by Blythe Baker
“I didn’t,” he said. “Which is why I was so late in arriving. I wandered the trails for a few minutes until I began moving in this direction. Then, I heard the sound of the blade cutting into the stone, and I knew something terrible was going on. I came as fast as I could, but obviously not fast enough.”
“He may have killed you, Lieutenant. I’m glad you arrived as late as you did.”
Lieutenant Collins grabbed my face. “He could have killed you, Rose. Why did you come here alone?”
I shook my head. I didn’t have an answer that would satisfy him, so it seemed best to not give one.
Lieutenant Collins wrapped an arm around my waist and escorted me back to the Hutchins’ bungalow where everyone in the house was awakened and the authorities were sent for. Mrs. Hutchins, who the night before had been hardly able to make it up the stairs, came dashing into the sitting room as soon as she was informed of the news by Jalini.
“Where is Rose? Where is Mr. Barlow?”
“Barlow is dead,” Lieutenant Collins said with a surprising amount of vehemence.
She gasped and claimed the seat next to me on the sofa. “Are you hurt? What could have come over Mr. Barlow?”
I told her the same story I would spend the rest of the night explaining to the authorities. Mr. Barlow was not a secretary. He was an international assassin stationed in India to carry out the will of an evil and mysterious leader.
She shook her head. “I knew there was something untrustworthy about him. Never trust a man with such pale skin, that is what I always say. Did you ever notice that, Rose? The man looked like he belonged in a coffin. And I suppose, now, he will be in one.”
“If there is anything left of him to bury,” Lieutenant Collins said.
Mrs. Hutchins wrinkled her nose at the image.
When the authorities arrived, they ushered everyone out of the room except for me, the Hutchinses, and Lieutenant Collins. I spent the next hours until sunrise replaying the events that led to Mr. Barlow’s death and repeating everything he had told me about his organization over and over again until I had every word memorized. No one wanted to believe it could be true. Least of all Arthur Hutchins.
“I knew Mr. Barlow for a year,” he said, shaking his head. It was the first time I could remember ever seeing him truly distraught. Even when his mother had been slashed with a knife, he’d barely registered any emotion other than annoyance at the inconvenience of it all.
“You thought you knew him,” I said. “He had everyone fooled.”
“Except Rose,” Lieutenant Collins said, winking at me.
I’d decided not to tell the Lieutenant that he had been my main suspect until Mr. Barlow had appeared between the trees. It would distress him to think I’d thought so little of him. Anyway, the memory that I had been so badly fooled distressed me, as well. Though I had failed to notice Mr. Barlow following me around the city, at least I had not placed my absolute trust in him. If Lieutenant Collins had been the killer, I would have had to give up any hope of future investigative work. His betrayal would have ruined my faith in myself forever.
“And you say you believe he is the man who threw the explosive in the Simla marketplace?” a dark-haired Indian officer asked, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.
“I do not believe. I know it for a fact,” I said.
“He may have attacked you,” one of the officers said—a young blonde man with a pointy nose he liked to keep high in the air. He tucked a pencil and small pad of paper away in his uniform pocket, before continuing, “But we have no proof he killed your parents.”
“He admitted it to me. Is that not proof enough? An eyewitness account?”
The man shrugged. “You were also an eyewitness to the bombing, yet you could not give a description of the man who threw the bomb. As certain as you may be that he is the culprit, we have to operate based on fact. And the facts are that we have no proof, and a man has already been executed for that crime. There is no reason to believe the investigation already carried out came to the wrong conclusion.”
“I am that reason,” I argued. “Mr. Barlow confessed his crimes to me in full. Ask Mr. Hutchins. I’m sure he will tell you he, his mother, and Mr. Barlow were in Simla eight months ago. I’m sure the timeline will match up.”
Mr. Hutchins shifted in his seat. “I would have to check my calendars. I can’t be positive we were here.”
“Of course, we were here,” Mrs. Hutchins barked, narrowing her eyes at her son. “How could anyone forget hearing the news of the explosion? It was dreadful. Absolutely dreadful.”
The officers looked at one another, and I thought I saw one of them roll their eyes.
“And what of the murder of General Hughes?” I asked with thinly veiled anger. “Will you say you have no proof of that, either?”
The officer’s face turned a shameful shade of red, and I knew what his answer would be. Poor Elizabeth Hughes would always be viewed as a woman insane with grief for believing the truth about her father’s death, and there was nothing I could do to change that.
“You will carry on letting his family believe he killed himself, then?” I challenged. “You will let them suffer when it is just as possible his life was stolen from him?”
“I think we would all be better served focusing on the matter at hand,” the blonde officer said.
I stood up, every muscle in my body aching with exhaustion, and crossed my arms. “The people of this area would be better served if the authorities cared more about protecting them than covering their own botched investigations.”
“Rose,” Mr. Hutchins warned, his tone scandalized. “These men are here to protect us and—”
“Yet, Mrs. Hutchins was attacked on a walk last evening, and I was attacked several hours later. Yet, an innocent man was hanged in a public building and my mother and father were murdered in the marketplace. If they are here to protect us, then I beg they begin to do so. Until then, I’d like to ask them to show themselves out.” My chest heaved with the force of my words, and though I could see Mr. Hutchins trying to catch the eyes of the officers to apologize, no one made a move to amend my words.
“I can show you gentlemen out,” Lieutenant Collins said, before quickly adding, “If you have no more questions, that is.”
The Indian officer shook his head immediately, but the blonde hesitated, leveling a hard gaze at me. Finally, he too relented. “No more questions.”
They were shown from the room, and I relaxed back into the sofa.
“That was inexcusable,” Mr. Hutchins said. “Absolutely disgraceful. I’ll have to send a letter of apology right away.”
“Please, get to it,” I said, no longer trying to be polite.
Mrs. Hutchins chuckled next to me, and feeling himself outnumbered, Mr. Hutchins stole away to hide in his office. I could imagine him writing a lengthy letter of apology at his desk, and the thought brought me only the smallest amount of joy. Though, it was overwhelmed by waves of helplessness.
“What will you do now?” Lieutenant Collins asked.
I hadn’t realized he’d reentered the room, and I looked up at him, offering a measly smile. The truth was, I had no idea what I would do next. I’d hoped a confession from Mr. Barlow would be enough to secure the trust of the local authorities, but it was clear that was not the case. Once again, I was on my own, and the danger seemed to be mounting on all sides.
I sighed and pushed myself to standing. “For now, I think I will go to sleep.”
“That is a good idea,” Mrs. Hutchins said. “We all need to rest.”
Lieutenant Collins stood and bowed as I left the room. Then, he called after me. “I would be glad to remain here throughout the night if you still wish it?”
I turned around and nodded. “That would be lovely, Lieutenant. Everyone would feel safer with your presence, I’m sure.”
He crossed the room and grabbed my hand. His thin mustache twitched as he smiled. “I’m glad to hear that, though I think you kno
w the only person here I care about is you.”
It was the closest he had come to admitting his feelings for me, and I was completely unprepared to respond. Thankfully, he seemed to understand I was in no position to confess my feelings in either direction, so he bowed again, brought the back of my hand to his lips, and disappeared down the hallway in the direction of the guest room. I watched him go until I worried I would collapse on the spot. Then, I mounted the stairs, went into my room, and climbed immediately into bed.
18
After receiving an adequate amount of sleep, I finally had the energy to worry that my outburst the night before towards both the officers and Mr. Hutchins would leave me homeless. However, when I went downstairs for a very late breakfast the next morning, aside from some coldness from where Mr. Hutchins sat at the far end of the table, which I hardly minded at all, everything seemed perfectly normal. Mrs. Hutchins insisted the servants serve me and her double portions of everything so we could “regain our strength,” and she declared I would always be welcome in their home.
“I know I was only attacked because of my resemblance to you, Rose, but isn’t that even more reason for you to stay?” she asked. “It is not your fault the crazed man wanted you dead, and we are already alike enough to be relatives, so it only makes sense to me that we would adopt you as one of our own.”
Mr. Hutchins grumbled into his coffee, but no one paid him any mind. I thanked Mrs. Hutchins for her kind words and promised I thought of her as family already. And in some ways—particularly the aggravating ones—I did feel a kind of familial kinship with the Hutchinses.
“Do you think you’ll stay long in India?” Lieutenant Collins asked, trying to sound curious in a disinterested manner, though it was obvious he cared a great deal what my answer would be. “You came here for closure, and now you have it, don’t you?”
Did I? If so, closure did not feel the way I’d expected it to. On one hand, I’d made all the connections I’d hoped to—between the man who had died in Tangier and Mr. Barlow, between the assassins and the Beckingham bombing, and even between the bombing and General Hughes’ death—yet, I did not feel satisfied. The authorities did not respect my findings, and there was no telling how many more assassins lurked nearby. Plus, I now needed to uncover the identity of “The American.” If anything, I had more questions than I started with.
“I am not sure,” I said. “Time will tell, I suppose.”
This answer did not seem to please the Lieutenant, but it did not devastate him, either.
At the end of our breakfast, I walked Lieutenant Collins to the door. “Thank you for staying the night and spending so much of your morning here. I’m sure you had better things planned for your day.”
He grabbed my hand. “Better than stopping a murderous madman? I’m flattered you think my life could be so exciting.”
I smiled to myself. Perhaps, the Lieutenant wouldn’t have been so distraught if I’d admitted I believed him to be the killer for a few hours. That would certainly be some excitement.
“I do not mean to pressure you,” he continued, his smile turning down at the corners, his brow fraught. “Especially after all you have been through these last few days, but I do hope you know how much I hope you will stay here in India.”
“It is nice to know I have so many friends here,” I said simply and noncommittally.
His lips pursed together like he was trying to stop himself from saying something else, and after a few seconds, he once again smiled and nodded. “You most certainly have good friends here who would all be sad to see you go. Myself included.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. Then, I moved around him and opened the door. “But you must get on with your day. I will feel horribly if you waste another minute inside this house.”
He moved towards the door and paused on the porch, turning around. “You are not planning to leave suddenly, are you? You’ll give me warning to say goodbye?”
“I do not know that I’m leaving at all.” I smiled.
Lieutenant Collins looked unconvinced, but he tipped his hat and then set out on foot down the long walk stretching from the bungalow and disappearing into the trees.
The door was halfway shut, and I was about to head back into the dining room, when I heard Arthur Hutchins and his mother engaging in an argument about hiring a new secretary. A deep exhaustion settled into my bones. It was less physical and more mental. I did not think I could sit at the table with them for another minute, so I quietly slipped through the crack in the door, carefully let the door latch settle into place, and then moved down the steps and towards the left, heading down the walking trail that ran the edge of the property. The same one Mrs. Hutchins had been walking down the day before when she’d been attacked.
I would need to tell Lord and Lady Ashton of what had transpired in India soon enough. It would be a difficult letter to write, and would probably require many back and forth correspondences to do the full story any justice, but they deserved to know the truth about their family’s deaths, even if the police refused to see it as truth. It was a bittersweet kind of justice. I knew Mr. Barlow had been present that day in Simla. I knew he had been the one to throw the explosive device that had killed everyone inside our car, save for me. When I thought back on that day, on the thin man in rags moving towards the car, I could see Mr. Barlow’s face now. It was discolored with paint and hidden in shadow, but I could see the wide, sunken orbs of his eyes, the gray glimmer of his teeth when he grimaced as he lifted his arm to throw the bomb. I could see him perfectly. I didn’t know whether my brain had imposed his face over the memory or whether it had been locked away in my mind the whole time, but it hardly mattered. I knew the truth, and everyone else deserved to, as well.
Bird song echoed through the trees, and a warm southern wind moved down the path and lifted the hem of my pleated skirt. I pulled my jacket tighter around my chest. After everything I’d been through in the preceding days, being out alone in the shade of the trees should have frightened me, but it didn’t. Yet again, I had found myself in a life and death situation, and I had come out on the side of life. I had killed the man who had sought to kill me, and perhaps I was being naïve, but I didn’t believe anyone else would appear between the trees so soon.
Though, they would. In time.
Word of Mr. Barlow’s death would spread throughout his assassin network. The news would reach the mysterious American, and sooner or later, my name would begin to circulate, as well. The leader would learn that I had been present at the deaths of two assassins they had hired, and my name would make it onto one of those lists. Just as Mr. Beckingham’s name had. Just as General Hughes’ had.
I needed to learn the identity of “The American.” It was the only way to stop the assassin ring. I could continue to kill assassins as they came for me one by one, but it would be like cutting off the head of a hydra. Two more would appear in its place before the first could hit the ground. It would be like fighting a mythical beast.
I needed to understand what motivated “The American.” Why did they choose the targets they chose? Why did they hire assassins the world over to take them out? If I could uncover the motivations, I would be closer to uncovering their identity.
As I walked along the path, I came to a fork in the road, a split where one path led around to the back garden of the house and the other led further into the trees. I hesitated for a moment before going right into the trees and further from the Hutchins’ bungalow. A short while after making the decision, the trees opened to reveal a swath of blue sky. I moved towards the opening and found myself standing on a small ledge overlooking a steep drop. Rocks skittered out from beneath my feet and tumbled over the edge, rattling down the side of the cliff.
For the first time in several days, I wondered about Achilles Prideaux. Would he hear of my adventures in India? Would he hear word of the assassin I had killed? More than anything, I wanted to write to him and ask if he’d h
ad any luck in convincing the British authorities to take the international assassin ring seriously. Because if he had also failed to find anyone willing to listen, then I was in trouble. In more ways than one, I was a few steps from death. One wrong turn, one mistake, and I could end up like General Hughes or the Beckinghams or any of the countless men and women who had lost their lives at the hands of these killers.
I toed a rock on the ground and rolled it beneath my foot before kicking it over the edge, watching it soar through the air before crashing onto a ledge below. Then, I turned and headed back towards the bungalow. I had letters to write and decisions to make, none of which would be easy. In my short time in India, I had accomplished a great deal, and, I feared, made myself a powerful enemy. From that moment on, I would need to look over my shoulder and be ever vigilant for my life could be in grave danger.
Continue following the mysterious adventures of Rose Beckingham in
“A Sudden Passing.”
About the Author
Blythe Baker is a thirty-something bottle redhead from the South Central part of the country. When she’s not slinging words and creating new worlds and characters, she’s acting as chauffeur to her children and head groomer to her household of beloved pets.
Blythe enjoys long walks with her dog on sweaty days, grubbing in her flower garden, cooking, and ruthlessly de-cluttering her overcrowded home. She also likes binge-watching mystery shows on TV and burying herself in books about murder.
To learn more about Blythe, visit her website and sign up for her newsletter at www.blythebaker.com