by Blythe Baker
I shrugged and leaned across the desk towards Graham. He leaned in, as well. “I have secrets of my own, and your company allowed me more freedom than being single would have.”
Graham took a step forward, blonde brows furrowed. “You truly believe you have secrets from me? Two trained assassins were watching your every move from the moment you arrived in Simla. I followed you to this very house last night without you being aware. What secrets could you have?”
I raised an eyebrow in a challenge. “Secrets that would change everything.”
He took another step forward. Now, he was only one step and an arm’s length away. Close enough for me to run, but if he got any closer, that opportunity would slip away. “I don’t believe you. Similar to Mr. Barlow, you overestimate your own abilities. You were not a good enough detective to uncover the truth about me before it was too late, and you are not a good enough liar to keep a secret from a trained assassin.”
I inhaled slowly, preparing myself for what was coming next, and then smiled. “And similar to Mr. Barlow, you underestimate me.”
Before Graham could speak or move, I took a lunging step out from behind the desk, slashed my knife through the air, and ran. He screamed and hurled himself away from the blade, but I felt it catch on his cheek, and I felt the warmth of blood on my fingers as I ran from the room.
The servant with the bruise on his head was still lying unconscious at the top of the stairs, and the house was dark and quiet except for Graham’s stumblings behind me. Though I had surprised him, he would catch up quickly, so I knew I had no time to waste. I ran down the narrow hallway along the stair railing and grabbed the banister to propel myself around the turn and down the stairs. However, before I could, a hand wrapped around my wrist and wrenched me backwards. I yelped and landed on my back, my head bouncing off the hardwood floor, and felt the air knocked from my lungs in a single whoosh.
When I looked up, Graham was leaning over me, one hand pressed to a bleeding wound on his face. His eyes, once crescents turned up in a smile were narrowed into angry slits. He leaned down with his other hand to grab the knife from my hand, and I slashed out again. I caught the material of his jacket, and he fell back, giving me time to rise to my feet. I backed away from him, too out of breath to consider running, the knife held out in front of me.
“I’ve killed men before,” I said, shaking the knife side to side in a warning. “I’ll do it again.”
Graham’s face was red with exertion and embarrassment, and when he lowered his hand, blood flowed down his cheek. “You don’t have what it takes to kill someone.”
“You saw it,” I said. “With Mr. Barlow.”
Graham shook his head and took a step forward. I gripped the blade harder, clenching my arms to keep them from trembling. “You stood by while the ruins of an old statue crushed him. You don’t know what it is to take a person’s life away. To have your own hands be responsible for something like that. Even now, I don’t believe you are capable of it.”
“I thought you said you wouldn’t underestimate me.”
Graham smiled, forcing blood from the wound on his cheek, and moved towards me. “And I won’t.”
He lowered his head and rushed towards me. One of his arms swiped out and connected with my elbow, knocking the knife from my hand. It clattered to the floor and slid towards the wall. I dove towards it, but Graham’s body slammed into my side, and we both fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs. His hands wrapped around my arm and my shoulder, and I tried to wriggle out from under him, but it felt as though he was crushing me into the floor. I could feel him moving up steadily, working his way towards my neck. And I knew if he got there, I would lose this fight.
I kicked out at him over and over again until the heel of my shoe finally connected with the center of his leg. He howled in pain and rolled off of me slightly—just enough for me to slide out from under him and grab the knife.
When Graham realized what was happening, he opened his mouth to yell, but the sound died in his throat.
I felt the blade slide between his ribs and heard the catch in his breath when I punctured his lung. He rolled off of me instantly, gripping his side and fighting to rise to his feet. I scrambled away from him, backing up towards the top of the stairs.
Graham had been wrong about me. I could kill a man. And I would in order to save my own life. But that didn’t mean I enjoyed it or wanted to. If I could escape without dealing the death blow, I would.
But Graham had other ideas.
He saw me escaping and dragged himself to his knees and then managed to pull himself to standing. He wobbled, blood pulsing from his wound and dripping on the floor as he walked, but his glassy eyes were fixed on me. He would not stop until one of us was dead.
So, knife point first, I charged.
Graham was sluggish from the loss of blood, but he managed to dodge my blade, throwing his body against the stair railing. And that was when I saw my opening. I dropped the knife, spun towards him, and pushed on his chest with both hands. Graham teetered on the edge for a second, eyes wide, hand stretching out for something to stop his fall. But then, he tumbled over the edge and out of view.
All I heard was the crunch of his body against the stairs. And then nothing.
19
I stumbled away from the railing and pressed my back against the wall, too afraid to look over the edge or run down the stairs. What if he wasn’t dead? What if he reached out and grabbed my leg as I ran past? I didn’t think I’d be able to handle it.
Then, the front door opened.
For a horrifying second, I thought Graham had managed to lift himself to his feet and walk out the front door, but then I heard a scream.
“Is that Graham?” Catherine asked, her voice shrill and panicked.
“Stay away from him,” I screamed, pulling myself to my feet and stepping over the servant still sprawled on the stairs.
Catherine and Charles were standing in the doorway, faces pale, eyes wide. Charles had his arm outstretched in front of Catherine, shielding her from any danger that may be coming their way.
“What is going on, Rose?” Charles’ eyes darted around the room, looking for the assassin he suspected was lurking somewhere nearby.
I shook my head. “It’s over, Charles. He’s dead.”
His eyes narrowed, and then he looked at Graham again, understanding falling over him like a fog. “It was Graham?”
“What was Graham?” Catherine asked, pushing Charles’ arm away and moving towards the stairs. “What is going on? Is he dead?”
I studied Graham’s body, bent in an awkward position, spread across several stairs, blood dripping down them like a water feature. There was a visible wound in the left side of his chest, but it was no longer pulsing blood, and his chest was neither rising nor falling.
“I think so,” I said, relief flooding through me. I felt as though I could have collapsed, but I gripped the railing and moved carefully down the stairs, speeding up to pass Graham.
Catherine reached for me the moment I moved off the stairs and pulled me towards the front door, her eyes assessing me. “Are you hurt? Is anyone else hurt?”
Charles ran past us to where the servant was lying on the stairs.
“They are only unconscious,” I said over my shoulder. “Graham gave them something to put them to sleep.”
“I must telephone a doctor,” he said, running back down the stairs and into the sitting room.
“And the police,” I reminded him.
Catherine looked at both of us as though we were crazy and then stepped away from me, crossing her arms over her chest. “What is going on? Why do you two act like this isn’t a surprise?”
Charles stopped but didn’t look at his fiancé, instead focusing his attention on the floor. Catherine glared at him for a moment before turning her attention to me.
“Rose,” she said sternly.
I opened my mouth and then closed it, unsure what the right words were. Before
I could find them, Charles spun on his heel and moved to Catherine, grabbing her shoulders. In a rush of words and emotion, he explained everything. The deaths of his colleagues, the threatening note, the paranoia and fear that she could be hurt because of her connection to him. Catherine listened without moving, and I simply rested against the banister, too exhausted to leave the room and give them privacy. When Charles finished, he released Catherine and took a step away, waiting for her response.
She paused for a moment and then whipped out at him with her hand, slapping his arm once and then again. “How could you not tell me something like this, Charles? I worried you didn’t love me anymore. I thought you were going to cancel our wedding.”
“The information was dangerous,” Charles said, backing away, arms lifted to defend himself.
Catherine pressed her lips into a thin line and then turned her attention to me. “And you. I asked you here to help me. Why would you not tell me what was going on?”
“I made her swear not to,” Charles said, giving me an apologetic smile over Catherine’s shoulder.
“I am your cousin,” Catherine argued. “You should have told me.”
I nodded. “Yes, I should have. I’m sorry.”
The apology seemed to make her more upset. She could no longer direct her anger at me, so she turned back to her husband-to-be. “And I am going to be your wife, Charles Cresswell. Should you ever again find yourself the target of an assassin, please tell me.”
“All right,” Charles said, nodding. “I will.”
Catherine huffed out a breath, her shoulders sagging, and then in the next breath, she was sobbing. Charles rushed forward and wrapped his arms around her, pressing her cheek into his chest.
“You could have died,” she sobbed.
He patted her hair and kissed her forehead. “But I didn’t. Thanks to you, in fact. If you had not come early this morning to force me on a walk, I might have been here when Graham arrived.”
The thought brought another sob out of Catherine, and then all at once, she broke away from Charles, wiped her eyes, and turned to me. “Oh, Rose. I’m so sorry. You must be devastated.”
I waved away her concern. “It’s all right. Really.”
“He proposed to you,” Catherine said, head tilting to the side, pity etched into her features.
“I was going to say no,” I said, as though this solved everything. It didn’t, of course. But at least my family would not believe I had been in love with him. I couldn’t bear that.
Unable to take another second of my cousin’s pity, I stood up and marched back up the stairs, ignoring the incredible urge to flee that rose up as I neared Graham’s body.
“What are you doing?” Charles asked. When I didn’t answer, he sighed and remembered his earlier mission. “I’m going to fetch the doctor. And the police.”
The blood beneath Graham was already darkening and growing thick, but his body was warm when I reached inside his jacket. Immediately, my fingers found what I’d hoped they would. I pulled the small packet of neatly folded pages—now stained with blood—from his jacket and retreated down the stairs.
“What is that?” Catherine asked.
“Proof,” I said, holding the letter up. “At least, I hope. Graham was working under the leadership of Albion Rooker.”
Catherine gasped, but I didn’t pause long enough for her to respond.
“Albion Rooker is dead, and he made it sound as though he intended his plan to be made public. Graham seemed the most likely person to reveal the details, and I believe these—” I held up the bloodied papers. “Are the details.”
Catherine nodded slowly, her fingers twisting nervously in front of her, and then she lunged at me. Her arms were around my neck before I could register what was happening, and she buried her face into my neck.
“I’m so glad you are not hurt,” she said, her body trembling. “I would never have been able to forgive myself if you had come to New York and been killed trying to help me.”
“I would have been killed if I’d stayed in Simla,” I said, grabbing her shoulders and holding her at arm’s length. I looked earnestly into her blue eyes. “You bringing me to New York saved my life Catherine. Without you, I would still count Graham as a friend.”
She took a shuddering breath. “So, you are not angry with me?”
It was strange to see Catherine so vulnerable. Since meeting her, I’d imagined her an impenetrable force of strength, independent of anyone else’s approval. But since coming to New York, I’d seen a softer side of her. The side I now knew was only revealed to those she trusted. I felt honored to be amongst their number.
“Never,” I said, twining my arm through hers and leading her into the sitting room. “You asked me for help, and I agreed. Anything that happened after that was simply the danger of having dear friends.”
She started and turned to me. “We are friends?”
“Aren’t we?” I asked, bumping her with my hip.
She rolled her eyes but could not stop herself from smiling. “I supposed we are.”
We sat down together side-by-side on the sofa, talking as we waited for the police to arrive.
20
Alice draped herself over the arm of the sofa, one arm thrown across her forehead like a model from a Renaissance painting. “I can’t believe it is almost time to leave. Do we have to go?”
“Of course, we have to go,” Catherine snapped, annoyed with her sister’s dramatics. “I’m getting married. You were excited about it a few weeks ago.”
Alice lifted her arm and sat up long enough to glare at her sister before falling back into mourning. “That was a few weeks ago. Now, I have to say goodbye, and I’m not ready.”
“The boy—whatever his name is—hasn’t been to the house in over a week,” Catherine said.
“I thought you asked him to stop coming over last week,” I said. “So you would ‘have more time to pack.’”
Alice groaned at both of us. “Neither of you know anything about love.”
“I’m the one getting married,” Catherine said, throwing her arms up in defeat.
“And I’m the one who was almost engaged to a murderer,” I said flatly.
Alice’s cheeks reddened, embarrassed at her slip, and Catherine bit her lip. It had been two weeks since the final fight with Graham, and no one seemed to know how to discuss it with me. So, I’d taken it upon myself to bring it up.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Are you?” Alice asked, looking at me like I was a china cup with a cracked handle.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “It is all over now. I’m happy to put it all behind me.”
Alice’s lips twisted to one side of her mouth, looking unsure, but Catherine winked at me. It was still strange to count her as one of my best friends, but it was strange in a delightful kind of way. She was the only person I’d told about my conflicting feelings about Graham. I was not proud of how badly I’d misread his character, but on some level, I did miss him. Or, at least, I missed the idea of his company. The comfort of having someone who cared about me more than anyone else. It was a nice thought.
Since I’d unraveled the mystery of ‘The American,’ Charles had become a close confidante, too. After reading through the papers I’d found in Graham’s coat pocket—which turned out to be a list of the assassins employed by The American and the targets they killed—I’d been able to assure myself that all of the assassins were dead and the intricate plot was truly over. I then handed the information over to Charles, knowing he had the connections to make the information known to the right people. Finally, everyone would know the true reason the Beckinghams had been murdered. The world would know that General Hughes had not committed suicide, but had actually been murdered. All of the family members of the other victims would finally have the justice they deserved. It was a nice feeling.
“Well, good,” Alice said, as though that settled that. She still looked dubious, but she also seemed willing to tak
e me at my word to avoid the subject. “Because a wedding is meant to be a joyful occasion.”
“I thought you were in mourning,” Catherine teased. “Over your American beau. What was his name?”
Alice sat up, smoothing her dress down over her legs, and shook her head. “I am not in mourning over him, precisely. Merely at the loss of what could have been.”
“Ah,” Catherine mocked, one eyebrow raised. “Of course. That makes perfect sense.”
“So, I assume you will be attending Catherine’s wedding alone, then?” I asked. “Since you will still be in mourning.”
“Will you wear all black?” Catherine asked. “That will clash with the color scheme, but we would all understand.”
Alice stood up and stomped her foot, looking more like the child I’d first met a year before. “I preferred it when the two of you didn’t speak.”
Catherine threw her head back and laughed, but I reached out and grabbed Alice as she tried to stomp out of the room. “I’m sorry. We will not tease you anymore.”
“We won’t?” Catherine asked, looking disappointed. Then, she saw the fire in Alice’s eyes and sighed. “I mean, yes, Rose is right. We will stop teasing you.”
Alice looked at us both suspiciously for a moment before her face split into a smile and she dropped down onto the sofa. “I actually have several options for an escort to the wedding.”
“How?” Catherine asked, shocked. “You haven’t been in London for months.”
“I’ve been corresponding with several boys back home.”
“You flirt!” Catherine shouted, mouth agape.
Aunt Sarah walked into the room, a servant following her with a tray of tea and biscuits. “Are you talking about me, dear?”
“Of course not,” Catherine laughed.
“Good,” she said. “Because I danced with five different men at the party the other night, but three of them were married and the other two I had no interest in. Even widows deserve a turn on the dance floor.”