A Fatal Journey

by Blythe Baker

  “Screaming may draw the attacker back,” I said, looping my arm through Mrs. Hutchins’ and assisting her towards the house. “He may believe he delivered a mortal wound and return when he hears you screaming and learns otherwise.

  She shook her head. “No, he knew I survived.”

  “How can you be sure?” I asked.

  “After he first tried to attack me, I fended him off and then turned around. The moment he saw my face, he ran in the opposite direction.”

  My brows knit together, attempting to sort out this puzzle. “You mean, the man ran away from you?”

  She called for her son again, ignoring my request for her to cease screaming, and then panted out an affirmation. “I could not see his face as it was hidden in shadow from the large hood he was wearing, but I heard the sound of surprise when he saw my face. He must not have expected an old woman to be so quick. I can hardly believe I was able to run and carry on the way I did.”

  “A hood?”

  Mrs. Hutchins circled her hands around her face several times. “A complex wrap of some kind. It draped across his shoulders and hung down his body in rags. It could scarcely be considered clothes.”

  I hummed a response, too deep in thought to respond properly.

  Mrs. Hutchins did look quite young. Despite her frequent complaining about her age and the heat and the toll things as simple as going up and down the stairs could have on her body, she was quite thin and fit. We had similar builds, in fact. And draped in a lacy blue dress, it was easy to see how someone could have mistaken her for someone younger…someone like me.

  The thought sent a chill down my spine, and I looked over my shoulder, ensuring no one was sneaking up the walk behind us. Mrs. Hutchins was still screaming, but suddenly I didn’t want to stop her. I wanted someone else to come along and find us. A larger group would better ensure our safety.

  The man who had attacked her had been wearing rags that concealed his identity. And as soon as he’d seen her face, he’d run away. How many conclusions could I possibly draw? I did not want to force the facts to fit my narrative, but very little force was necessary. It seemed most plausible that the man who had attacked Mrs. Hutchins was the same man whose hut I had been in only hours before. And perhaps, was the same man who had thrown the bomb in the city square that ended the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Beckingham, their daughter, and their driver.

  Had the attack occurred the night before, I would have been dubious of leaping to such a conclusion, but since I had been in the assassin’s secret hut that afternoon and left with what was clearly a cherished weapon, it was not surprising that he had come to hunt me down. Perhaps, he felt my investigation was becoming uncomfortable for him. Maybe he believed I was close to solving the mystery of his identity. Or maybe he believed I was beginning to interfere with his next target.

  Possibilities swirled in my head as Mrs. Hutchins and I approached the bungalow and Arthur finally came out of the house, rubbing his hand down his face like he’d just woken up.

  “There you are,” Mrs. Hutchins cried, stumbling up the stairs despite my arm to lend her additional balance. She threw herself at her son who responded by holding his arms straight out, refusing to engage in the embrace.

  “Did I hear someone scream?” he asked.

  “Several times.” Annoyance was obvious in my voice. Mr. Barlow’s lecture to him in the hallway about leaving the house had clearly not made any kind of impression. His own mother had nearly been murdered behind the bungalow, and he’d waited nearly five minutes to stand up and respond to the screaming.

  “I was attacked,” Mrs. Hutchins began, grabbing her son’s arms and looking out towards the front garden as if she expected her attacker to be pursuing her. “Rose tells me I am wounded, though I am too much in shock to feel any pain.”

  Arthur leaned around his mother, inspecting her for injuries while she relayed the story to him.

  “We ought to call for a doctor,” he said coldly. “Rose, would you be so kind as to fetch a servant who could—”

  He stopped mid-sentence and brushed me aside with a wave of his mind. “Never mind. I’ll ask Mr. Barlow to help.”

  I followed his gaze and saw Mr. Barlow walking along the same path Mrs. Hutchins had been on, though from the opposite direction. His head was down, staring at his feet as he kicked up dirt along the path.

  “Hurry along, Mr. Barlow,” Arthur called to his secretary. “We’ve had a bit of excitement while you were away.”

  “A bit of excitement?” Mrs. Hutchins repeated, clearly disgusted.

  Mr. Barlow looked up, noticed us on the porch, and increased his walking pace. While we waited for him to join us, Mrs. Hutchins and her son argued back and forth about the seriousness of the matter and how he had no respect for her life or safety.

  “What has happened? I was only on a short walk,” he said, as though trying to explain to his employer why he hadn’t been immediately available to assist with the matter.

  Mrs. Hutchins seemed glad to retell her story for the third time. Arthur jumped in several times to speed her along. She’d begun to embellish certain story elements. Mr. Barlow heard a version where the attacker looped his arm around Mrs. Hutchins’ neck and tried to choke her before she was able to weasel away and escape.

  “Thank heavens you are safe,” he said. It was a strange dichotomy to hear him speak genuine words with such a flat tone. “I will send for a doctor immediately.”

  Mrs. Hutchins threw a hand to her forehead like a Victorian lady. “I think I need to lie down.”

  “If you lie down, you will ruin the furniture,” her son said, showing little familial concern for his mother’s knife wound. “The bungalow is only leased to us, I’ll remind you. Wherever you sit, keep your back from touching the fabrics.”

  “Your mother has nearly been slain, and you are concerned about the cost of replacing furniture. Arthur Hutchins, you should be ashamed of yourself. That your secretary and a woman I met only days ago would show more compassion towards me in my time of need is shocking.”

  Arthur was unaffected by his mother’s assessment of the situation, and by the time we got inside and the servants were gathering to see what the commotion was about, Mrs. Hutchins was too busy relaying her tale yet again to worry at all about her son.

  Mr. Barlow spoke in a low tone to Jalini, who offered me a pointed look when she heard Mrs. Hutchins describe the attacker’s appearance and attire. I knew she had come to the same conclusion as I had, but there was no time for us to discuss the matter. As there was no telephone in the house, Jalini left immediately, tasked with fetching a doctor back to the bungalow for Mrs. Hutchins.

  Jalini had only been gone a few minutes when there was a loud pounding on the front door. The sitting room, which moments before had been bustling with servants bringing the lady of the house warm towels and water and Mrs. Hutchins shouting at Arthur to come back downstairs and care for his mother, went silent.

  “Could that be the doctor already?” I asked.

  Three more knocks rattled the solid wooden door on its hinges, yet no one moved to answer the door. No one had said so explicitly, but I could sense the collective nervousness of everyone in the home. There were too many unanswered questions for anyone to relax. Why had Mrs. Hutchins been attacked and by whom? Would the attacker return to finish the job or had it been random? Was anyone else in the home also in danger?

  Not wanting to listen to another round of knocking on the front door, I passed the frozen servants in the sitting room and stepped into the entrance hall alone. On the slight chance the attacker had come back, I knew he would be there for me, and I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt in my stead. So, gathering my courage, I took a deep breath and pulled the door open.

  Standing in front of the door, fist raised in the air, prepared to knock again, was none other than Lieutenant Collins. When he saw I was the one who had answered the door, his face paled.

  13

  I took two stumbling
steps away from the door, unsure if the Lieutenant was going to lunge towards me or not.

  Why had he come here so late in the evening and without any notice? In my mind, there was only one possibility: Lieutenant Collins was the assassin.

  It all made sense now. He had taken an immediate liking to me when he’d come to the Hutchins’ bungalow for lunch the first full day I was in Simla. It had always seemed strange to me that a young, single man like Lieutenant Collins would spend his time with the likes of the Hutchins’, but if he had been there in order to get closer to me, then it made perfect sense. Also, he had been much too willing to assist me with the investigation. In my naiveté, I’d assumed he was an exceptionally kind man, but when would I learn men were never kinder than they needed to be?

  But our conversation that very afternoon stood out clearest in my mind. I had gone to him because I trusted him, because I believed he would answer my questions without prying too far. However, the Lieutenant had pried into my business and become quite angry in the process. At the time, I’d thought perhaps it was because of his concern for me and my safety, but now I understood the truth. Lieutenant Collins recognized the knife because it belonged to him. The double-Cs marking the bottom of the handle probably represented his surname—Collins. Lieutenant Collins saw the knife, knew I had been in his hut in the woods, and knew it would only be a matter of time before he could no longer lead me astray with lies that pointed to dead ends and a smile. So, he had come to the Hutchins’ bungalow to put an end to me.

  However, instead of slashing my neck, he had attacked Mrs. Hutchins. For reasons that still weren’t clear, he had decided to spare her, as she was not his intended target, and now he was back at the house in search of me.

  As this new reality washed over me, Lieutenant Collins stepped forward and placed his hands on my shoulders. I was frozen in shock and fear.

  “There is blood on the steps, Rose,” he said, eyes wide. “Whose is it? Are you injured?”

  “Oh, Lieutenant,” Mrs. Hutchins called from the other room. “Thank heavens you are here. We need a strong man around right now.”

  This seemed to be a pointed insult at Arthur, but I could hardly pay attention to what anyone was saying. The killer was in the house. He was standing right in front of me. Touching me. What was I meant to do about it?

  “Who is injured?” he asked, looking around the room wildly for an answer, as though he didn’t already know.

  “Mrs. Hutchins received a slash to her back,” Mr. Barlow said, stepping forward. “We’ve already sent for a doctor.”

  Lieutenant Collins nodded and looked back at me, breathing heavily. His shoulders pitched forward in relief, and he lowered his head to speak to me. Suddenly, with him standing over me, I could picture his face beneath a large hood. I could see him running through the streets of Simla with a bomb hidden beneath his coat. The face that had eluded me for so many months seemed to be growing clearer in my mind. Had there been a blonde mustache on the assassin’s face? Perhaps. I thought I could remember it now.

  “I came to see you, Rose. I wanted to apologize.”

  “Apologize for what, Lieutenant?” I asked, voice shaking as I stepped away from him, out of his reach. Apologize for killing my family? For murdering innocent people?

  Confusion crossed his face when I moved away from him, but he made no move to follow. Lieutenant Collins dropped his arms to his side and stood tall, his shoulders pushed back. “For the way I spoke to you this afternoon. I understand it was uncouth. I do not know whether it is in my defense to note that I realized my behavior was rude in the moment or not. It has not taken me this many hours to understand why I was wrong. But it has taken me this long to come to the realization that you are a grown woman who will make her own decision regardless of my concerns. I should not have attempted to control you.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” I wanted to speak normally to him. I did not want him to realize anything was amiss because I did not yet know what I was going to do with the information that he was likely the assassin I’d been searching for. I did not have any hard proof, so there was little I could do. However, my voice sounded strained even to my own ears. Being near him felt impossible. I couldn’t resist wrapping my arms around myself and pulling away from him.

  The Lieutenant tucked his lower lip into his mouth, his mustache twitching to one side. “I know I have upset you, Rose. I do not seek your immediate forgiveness now, but I do hope you will be able to forgive me eventually so we can carry on as we once did. I do not want my own loud mouth to hinder our friendship.”

  I curled my fingers into a fist, fighting the urge to slap him for his lies, for his deception. I had to find proof. I had to find something that could conclusively link Lieutenant Collins to the bombing or the murder of General Hughes. Anything that could keep him off the streets and away from his hut of weapons and disguises in the forest.

  “Of course, nothing will hinder our friendship,” I said softly. Each word physically hurt to speak. “I can forgive your frank discussion of your opinions if you can forgive my eccentricities.”

  In the span of a few seconds, Lieutenant Collins was directly in front of me again, cupping my hands in his. It was too late to pull away, so I focused my eyes on the wall over his shoulder and waited for it to be over. “It is not eccentric to want to make peace with the passing of your family. Your life has been so irrevocably altered in this last year, and it was wrong of me to think it was my place to tell you how that peace should be found. Continue searching with the knowledge that I will be here to support you.”

  I was saved the task of responding when the oft-quiet Mr. Barlow moved to the center of the sitting room and waved his arms, directing people away from Mrs. Hutchins. “The room should be cleared for the doctor’s arrival. He will need space to work.”

  Lieutenant Collins let go of my hands and moved to stand behind Mrs. Hutchins. “Are you in pain, Mrs. Hutchins? Is there anything that can be done for you until the doctor arrives?”

  The woman sighed and looked up at the Lieutenant with a smile. For a second, I imagined a look of horror would cross her face, flashes of memory from her ordeal coming back to her. I imagined her recognizing the Lieutenant and screaming, begging for him to be removed from the home and locked away. None of that happened, of course. She reached back and patted her hand over his where it lay on the back of the sofa. “I do not know how you found yourself here so quickly after my trauma, Lieutenant, but I am glad for it. The comfort I feel at your presence is much greater.”

  If only she knew the truth, I thought.

  Mr. Barlow was still standing in the middle of the room, frowning now. He glanced towards me, his eyes black and unseeing before he turned back to Mrs. Hutchins. “Madam, perhaps everyone except those currently residing in the house should leave. I mean no disrespect, Lieutenant, but Mrs. Hutchins was violently attacked and the culprit has not been apprehended. It might be wise to keep the outside world away from the home until we learn more about what happened.”

  Mrs. Hutchins gasped, tightening her grip on Lieutenant Collins’ hand. “Mr. Barlow, are you suggesting Lieutenant Collins may have been the monster who slashed me?”

  Mr. Barlow sighed, closing his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts. “I’m not accusing him. Only noting that it may be wise to keep guests away from—”

  “I refuse to live in fear of my own friends,” Mrs. Hutchins said, sticking out her jaw in defiance. “That is what my attacker wanted. His goal was to scare me into exile, and I refuse to allow it.”

  I stepped forward now, eyes locked on the Lieutenant. “Actually, Mrs. Hutchins, I believe your attacker’s goal was to end your life.”

  He had no reaction to my words, but Mrs. Hutchins blanched at the idea before shaking her head. “Regardless, the Lieutenant is more than welcome to stay.”

  “I am glad my presence can bring you some level of comfort,” Lieutenant Collins said. Then, he turned to face me and Mr. Barlow. “H
owever, if leaving would make things easier, then I am happy to go home and return tomorrow to check on you.”

  “Absolutely not,” Mrs. Hutchins cried. “In fact, I was considering asking you to stay in our guest room, Lieutenant. It can’t hurt to have a military man staying in the house to protect us. After all, I am an old, and now injured, woman, Rose is but a delicate young lady, and Arthur is nowhere to be found. I fear we are ripe for the picking should the attacker return.”

  Lieutenant Collins studied me for a second, gauging my reaction to Mrs. Hutchins’ suggestion. I was too numb to have much of a response, and Lieutenant Collins shrugged. “I will do whatever would be most helpful to everyone in the home. If staying the night would increase your comfort, then I’m happy to do it.”

  Mr. Barlow’s brow lowered, and he opened his mouth to argue, but then the door burst open. The doctor had arrived.

  Mrs. Hutchins’ wound was described as superficial by the doctor—a diagnosis Mrs. Hutchins found insulting.

  “A superficial wound would not cause this amount of blood loss,” she insisted, pointing to the stain on the sofa, which Arthur set several servants to cleaning at once. “My hand tingles and I cannot lift my arm over my head. My mobility may be altered forever. Does that sound superficial?”

  Lieutenant Collins took up a post in a chair near the window, watching over the front garden diligently. Had I not believed him to be the very culprit he was searching for, I may have fallen for his act as our protector. To avoid being too near him, I busied myself getting whatever Mrs. Hutchins required, which ranged from more blankets to keep her feet warm to bundles of ice to cool her forehead. She couldn’t seem to decide whether being too warm or too cold was more sympathetic, so she settled on being both.

  Everyone knew she was being overly dramatic, but no one could say so without being insensitive. Besides, I knew the attacker had mistaken her for me, so I felt it was my duty to make her as comfortable as possible in repayment. For all of her faults, Mrs. Hutchins had invited me to travel with her to Simla and allowed me to stay in her home at no cost. It was an incredibly kind offer that had brought trouble to her doorstep. Or, in the case of Lieutenant Collins, to her sitting room.