by Blythe Baker
Catherine left with few other words uttered between us, and I couldn’t help but doubt her unswaying support. I knew if I testified against Edward that things could and likely would be different between us, but that couldn’t stop me from telling the truth.
I tried to take up the book I’d been reading before Catherine’s arrival, but my thoughts wouldn’t settle. I felt restless and the house suddenly felt too small. So, throwing a cream-colored sweater over my shoulders and tucking my hair into a navy cloche hat, I took off out the front door with no particular destination in mind.
Since the weekend in the countryside, I hadn’t gone walking nearly as often. Not only had the activity lost some of its allure, but I stayed close to home in hopes that the Chess Master would find me and deliver the reward he’d promised. But now, that was the last thing on my mind. I simply needed to breathe some fresh air and see something aside from the four walls of my home.
The sun was halfway through its descent across the sky when I’d left, but before I knew it, I was in a part of town I didn’t recognize, and the sun was almost hidden beyond the horizon. I’d been walking for hours. I’d walked through the afternoon, through dinner, and into dusk. My feet were tired, so I turned back for home, but still my mind ran with thoughts of seeing Edward in court, sitting on the opposite side of the room from the rest of the Beckinghams. My real parents had been murdered, Rose and her parents—the closest thing I’d had to family for most of my life—had been murdered, and then the family I had found in London might be torn away from me because of another killing. It felt as though I’d been cursed.
The sidewalk I was on narrowed and curved between two buildings. I remembered walking that way before, but it had been lighter then. Now, with the sun setting, the road appeared to be no wider than an alley and it was plunged in darkness.
I pulled my sweater tighter around my shoulders and quickened my pace. The road was empty now, most everyone having retired to their homes for the evening. I was halfway through the alley when I heard a scuffling noise like feet against stone. I wondered whether it wasn’t the echo of my own feet, so I stopped. Still, I heard it.
My heart leapt into my throat as I began walking again, trying to remain calm. I thought that perhaps I was simply paranoid. Being attacked three different times by murderers could have that kind of affect on a person. But then, the steps grew louder. My head swiveled from side to side, my eyes searching the darkness for any kind of movement.
“Who is there?” I called, my voice hesitant and fearful even to my own ears.
No one answered, and a chill ran down my spine. It felt as if someone was walking directly behind me, their breath brushing down my neck, yet I couldn’t find them. I knew I wasn’t alone in the alley, but there was nothing I could do except keep walking and hope the person wouldn’t reveal themselves. So, I lowered my head and pressed on, my feet beating out a quick rhythm against the stone walkway.
I was nearing the end of the alley, the last remnants of daylight brightening the road ahead, when a figure rushed me from the side. By the time I saw them, I could do little more than hold up my hands and back into the brick wall next to me. The figure threw a bag over my head and flung something into my arms. Then, they were gone.
18
I struggled with the sack over my head for a moment, frantically pulling and tugging at the material to free myself, and once I had it off, I stood stiff and straight against the wall. My chest heaved with fear and adrenaline, and my eyes darted up and down the street, expectant, but no one came. No one attacked me further.
I realized that the person must have placed the sack over my face to hide their own identity. They were not there to attack me, but to deliver a message. Finally convinced whoever had placed the bag over my head was gone, I looked down at the plain brown box in my arms. It felt impossibly light, and I wondered whether it wasn’t empty. I was tempted to open it on the street but decided against it. If the package was, as I suspected, from The Chess Master, it would be better to open it in the privacy of my own home. Especially if it had something to do with Jimmy or my search for him.
The box weighed almost nothing, but it felt heavy as I carried it all the way across the city and back to my house. I regretted walking as far as I had because it took the better part of an hour to get home, even though I followed a more direct route than I had earlier.
“I was worried about you, Miss Rose,” Aseem said when I finally returned. “Dinner was ready an hour ago. Should I reheat it for you?”
“I am not hungry tonight. Thank you, Aseem.”
The boy looked at the box in my hands but didn’t say anything. Instead, he nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. He was a loyal servant who asked very few questions, and I was grateful for him.
I went to my bedroom and set the box on my bed, taking a step back to observe it. Was it the information I’d been waiting for? The box was the same type and shape as the last box the Chess Master had left for me, so I had to assume it was. I’d been waiting to hear from him for so long that I hadn’t stopped to think about what kind of information he might offer. What if it wasn’t what I wanted to hear? What if I opened it and discovered Jimmy was dead? Or that he could never be found? What would I do then?
I paced back and forth several times, trying to convince myself to open the box. I wouldn’t know what the information was until I opened it, and until I opened it, I would be able to think of nothing else.
Finally, before fear could stop me, I took a deep breath and slipped a small knife through the wrappings that held the box together. I pushed the lid off slowly and peered inside. What I saw sent my heart thundering against my chest.
The box had felt nearly empty as I’d carried it across the city, and now I understood why. Inside was nothing except for one faded piece of paper with a hastily written message on it. The note was yellowed with age and a narrow strip had been torn from its edge, interrupting the written message. The handwriting scrawled across the paper was familiar.
Without even thinking, I opened the locket around my neck and pulled out the note I’d carried with me since I was a child. The note that had propelled me from India to London. That had led me to assume a new identity and claim an inheritance that was not mine. The note that had convinced me of my brother’s innocence in the murder of our parents, that had given me faith in him and helped me believe he couldn’t have done what the police and public had accused him of.
The tiny scrap was so old it was a wonder it didn’t crumble in my hands as I unfurled it. The scratchy handwriting was more familiar to me than my own. I’d spent countless hours studying the note, wishing I could talk to my brother, wishing I could know the circumstances under which he’d written the plea: “help me.”
I smoothed the two words out and placed the uneven scrap of paper perfectly against the torn edge of the note I’d just received. A sob tore through me as I leaned over the box, reading the full message for the first time. It had never occurred to me that I’d only found a part of Jimmy’s message, that there had been more to the sentence. But now, faced with the truth, I felt sick.
“God help me, I killed them.”
My entire life had been based on the note I’d carried in my locket. Everything I’d done had been to locate Jimmy, to offer him the help I’d been unable to at the time I’d found the note. Now, what did any of it mean? What did my life mean if it had all been based on a lie? Or, rather, an absence of the full information?
I’d always thought Jimmy needed my help. It made sense, too. He was always a sensitive boy, more easily frightened and overwhelmed than other children. Even though he was older than me, I was the one who stood up for him to neighborhood bullies when we were kids, who took the blame when one of us was going to get into trouble. Imagining that same boy killing both of our parents seemed beyond impossible. What motive could he have had?
My thoughts turned back to that horrible day a decade ago when, as a child of thirteen, I had come home to m
y family’s New York apartment and stepped inside the doorway. In my mind’s eye, I sped past the horror of finding the bodies of my murdered parents. The details rushed past in an indistinct blur. I didn’t let myself dwell on the gory scene. Instead, I focused on the tiny scrap of white, the strip of paper that had lain on the floor near the door. It commanded my attention now as it had then, something safe to keep me from seeing and feeling the shocking things around me.
I had knelt in the floor, numb to everything except the puzzle of that little slip of paper: the words “help me” scrawled in my brother’s handwriting. I shut out everything else, letting the message assume enormous importance. Jimmy wasn’t there in the apartment. He had been there when I had gone outside to play earlier, but now he was gone. Where was he?
It was a question that would occupy my mind, giving me a much-needed source of distraction and a purpose for years to come. When the police began the search for him later, I knew he was innocent. And every day until I’d opened the box the stranger had handed me in the alley, I’d known Jimmy was innocent.
Now, I was filled with nothing but doubt.
19
Edward didn’t matter to me anymore. Not really. The conversation with Catherine, my relationship with the Beckinghams, anything that had to do with me being Rose Beckingham didn’t matter to me. I only had room in my mind for thoughts of Jimmy. Of my old life in New York City. Of the fateful day that had brought everything crashing down around me.
Over the years, I’d created a narrative of what I thought happened. I’d built up the idea that perhaps Jimmy had walked in on the killer and had run away in fear, returning later to leave me a message so I’d know he didn’t do it. Or maybe he had stumbled upon the dead bodies of our parents and had known he would be blamed for the crime, so he’d dropped the note in front of the door and ran before anyone else could find them.
No matter what scenario I created in my mind, Jimmy, the older brother I had loved and cherished all my life, was innocent. Always and forever innocent. Now, I couldn’t be sure.
For the first time, I could see the other possibilities. I could see Jimmy holding the bloody murder weapon. I could see him grabbing his things and fleeing the scene before I returned. I could see him hiding from the authorities and anyone who might recognize him for the next nine years.
I still couldn’t see the motive, though. No matter how long I stared at the two matching puzzle pieces of the note, I couldn’t understand why Jimmy would do such a thing. The last time I saw him, he’d been smiling. He’d given me a small wave. That boy wasn’t a murderer. Not when I’d left him, at least. What could have changed?
I moved the pieces of paper to my desk and then picked up the box again, studying it for any hidden clue or message, but there was nothing. Then, the idea came to me. Like Edward, was I falling for a trick? Was the Chess Master making a cruel game out of my life? I couldn’t begin to understand how it could be possible, how he could have forged the second part of a note my brother had written so many years before or mimicked his handwriting so precisely. But I also didn’t understand how he had found me miles away from my home in order to deliver the box. I didn’t understand many things about the Chess Master, but that had no bearing on his abilities.
I rotated the box in my hands again, frustration and heartbreak rising up in a wave I couldn’t keep back. Suddenly, I hurled the box across the room. It smashed against the back of the stone fireplace and then fell into the white log below in a shower of embers. The fire flared around the new kindling and then died down just as quickly. I wanted to drop the note into the flames, as well. Let the fire cleanse the world and my mind of the information that was written there. But I couldn’t do it.
What if it was true? What if Jimmy really had killed our parents? I couldn’t throw away the evidence, and I could no longer hold on to the small piece of paper I’d carried with me for so long. Not now that I knew it could be part of the longer message. Everything had changed and burning the note wouldn’t scrub the knowledge from my mind.
I’d hoped the Chess Master would give me information on Jimmy’s whereabouts. That he would help me find my brother, so I could finally ask him what had happened that day. Now, though, I was left with more questions that I’d started with and no way to contact the Chess Master to answer them.
As I flopped down into the chair in the corner of my room, the note as far away as possible on the desk in the opposite corner, I had a thought. It was true I couldn’t contact the Chess Master, but maybe he wasn’t the only person who could help me.
Knowing sleep wouldn’t come, I settled in for a long night of waiting. Because in the morning, I would be going to see Monsieur Achilles Prideaux.
I left just as the sun rose, reminding me of my early days in London when I’d had to sneak out of the Beckingham’s home before they awoke. The morning was crisp and dewy. Water droplets colored the leaves silver in the morning light and the stone sidewalks glistened. Fog like smoke hung over the horizon, making the world feel closed in and small. I took a deep breath of the damp, fresh air, but all I could smell was New York.
The sights and smells from the explosion in India had haunted me the past few months, but now a different murder scene was coming back to me. The one I’d seen in the home I shared with my parents and brother. And to think my brother could have been the culprit? My stomach roiled and flipped.
Thankfully, Monsieur Prideaux lived only a short walk away. Now that the Beckinghams were less inclined to visit me, it was nice to know I had someone resembling a friend living close by.
Monsieur Prideaux’s landlady lived directly above the detective and was shaking out a small rug when I arrived. Debris and dust floated from her window in a great cloud, and I stood back, hand held over my eyes until she finished.
“If you’re here about the room, it’s already claimed,” she said, rolling the rug into a tube and then leaning through the frame on her elbows. “But it can become unclaimed for the right price.”
“I’m not here about the room,” I said. “We’ve actually met before.”
The woman’s face didn’t change as she stared down at me.
“I’m here for Monsieur Prideaux,” I explained.
Her face sagged down into disappointment. “Then, why are you wasting my time?” She disappeared back through her window and slammed the pane closed before I could answer.
As I walked up the three stairs that separated Achilles’ porch from the sidewalk, his door opened. It had been a few weeks since I’d seen him—the last time having been when I’d brought him the first box I’d received from the Chess Master—and it was easy to forget how handsome he was. Although, he didn’t go anywhere without his cane, which I knew actually disguised a small blade to be used as a weapon, and refused to shave the thin black mustache just above his lip, he was still a good looking man. Tall and lean, a crop of inky black hair on top of his head, and a deep tan to his skin. He wore a gray suit and waistcoat, a gold pocket watch chain dangling from his inside pocket to his waist, and a light gray derby hat.
Although he had been on his way out, he showed no sign of disappointment at having to delay his plans.
“I wondered when I’d be seeing you again, Mademoiselle Beckingham,” he said, turning sideways and ushering me inside, using his cane to point towards the sitting room.
I stepped into the cool, well-lit space of his entryway. “Please, Monsieur Prideaux. I believe we have spent time enough together for you to call me Rose.”
“Mademoiselle Rose, perhaps,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Can I interest you in any tea? I also have juice and coffee, if you’d rather.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine,” I said. I’d already had several cups of tea that morning and my hands were jittery with sleeplessness and nerves. “But by all means, I can wait if you’d like to get yourself something.”
He seemed to consider it for a moment, his lips pursing, and then shook his head. “No, I’m much too i
nterested in what could have brought you to my doorstep so early in the morning after weeks with no contact.”
“You are more than free to contact me at my house,” I said with a coy smile. In the presence of Achilles, it was almost easy to forget the stress I’d been under for the last twenty-four hours.
“I did not wish to disturb you,” he said, his face growing suddenly serious. He ran his finger along his mustache and then pressed it to his lips. “I know your family has been faced with a difficult time of late.”
I nodded, trying to remember when the fate of Edward and the Beckinghams had been the most upsetting thing in my life. “So, you’ve seen the papers, then?”
“I’m afraid so. Are you confident Edward is Mr. Matcham’s killer?” he asked. “I knew Thomas Matcham casually, and he had a rather close connection with the Beckingham family. With the eldest daughter, in particular.”
“You know of their secret affair?” I asked, eyebrows raised in shock.
“I did not know it was a secret,” he said with a shrug. “Mr. Matcham always made time to see Catherine when he was in town, and he spoke very highly of her. His affections were plain to see. If it was a secret, it was poorly kept.”
“Perhaps it was poorly kept for a world-renowned detective,” I said with a smile. “Because it was quite a shock to the rest of the family. Edward seemed to be the only one who knew about it.”
“And he did not react very favorably.” Achilles shook his head. Then, his eyes narrowed on me. “Would it be rude of me to mention that I warned you not to become involved in any more danger?”
“It wouldn’t be rude at all. You made a suggestion and I chose to do otherwise. As long as neither of us is bitter about the series of events, then I see no reason why it should matter,” I said.
The truth was, I didn’t want to talk about it. Achilles had been right about staying away from trouble. If I hadn’t gone to the countryside that weekend, not only would Mr. Matcham’s death likely have been ruled a natural one and the Beckinghams wouldn’t be faced with sitting through a murder trial for Edward, but I wouldn’t have solved the case and the Chess Master never would have delivered the alleged second half of Jimmy’s note. Life would have continued on as it had, and even though it would have been a lie, I wouldn’t have known the difference.