by Blythe Baker
Finally, the Lieutenant turned his eyes to me. They were kind—adoring, even—and part of me felt a little guilty at the idea that the man had been caught so easily in my kindness and attention. I knew he would do whatever I asked.
“And you’ve had no news of the villain since you left India?” he asked.
I shook my head. “None whatsoever.”
He sighed reluctantly. “It may bring suspicion upon me to ask my superiors anything about the case, but I believe I have connections with the power and position to find what you may be looking for.”
“Do you really?” I reached out for him immediately, clasping my hands around his upper arm. His uniform was starched and stiff beneath my fingers, but warm from his skin and the sun.
He tensed at my touch and smiled. “I believe so, but are you certain this is a path you want to tread? It seems to me the outcome will be bleak regardless. If they have found the man, you will be faced with the decision of whether you want to see him or not. If they have not found the man, you will continue on in fear that he may come for you again. I do not see a happy ending in either regard.”
An invisible weight lifted off of me, and I wished for a moment Achilles Prideaux were around for me to boast of my success. I’d been in Simla for two days and had already made a useful connection. Just as I’d told Monsieur Prideaux time and time again in Morocco, I could take care of myself.
“Well, Lieutenant Collins, that is fine by me. I gave up looking for happy endings a long time ago. Now, I search only for answers.”
The Lieutenant inhaled, unhitching something in his chest like he was going to say something, but then thought better of it and tipped his head back to look at the sky. We lay on the checkered blanket in a heavy silence and watched as the clouds moved overhead.
6
Mrs. Hutchins had been telling the truth when she’d told the Lieutenant she had no desire to be out of doors more than necessary. Over the next several days, she remained inside the bungalow, closed away in the darkest room of the house with a fan in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
“Going out again, Rose?” she called as I walked past the room where she was hiding out, my hat and a small bag tucked under my arm.
I reversed to look through the door. Her hair was frizzed at the ends, sticking out over her ears like she’d received a good shock, and her cheeks were perpetually flushed. If she looked this frazzled in Simla, I could only imagine how she must have been in Bombay.
“I’d like to get out and see more of the area,” I said shortly, hoping not to be delayed too much. I had plans in the afternoon that I couldn’t be late for.
“Arthur could accompany you if you are in need of someone to escort you,” she said, raising her voice to be sure Arthur would hear her from his permanent perch in the study next door.
“Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of disturbing either of you,” I said just as loudly. “You have been so kind to offer me a place to rest, and I would hate to inconvenience you. Besides, I am meeting friends this afternoon, so I have an escort.”
This wasn’t entirely true, but if things went as expected, I would be running into a few familiar faces at some point in the day.
“Will your group of friends include Lieutenant Graham Collins?” Mrs. Hutchins asked, pursing her lips in a tight smile. “Perhaps an old woman should not involve herself in affairs of the young, but you cannot deny me what little fun I have left. The man seemed sweet on you, Rose. He could scarcely pull his eyes away through all of lunch.”
My face flushed. None of this was news to me, as I’d noticed the Lieutenant gave me special attention, but discussing the matter with Mrs. Hutchins felt too uncomfortable for words.
“I’m not sure if he will be there,” I said, taking a step down the hallway, half-disappearing behind the door. “But I’m afraid I really must be going. Is there anything I can get you while I’m out?”
Mrs. Hutchins waved me away and went back to fanning herself. “No, no. Have a good time and don’t spare a thought for this old woman. I’ll be just fine here all day.”
I didn’t say so, but I had no intention of sparing Mrs. Hutchins a single thought for the rest of the day.
I hurried down the hallway and was almost to the front door when a hand shot out and seized the knob. I let out a yelp of surprise and stumbled back.
“Forgive me, Miss,” Mr. Barlow said, his mouth drawn downwards in a frown. “I hope I did not frighten you.”
Heart still racing, I shook my head and smiled. “No, I am too jumpy for my own good.”
He bowed low and pulled the front door open for me. The entire exchange was strange. He was Mr. Hutchins’ personal secretary, not a butler. Opening doors should not have been part of his job description. Perhaps, despite his relentless grim demeanor, he was just attempting to be friendly. In a house full of the Hutchins family, I was anxious for any reprieve I could find, and if that included becoming friends with the sunken-eyed man, then so be it.
“Thank you, Mr. Barlow.” I returned his bow with a curtsy and hurried through the door and into the waiting car. I did not turn around to see, but I could feel him watching me until I finally heard the thud of the door close just as the car pulled away from the bungalow.
People swarmed around me, swirling like an angry sea, rising and falling in different directions with no warning. The chatter fell over me like rocks, deflecting off without sinking in. Despite the years I’d spend in India with the Beckinghams, I’d never familiarized myself with Hindi. There hadn’t been a need. The British officials and their families spoke English, and I didn’t converse with anyone else. Mr. Beckingham had known a little Hindi—enough to do business efficiently—but even he would have been lost in the bazaar. It was why we always travelled with our native driver or other servants. They acted as translators when necessary.
I needed a translator now. Or a guide. Someone to grab my hand and tell me to move, to go.
The locals swirled around me, but even without knowing their language, I could sense their annoyance. I was an obstacle in the flow of daily life, rooted to the spot where, eight months before, my life had changed forever.
I searched the road for some kind of scar or divot in the ground, similar to the one marring my left cheek, but there was nothing. No sign of the trauma, the horrors the site had endured.
When I looked across the road, I could see the traffic of that day. The crowds pressing in on the road like balloons filled with too much air, ready to burst and spill in front of the cars. I could see the stalls lining the roads, selling vibrantly-colored fabrics and foodstuffs. When I closed my eyes and inhaled, I could even smell the jasmine scent of Rose sitting next to me.
A shiver moved down my spine at the memory. A reminder of how that day ended. Of how that ordinary day, just like the one I was standing in the middle of, had been shaken. I glanced around at the crowd. Was anyone next to me there then, as well? Had our lives overlapped more than once?
I took a deep breath and looked across the marketplace. The shape of him came to me immediately. He was hunched forward, drab rags hanging from his small frame. A beggar, I’d thought at the time, offering him no more than a moment’s notice. My eyes touched him for a second and then moved on without a second thought. Until, he lifted his face and his arm.
My eyes had been caught by the unusual item in his hand. The unnatural shape of it. I’d been so distracted that his face no longer mattered. My mind had wiped it from my memory completely in order to make more space for the thought that whoever he was, he had an explosive device in his hand. A bomb that was aimed at our car.
I blinked away tears and then wiped at them furiously. People were already staring at me as they passed, annoyed with my immobile stance, so crying would only draw more unwanted attention.
What was there to cry about, anyway? Tears wouldn’t change the past. They wouldn’t make me remember details that had been lost to time and trauma. I didn’t have time for tears. And like I�
��d told Lieutenant Collins, I didn’t hope to find a happy ending. I wanted to find answers.
Lieutenant Collins had been right about the polo matches. Everyone attended. British soldiers, officials and their wives stood outside waiting to get in, standing on tip toes to gauge how much longer the wait would be. Excitement was palpable in the air, and I wondered Rose had never dragged me to a match with her. She resented the company of the other British families in India, calling them “pampered,” as though she herself wasn’t waited upon by servants and followed by a companion who was employed to keep her entertained—me. However, she loved knowing what everyone was doing. If she didn’t know which activities they participated in, what would she make fun of them for later while we lay awake in her room? Rose had turned her nose up at the balls and dances and dinners, but I couldn’t remember her ever mentioning the polo matches. So, I was surprised by the thrill moving through the crowd as we pressed through the gates.
“Miss Beckingham?”
I turned to see Miss Dayes standing before me in a bright green dress that fell to the middle of her shins, the fluttery sleeves tickling her elbows, and a matching hat that highlighted her red hair, which looked even brighter in full daylight.
“Miss Dayes,” I said, leaning forward to embrace her in a quick hug. “So good to see you again.”
“You must call me Jane and I shall call you Rose,” she said. I had no opportunity to respond before she spoke again. “Are you alone?” she asked, brow furrowed as she looked around for any possible companions.
I nodded. “I am today.”
“Then please, come with us,” she said, waving for me to follow her and two other women who looked impatient to keep moving further up the path.
I opened my mouth to object, but sensing my intention, Jane Dayes crossed her arms. “Knowing you are here without friends, and I did nothing to stop it will ruin my entire day. Please, Rose. Come with us.”
I sighed and smiled. “Well, I’d hate to ruin your entire day.”
Sturdy wooden seating circled a low-cut grass field, and the stands were mostly full by the time I squeezed between rows to get to where Jane and her friends were sitting. Horses were pawing at the grass, their riders patting their sides and standing near their heads as though whispering in the horse’s ears. Perhaps that was what they were doing. I didn’t know enough about the game to be certain.
Suddenly, Jane gasped, and I looked to the field, wondering if the game had started. The horses and their riders were standing around just as they had been before. When I looked at her, she was whispering something to the brunette friend on her right. When she finished, she turned to me.
“That,” she said, pointing at a pale, dark-haired woman in a black dress near the front of the stands, “is Elizabeth Hughes.”
The girl had straight black hair that hung around her neck in a sleek kind of way. Between her hair and her black dress, she looked like she was in mourning. That was when a remembrance flickered in my mind.
“Is she related to—?”
Jane nodded. “Her father was Thomas Hughes, the man who hanged himself no more than a week ago.”
I grimaced. Everyone around us was smiling and laughing and cheering. I couldn’t imagine being surrounded by so many happy people so soon after such a public heartbreak. “A sporting event seems like a curious choice for her first foray back into society.”
“I’d say so,” Jane said, looking disgusted. “I’d never leave my house again if my father did such a thing. I’d leave the entire country to avoid ever speaking of it again. No one enjoys being reminded of such dreadful news. It is better to move where no one knows you and you can start fresh.”
Suddenly remembering the dreadful news of my past, Jane looked at me nervously, perhaps waiting to see if I would remind her. Though I would have loved to be the person to remind someone like Jane Dayes to be more thoughtful of what she said and to whom, that was not the moment.
“Have you ever spoken to the woman before?” I asked. “Elizabeth Hughes, I mean.”
She shook her head. “No, but I attended a dinner at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Wood last night, and their daughter Mary spoke to Elizabeth the day after her father’s suicide. The two have been friends since they were children, so Mary had gone to offer her condolences. And Elizabeth told Mary that she did not believe her father had committed suicide.”
“What?” I asked, my gaze snapping back to study Jane as she spoke.
“I know,” Jane said, eyes wide and disbelieving. “The man hanged himself in a public place. Who could dispute that? But she was overcome with grief at the time. I’m sure the shock has worn away, and she is being much more sensible now.”
Elizabeth looked lost in the crowd. Her eyes were wide, but she kept her face low, turned towards the ground as though she wanted to hide. Shock was etched into every line of her young face. She looked broken, much as I had in the days after the attack on the Beckinghams. Why would she place herself in such a public space while she was clearly so distraught?
Thomas Hughes had been a General. Was that a position that would earn the attention of the same assassins I had encountered in Morocco and possibly in Simla eight months prior? It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Perhaps, I needed to manufacture a run-in with Elizabeth Hughes.
A waving hand at the corner of my vision caught my attention, and I looked to my left to see a long arm in a dark soldier’s uniform waving. It only took one guess to know who the arm belonged to.
“Lieutenant Collins,” Jane Dayes shouted above the crowd, waving back. “Come up here.”
Jane pushed on my shoulder, making space between us for the Lieutenant, who was currently shuffling towards us, squeezing between people who kept shooting him annoyed looks. Finally, he reached us and settled into the small space between us. My entire left side was pressed against his right, and he had to angle his chin in a funny way to look over at me.
“Miss Beckingham, always a pleasure,” he said, smiling despite how squished he appeared. “I see you took my advice and decided to come to a polo match.”
“I did,” I said, offering him a wide, genuine smile in return. I’d followed his advice in the hope I would run into him at the sporting event, so I was pleased that my hunch had proven true. “I’m almost overwhelmed. Everyone seems to be having a grand time and the game hasn’t even started yet.”
“You can’t live in India for any period of time without going to a polo match,” the Lieutenant said. “So, it’s good you came.”
“And why is that? Does everyone know this rule about India?”
“India is the birthplace of modern polo,” he said, waving his arms around in a grand gesture.
I smiled and returned my attention to the field.
The match started, an official blowing a whistle to begin the game. Lieutenant Collins pointed out things to me as the horses dashed around the field, the riders swinging mallets after a ball I could barely see in the glare from the sun, but his explanation did little to ease my confusion. I relegated myself to not understanding the rules and simply cheering when everyone around me did. It seemed to fool everyone because, after awhile, the Lieutenant stopped trying to explain the rules to me.
During a pause in the middle of the game, Jane moved down several rows to hug another friend of hers, leaving me and the Lieutenant mostly alone. I didn’t think there would be a better time to bring up the real reason I’d come to the polo match at all, so I decided to dive right in.
“Have you uncovered any news about the bomber?” I asked quietly, pulling the Lieutenant down into the seat next to me, so we were both sitting.
He looked dazed by the sudden turn of the conversation, but then his face fell. “I found information, but if I’m honest, I hoped you would have forgotten about the idea entirely. I do not want to be the person to bring you news you don’t want to hear. I want to be the person to make you smile.”
My ears felt hot at his admission. Was the Lieutenan
t declaring his intentions?
“I promise to smile regardless of what you say,” I said, curling my arm around his and patting the back of his hand.
He looked down at where our hands touched and then followed the curl of our arms up to my face. “The man believed to be responsible for the bombing was a local extremist.”
“Was?” I asked, immediately picking up on his use of the past tense.
He nodded. “The man was captured and hanged shortly after the bombing. He has been dead for seven months.”
I sagged in my seat, but quickly remembering my promise, I sat up and smiled. “Thank you for looking into the situation for me.”
“You do not have to smile, Rose,” he said. “I relieve you of your promise. I’m sure you are disappointed.”
“You said the man was believed to be responsible. Are they not certain he committed the murders?” I asked. Surely, if the man had been killed, the note I’d found on the assassin in Tangier would have made mention of it. But then again, maybe not. I hadn’t the faintest idea how international assassin rings operated. Would that be information that would be shared?
“They wouldn’t have executed him if there had been any doubts,” Lieutenant Collins said.
I remembered when my view of law enforcement had been so certain. When I believed the law to be infallible and criminals to be evil to the core. I couldn’t decide whether I pitied or envied Lieutenant Collins for maintaining such an opinion.
“Where was he held prior to his execution?” I asked. “Would I be able to visit the location?”
The Lieutenant’s eyes went wide. “You would not want to visit the prison. It is a nasty place, Rose. No place for a respectable young lady.”
“I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing, Lieutenant, but I can handle more than most people would imagine.”
“The men inside those walls are criminals,” he said, whispering the word like it was a curse. “They are not the gentlemen you are accustomed to.”