides, we are only playing for fun.”
“Yes, exactly,” Mrs. Worthing agreed, eager to move past her mistake, her cheeks red with embarrassment.
I would have believed them, except for the numerous times they had explained how badly they had beaten their opponents. Still, it didn’t seem to matter. The Worthings would not take no for an answer. Immediately after breakfast, I found myself descending the stairs to the racket court.
I hadn’t thought to purchase any recreational clothing prior to boarding the ship, so Mrs. Worthing insisted I wear something of hers, despite my rather adamant protests. I walked onto the court sporting a pleated plaid skirt that hung past my knees, a white shirt with collars that flared to the tips of my shoulders, and a loose sweater with a ‘W’ embroidered over the heart.
“The ‘W’ stands for Worthing,” Mrs. Worthing said as she slipped into a matching sweater in a dark shade of blue.
Walking down the corridor together was mortifying. The embarrassment only grew worse when we reached the court and I saw Mr. Worthing had a ‘W’ sweater of his own.
“We look smashing,” he said, winking at me.
I did my best to muster up a smile, but luckily, I was spared a response by the arrival of the couple from across the hall. My mouth fell open when I saw them approaching.
“Good morning, Madame,” Achilles Prideaux said in his French accent, bending low and kissing Mrs. Worthing’s hand.
A curly-haired woman stood next to him, dark and sultry. Her exercise attire was a pleated cream skirt that grazed her knees and a matching shirt that clung temptingly on her curves. I could only imagine the way Lady Dixon would have reacted to her arrival.
“Lena,” Mr. Worthing said, embracing the woman and kissing both of her cheeks. She returned the gesture, and I noticed Mrs. Worthing tighten her lips ever so slightly before greeting the woman herself. Mr. Worthing turned away from Lena long enough to point to me standing behind Mrs. Worthing in a desperate attempt to hide my sweater. “Have you met our friend, Rose Beckingham?”
“I have not had the pleasure,” Lena said, her accent melodic and alluring. She came towards me, arms extended, and I had no option but to move into her arms and return the hug. She smelled like begonias and vanilla.
I stepped away, and finally looked up at Achilles Prideaux. His skin looked even more tan under the artificial lighting, and his thin mustache was bent around his sly smile. He sported a loose pair of brown pants, cuffed at the ankle and worn high on his waist, with tan suspenders. His button-down shirt was the same shade as Lena’s.
“I was lucky enough to cross Mademoiselle Beckingham’s path the first night aboard the ship,” Achilles said, his voice oil-slick.
“How wonderful,” Mrs. Worthing said. “We are already friends, then.”
“Friends, indeed,” I agreed, looking at Mr. Prideaux.
“Then, let’s play!” Mr. Worthing said, handing me a racket. He turned to the Prideauxs “Are you both fine to alternate with Rose?”
“Of course,” Lena cried, throwing her arm around my shoulder and leading me to their side of the court. “We are in need of any help we can find.”
As it turned out, I was more of a hindrance than anything else. Mrs. Worthing had a deceptively powerful serve, and though she insisted it was luck, she sent the shuttlecock to my side of the court every time.
“So close,” Mr. Worthing shouted over to me after I had, once again, swung and missed.
I smiled at him, doing a terrible job at hiding what a horrid time I was having.
“I think you’re getting better,” Lena said. Really, Lena and Achilles were fine athletes. Bizarrely, if they had been playing anyone other than the Worthings—it was still hard for me to grasp that the couple, who only that morning had spent half an hour discussing the absurdly tall height of the grand staircase in the dining room, were also secret badminton champions—they would have won several matches. But between Mr. and Mrs. Worthing being exceptionally good and me being exceptionally bad, the deck had been stacked against them.
“I’m feeling a bit tired,” I said, mostly as an excuse to get off the court for a spell. It was also a little true, though. “I think I’ll take a break.”
Lena voiced her disappointment, but she also winked at Achilles, who had been standing on the sidelines, eyeing me while I struggled. I moved in that direction and handed him the racket.
“Sports are not your pastime of choice, I take it?” It felt as though his words were meant to be an insult, but his accent made it difficult to tell the difference
.
“Clearly,” I said, puckering my mouth and spinning around to face the court, looking past him.
“You do not like me,” he said with a smile.
I was taken aback by his boldness. “I do not know you, Monsieur.”
“That can be rectified.”
Why did Achilles Prideaux make me feel so inadequate? Normally, my quick wit and sharp tongue carried me far, but around him I felt out of my depth. His words my first night on the ship had stuck with me, and I feared what he may know. I took a deep breath, and looked at him, taking in his rich brown eyes and sharply cut cheek bones. Again, I realized how handsome he would be, if only he would shave his thin mustache.
“I’m sure your wife would rather we didn’t become too close.”
“My wife?” His forehead wrinkled, and for the first time since I’d met him, he looked uncertain. Then, understanding flooded his face. He looked back at Lena who was talking animatedly with the Worthings. “Lena is my sister.”
Some detective I was. I hadn’t even been able to detect that the Prideauxs were siblings, which now that Achilles informed me of the fact, became obvious. Same olive skin tone, same almond-shaped eyes, same thick black hair—Lena’s was wavy, but I suspected Achilles’ would be, as well, if he didn’t use so much product to slick it back.
“Still,” I said, lifting my head, trying to preserve some dignity. “I don’t think it is a good idea for us to become too close.”
He turned to wave at Lena, telling her he would be on the court in a minute, and turned back to me. “Would you at least stay behind after this match to speak with me for a moment?”