by Blythe Baker
I’d only been in the hotel for a few hours when there was a knock on my door. Crossing the room and answering it, I half-expected to find Monsieur Prideaux on the other side, having hunted me down after I’d left Tangier in secret. It had been so long since I’d been friendly with anyone else, that I couldn’t imagine who would want to see me.
But instead of a tall, thin Frenchman, I opened the door to discover a short English woman with gray hair.
“Rose Beckingham,” she said, her tone flat and sure.
“Yes?” I asked, glancing up and down the hallway for some clue as to why I was being called upon and why the woman already knew my name. Her clothing spoke to a higher-class, so she didn’t work at the hotel, but I couldn’t turn her away merely for being a stranger. For one thing, the hunch in her spine made me worry she would topple over if I closed the door too hard.
Her wrinkled brow drew together in a mixture of concern and embarrassment. “You may not remember. I’m not sure we ever met, but I was friends with your mother.”
My mother? Being out of practice, it took me a few seconds to gather that the woman was referencing Mrs. Beckingham, Rose’s mother. “My mother,” I repeated enthusiastically before turning my face down in a frown.
The old woman matched my expression. “I was devastated to hear of the accident, and then absolutely overjoyed to learn of your remarkable escape.”
“Thank you for your thoughts…” I paused, realizing I still didn’t know who I was speaking to.
“Mrs. Hutchins.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hutchins,” I finished, smiling in thanks and apology. I reached out to grasp the woman’s wrinkled hand in my own, but as soon as I moved towards her, she sprang back faster than I would have thought possible.
I retracted my hand immediately, tucking it against my side. “I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to startle you—”
“Your mother was aware of my peculiarities, but the information may not have ever been passed to you, as it wasn’t necessary at the time,” Mrs. Hutchins began to explain, her eyes still wide and watching like I might reach out for her again unprompted. I wished I could assure her I would do no such thing, not after her reaction. “I do my best to avoid physical contact. Disease can spread in many ways, and I prefer to minimize my exposure.”
I nodded. Did I look diseased?
“Oh, yes. I do remember that now,” I lied. “Mother spoke fondly of you on many occasions, Mrs. Hutchins.”
“Florence, if you’d rather,” she said, smiling at the compliment. “Your mother called me ‘Flo’ more than once, and several of our friends still use that name. It never fails to make me think of her.”
“I’m so glad you came to see me, Florence,” I said as sweetly as I could. “But I just got off the boat a few hours ago. I am so pleased to speak with you, but how did you learn I was in the city so quickly?”
“Oh,” Mrs. Hutchins said, her face lighting up with realization. “Your aunt and uncle contacted a few of your mother and father’s friends when they received word you would be returning to India. Lord and Lady Ashton wanted to ensure you would have acquaintances in India and would be made to feel welcome.”
Internally, I groaned. How many more similar run-ins would I face? And would I be able to fool all of them into believing I was Rose? She and I had always looked alike—similar build, coloring, and hairstyle—but unlike Rose’s acquaintances in London who had not seen her in ten years, the people in India had seen Rose as early as eight months ago. Not to mention, a few of them had seen me, as well. My clothes were rags compared to my closet now, and I did not have the scar or makeup then, but still, the likelihood of being recognized and my deception uncovered were greater than I had realized.
“My aunt and uncle are unendingly kind,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’m so glad they thought of me.”
“What is the reason for your return?” Mrs. Hutchins asked. “I only inquire because we all heard your closest relations were in London, so without your father’s work, I couldn’t imagine what would lure you back to India.”
I couldn’t very well tell her I was there investigating the possibility that the Beckinghams had been killed by a hired assassin who may very well kill another high-ranking British official in the near future. That information was not only secret, but highly suspicious. No one would expect Rose to be doing her own detective work. In an ironic twist, it would be far more likely she would have hired someone like Achilles Prideaux for the job.
“I’m here for a kind of pilgrimage,” I said, thinking fast. “I’d like to return to the place where the attack occurred to try and find closure.”
Mrs. Hutchins gave me a sympathetic frown and nodded before taking a deep breath and returning to happier topics of conversation. “If Simla is your destination, then I hope you’ll allow us the privilege of accompanying you so you do not have to travel alone. Travel can be dangerous for a beautiful young woman.”
“I do not want to be a burden,” I said, dismissing her offer with a wave and smiling. “I am accustomed to travelling by myself and do not have any fears.”
“It would not be a burden,” she insisted. “Arthur, my son, and I are already planning to head into the hills to escape the oppressive heat of the summer. We are far from the hottest month, and I am already sweltering. By going with us, you would just be putting an old woman’s mind at ease. Really, I must insist.”
Rose had never gone anywhere by herself, which was partly why I’d been hired as her companion. She enjoyed conversation and male admirers more than most, so refusing Mrs. Hutchins and her son would be out of character. There didn’t seem to be any choice but to accept the offer.
“Well, if I would be putting you at ease, then that is all that is important,” I said. “I would love to travel with you both.”
Mrs. Hutchins left shortly after I agreed, promising to be in touch, and I wondered if it would be possible to slip away as I had from Monsieur Prideaux in Tangier. Would Mrs. Hutchins be alarmed if I did not meet them on the train platform in two days? Or would she assume I’d had little interest in her offer and let it go? My instincts told me she was the kind of woman to fuss, which meant she would alert everyone in town to my absence, and my return to Bombay and intention to visit Simla would be even more widely circulated than it apparently had been already. The safest option, unfortunately, was to join Florence and her son, and pray I could soon extricate myself from their company.
I arrived at the train platform shortly before the train was set to depart and found Mrs. Hutchins leaning against a newspaper stand and fanning herself with the front headlines. Pink color was high in her cheeks and neck, and she looked in desperate need of sitting down. The middle-aged man standing next to her, who I assumed was her son based on the similarities between their size and stature, tapped his foot impatiently against the brick platform, his eyes searching every face that passed with an air of impatience. Next to him was a man Mrs. Hutchins had not told me to expect. He was short and thin, his face gaunt like he had skipped too many meals and his head balding. And unlike Mrs. Hutchins, he was white as marble.
Arthur Hutchins’ careful eyes fell on me when I was still far away, and he turned to his mother and whispered something in her ear. She turned her pink, shiny face towards me immediately and waved, though the simple gesture looked like it took her a great deal of effort. I waved back and sped up to close the distance between us.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” I said, not being entirely truthful. Part of me had hoped I’d arrive too late to board this train and would have to travel to Simla alone.
“We weren’t waiting,” Mrs. Hutchins said. “We were just soaking in the last bit of fresh air before we board. This is my son, Arthur.”
“Glad you made it,” Arthur said, his tone conveying something of annoyance, despite his mother’s assurance they hadn’t been waiting on me.
“Thank you for accompanying me,” I said. “I was relieved when your mother made the off
er. I did not wish to travel alone.”
The idea of making the journey alone actually sounded perfect, and I mourned that which I’d never have while Mrs. Hutchins continued the introductions.
“And this,” she said, gesturing to the pale man standing next to Arthur, “is Arthur’s private secretary, Mr. Charles Barlow.”
Mr. Barlow pulled his lips together into a tight pucker like he’d just licked a lemon and nodded his head to me, giving me the full view of his crescent-shaped head of hair. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Beckingham.”
“Mr. Barlow recently returned from a vacation of his own and is now accompanying us on our getaway. Isn’t that funny?” Mrs. Hutchins asked, smiling as though she’d just told a hilarious joke. I smiled out of kindness, but neither Mr. Barlow or her son felt the need to be kind.
After waiting a few hopeful seconds in the expectation that the men would acknowledge her words, she opened her mouth to say something else, but Arthur cut her off immediately. “Now that we are all here, perhaps we should take our seats?”
The question didn’t leave any room for dissenting opinions, and I could tell he wanted to make it abundantly clear to me for a second time that I had held up the proceedings. I refused to allow him to fluster me.
“Absolutely,” I agreed with a wide smile.
Arthur grabbed his mother’s luggage and his own and headed for the train, followed by his mother. I stepped back to allow Mr. Barlow to follow his employer, but he shook his head, fixed his eyes on me and bowed unnecessarily low, one arm extended outward. “After you, Miss Beckingham.”
I realized that for better or worse, it could be put off no longer. I really was on my way back to the place where it had all begun.
Mr. and Mrs. Hutchins, though a son and mother pair, bickered like any married couple I’d ever known. Mrs. Hutchins insisted she was feeling ill, too hot, or crowded at least once every five minutes, to which her son would respond with a sharp reply that quieted her only until the next thing went wrong. Mr. Barlow seemed unfazed by his employer’s arguing, his face remaining a perfectly neutral mask throughout the entire trip. At first, I found it disturbing that he could be so unresponsive and immune to the constant complaints and arguing, but as one day turned to two and then three, I found him inspiring. I wanted to kneel at his feet and have him teach me his techniques. I’d been held at gunpoint multiple times in my life yet accepting Mrs. Hutchins’ travel offer quickly became my biggest regret.
Staring out the window proved to be the only method of escape. I watched as burning hot plains that stretched into the horizon blended seamlessly into the tree-covered Himalayan foothills, peaks and valleys filling in the landscape in a way that was both familiar and breathtaking.
We switched trains as the altitude increased, moving higher into the mountains, closer to the hill station of Simla. Our train passed by mountain towns set just off of cliffs like they could be pushed right over the edge, and when we rounded one mountain, a wall of rock opening onto a full view of a range of mountains, snow-capped and tall as the sky, even Mr. and Mrs. Hutchins had to stop arguing to take notice.
The sight helped to soften the memories of India and Simla, in particular, that I’d been holding onto. What I’d told Mrs. Hutchins about coming to Simla for closure had been a lie, but I found myself thinking I could inadvertently find closure as well as solve an international assassin mystery. There was no reason I couldn’t do both.
“I do hope you won’t feel nervous joining in activities in the community,” Mrs. Hutchins said as we neared out final destination. Even she had grown weary of complaining about the lack of space to stretch her legs and had moved on to other topics.
I knew that by “the community” she meant the British officers, government officials, and their wives and children, who made up society in the hill town.
“I look forward to it,” I said, although I secretly had little intention of joining in on any activities. I had a mission, and it did not involve attending parties or government dinners. I’d listened to Rose describe enough of them when I was a servant for the Beckinghams that I knew exactly how dull they could be. The last summer we had spent in Simla—the same summer the Beckinghams were murdered—Rose had feigned an illness most of the summer to avoid such events. I was then always at her side, where she taught me to perfect her accent and how to dress like a lady. I had no idea at the time how important those lessons would come to be.
Rose’s past absence at social occasions would now prove to be helpful in maintaining my disguise. Many acquaintances did not see her at all that summer, meaning it had now been nearly two years since they would have seen her. That timeframe would hopefully excuse any obvious differences in appearance between Rose and me.
“I know you are coming to Simla with a purpose, but it is good for a young woman to socialize,” Mrs. Hutchins said.
“I’m sure Miss Beckingham has her own plans,” Arthur said. It was the first time during the entire trip that I’d liked him.
“I only wish to help her feel included,” Mrs. Hutchins whispered, as though I were not sitting directly across from her, able to hear every word.
Desperate for anything to take my mind off the last few hours of the trip, I pulled out the letter from my aunt I’d had hiding in my desk drawer in Tangier and removed the second letter she had enclosed from Mrs. Worthing. At one point, I’d found Mrs. Worthing’s company unbearable, but I now wished more than anything she and her husband were accompanying me to Simla. Her silly gossip and the loving banter between she and her husband was much preferable to the negativity exuded by the Hutchins.
Lovely Rose,
I hope you’ll forgive this hasty note. I’m writing it quickly in order to include it with a letter your aunt said she would be sending you, and I do hope I can be brief so it will make it in time.
Mr. Worthing and I miss you terribly. When we agreed to travel with you from Simla to London that fateful summer, I had no idea how dear you would become to me. I look upon you like a daughter, but I must insist you do not look upon me as a mother. It would make me feel far too old. Mr. Worthing says it would make me feel my age, but we are not concerning ourselves with what he thinks.
Aseem has settled in nicely as an invaluable servant. He does more than he is asked and always with a positive attitude. I intend to keep the boy hired on as long as he will stay.
I do hope you are taking care of yourself wherever in the world you are. Morocco, I believe your aunt said. I’ve never been, so you must write and tell me what it is like. When you come back to London, please visit. We have so much to tell you.
With Love,
Mrs. and Mr. Worthing
I determined at once that no matter how busy I became with the investigation, I would sit down and reestablish my connections with everyone from Rose’s life. I would write to Mr. and Mrs. Worthing, thanking them for all they’d done for me up to that point. I’d write to Lord and Lady Ashton to inform them of my safe arrival and my gratitude for their undeserved kindness, and I’d write to my cousins in New York to apologize for not accompanying them there.
Finally, after months of uncertainly, I was committed to being Rose Beckingham, and I intended to do it properly.
5
Somewhere along the way, although the exact details had become fuzzy to me, I’d agreed to stay in a rented bungalow at the edge of town with the Hutchins. I’d agreed to the details prior to actually becoming well acquainted with either Mrs. Hutchins or her son, and certainly before I’d spent any time with them together. By the time we arrived in Simla and took a car to the bungalow, I questioned whether I shouldn’t send word to Achilles Prideaux and tell him I’d changed my mind about accompanying him to London.
The car seemed to move steadily upward until I didn’t believe we could go any higher. Then, it would climb higher still. Timbered houses lined the winding roads and nestled themselves amongst the foliage. I knew that the smaller dwellings lower down the hill were the homes of
native locals, while the larger buildings clustered higher up were where the people Mrs. Hutchins referred to as “society” stayed during the warm months.
The altitude was so great that everything sat against a background of pure white clouds. Thick greenery and flower gardens stood in opposition to the dry, dusty cities further South, making it possible to forget we were in India at all.
“I can hardly tell what is worse,” Mrs. Hutchins wheezed, drawing my attention from a particularly lovely arrangement of rose bushes. “The claustrophobic heat of Bombay or the thin air of Simla. Is anyone else struggling to breathe?”
“Every second,” Arthur said, his voice drawn long and lazy.
“You’ll become accustomed to it,” Mr. Barlow said.
Mrs. Hutchins shook her head. “I could never become accustomed to air this thin. Simla is for the young. My days here are numbered.”
Her dreary talk carried on until we pulled to a stop in front of the bungalow. It had a low, wide front porch with timber beams that stretched from the ground to the roof. The size was just large enough to comfortably accommodate the four of us, as well as the servants I understood came with the house.
The room allotted to me was at the back with a single window that looked out over a garden. I would have liked a view of the mountains, but I was pleased to be far away from the main rooms where Mrs. Hutchins’ complaining continued, as she talked of dust gathered on the furniture and the moist air that would surely ruin her already ailing lungs.
I had little time to settle in and supervise the servants’ unpacking of my luggage. The day was already half spent and darkness came soon after dinner. It was a strange feeling, passing my first night in this place, so close to the location of last summer’s horrible events. Putting aside fears of snakes or other unwelcome visitors, I opened my window wide to the night breeze and trusted to the curtain of fine netting that encircled my bed to protect me from nighttime insects. I fell asleep counting the stars twinkling outside the window.