by Blythe Baker
“Soon, I’m sure,” she said. “Everyone will have to calm down eventually.”
“I’m not sure if that’s true. But I hope you are right,” I said. “I’d love to join you all for dinner again soon.”
“I’ll mention it casually to Mama,” she said. And then, when she noticed the worry in my eyes, she added, “Do not worry, I’ll be very subtle about it.”
Alice adjusted her hat over her ears and opened the front door. However, once she reached the top step she turned back to me, her eyes sad and thoughtful. “Do you think it is all right to still love him?” she asked. “Edward, I mean? Do you think it is wrong to love him even after everything he has done?”
I could tell Alice was ashamed to ask the question. Especially of me, of all people. Her brother had tried to kill me and, had he not been shot himself, likely would have succeeded. However, I could also see the struggle behind the question. I could see how much thought she had put into it. So, I gave her as honest an answer as I could.
“Love is rarely simple. And it certainly isn’t sensible. There are no rules, so if you love Edward despite what he has done, then you should feel free to feel that. You do not have to explain yourself to me or anyone else. He is your brother, and though he did something horrible, he is still your brother. It’s all right to love him.”
I didn’t realize until after I’d finished speaking that tears were streaming down my face. Alice threw her arms around my waist and buried her head against my chest.
“Thank you, Rose,” she said. “I needed to hear you say that.”
I hugged her back and realized that I had needed to hear it, too.
21
I received a letter from Mr. and Mrs. Worthing the day after Alice’s visit. The letter was four pages long—mostly to do with what Mrs. Worthing described as their “horrible” train ride back to London after our weekend in the country—but the final page caught my attention.
I can’t help but feel partly responsible for your current heartache. Not that either myself or Mr. Worthing had anything to do with Mr. Matcham. But because we swore in India to see you safely to London, and it seems as though you have been anything but. Trouble seems drawn to you for some reason, Rose, and I wish more than anything I could draw it away. That isn’t possible, of course, but please know that our door is open to you anytime.
Sending our love,
Mrs. Worthing
I tucked the letter into the drawer of my desk on top of the stack of letters I had collected from Mrs. Worthing since arriving in London. Mostly, she spoke about herself, which fit well with what I knew about her as a person. But occasionally, as in her latest letter, she showed some concern for me and my wellbeing, which was comforting.
I hadn’t heard anything from Achilles Prideaux in over a week, and I was growing anxious. With little else to occupy my time, it was hard not to dwell on the possible crimes of my brother or the identity of the Chess Master. I saw and heard him everywhere. In every creak of my floorboards, in every bump in the darkness. I knew paranoia was creeping over me, but I couldn’t stop myself. He knew everything about me, and though I knew next to nothing about him, the one thing I did know was that the Chess Master was not the kind of person to give up an advantage. He knew my true identity, and it was only a matter of time before he decided to use it against me.
The sun had only just set, but it was already dark outside my window. Dark gray clouds covered up the moon, plunging the street below into dark shadow.
I stood at my window, my robe pulled tightly around my middle, preparing to tuck into bed with a book, when I saw a movement just beyond the wrought iron fence that circled my property. It was in the exact same place where the Chess Master had first left me a package. I squinted, focusing my eyes on the shadows outside the halo of light from the streetlamp, when suddenly a figure stepped into view.
I jumped away from the window with a yelp before regaining my composure. The figure was dressed in dark clothes with a hat pulled low over his eyes. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked to be the same man who had stood outside my window before. The man who had brought news of the murder that would occur in the countryside, who had started my life down its current path.
The first time he’d stood there, I’d waited by my window in fear, not daring to go down and confront him. Now, however, I didn’t have time for fear. There wasn’t room in my brain for anything other than unanswered questions. So, without hesitating, I spun on the spot, hurled my bedroom door open, and took off down the stairs.
Aseem would no doubt hear me running through the house and come to see what was wrong, but I couldn’t worry about that now. I had to get outside and stop the man before he could escape again. I needed to see his face, see whether I knew him. Or, at the very least, have a good description to give to Achilles Prideaux.
I slid and nearly fell going down the stairs in my slippers, but I caught myself on the banister and used it to propel me into the entrance hall. I unbolted the front door and threw it open, leaping down all three stairs in one jump.
My chest was heaving with exertion, trying desperately to take in air, but even still, when I reached the gate and saw the empty spot where the man had been standing, my heart sank. I’d missed him.
I spun in a circle just to make sure, checking for any other moving shadows around the yard, but there was nothing. I was alone and breathless.
I turned to go back into the house when something caught my eye. Sitting in the center of the circle of light from the streetlamp was what appeared to be a small figurine. I opened my gate with a metal squeal and knelt down on the pavement, afraid to touch the object for a few seconds.
There could be no mistaking its meaning.
First, the Chess Master had given me a pawn, which I’d learned over the course of the weekend in Somerset was meant to represent my role in his game. But now, knowing I was searching for his true identity, the Chess Master wanted me to know his role in our game.
On the pavement where the mysterious man had stood only a moment before, there was now a single chess piece—a king.
Continue following the mysterious adventures of Rose Beckingham in
“A Grim Game.”
Excerpt
From “A Grim Game: A Rose Beckingham Murder Mystery, Book 4.”
The morning was drenched in gray. Rain squelched from the heavy sky like it was being wrung out over the city and fallen leaves mildewed along the streets and sidewalks. Everyone who found themselves out in the dreary day kept their heads down, hats pulled low over their eyes, shoulders hunched near their ears. It felt like the perfect day to visit prison.
I’d debated a long while about whether I wanted to visit my cousin Edward in prison or not. He was set to stand trial for the murder of Mr. Matcham, along with a charge of attempted murder for when he tried to kill me, as well. The last time I’d seen my cousin, he’d fired his gun at me and chased me halfway across his family’s large property in Somerset before being accidentally shot himself. So, given the circumstances, my desire to see him again was minimal. My curiosity, however, drove me to make the trip.
Before he attempted to murder me, Edward had made his confession. He’d told me that he contacted a powerful man in London’s criminal underworld to obtain the lethal and rare poison he’d used to kill Mr. Matcham. I had reason to believe the man Edward spoke of was the same man who had written me prior to Mr. Matcham’s demise to warn me of a death in the countryside. The man I had come to refer to as the “Chess Master” due to his penchant for leaving chess pieces along with his notes. And after his latest delivery of the most powerful chess piece on the board, the King, I could no longer keep my burning questions to myself. Edward had seen the Chess Master’s face. He had done business with him before, and I knew he could tell me the mysterious man’s true identity.
The Surrey House of Correction, where Edward had been moved since recovering from his gunshot wound, was a good distance from my home. While I had my own perso
nal driver, George, I didn’t want him to know of my plan. He wouldn’t have been able to stop me from visiting Edward, even though he would have wanted to, but still, I wanted to go alone. I didn’t want to have to explain to anyone why I was visiting my attempted murderer. And I especially didn’t want to have to explain it to the rest of Edward’s family. So, I took a cab and instructed the driver to drop me off a distance from the prison, opting to walk the rest of the way. The Beckingham family was understandably shocked and appalled by Edward’s actions, and as the trial loomed, they were trying to keep a low profile. The last thing they needed was for news of my visit to reach the papers—Edward Beckingham’s Victim Turned Visitor.
There had been enough articles in the last few weeks about the “divide” Edward’s crimes had caused. Not only had he murdered his sister’s secret lover—an affair which was no longer secret—but he had attempted to murder me, his own cousin. Reporters claimed to have the inside story, explaining that I was at odds with the Beckinghams, and that they would never forgive me for taking the witness stand to testify against their son and brother.
None of it was true, of course. True, Catherine had come to me and asked that I consider not testifying against Edward, and Lord Ashton had been reluctant to accept that Edward could truly be responsible for the crimes he was charged with. But, as time had gone on and the investigation came to a close, the truth had come out, and no one could deny Edward’s guilt. After weeks of not seeing the Beckinghams, I’d received an invitation to dinner, which I’d readily and nervously accepted. There, the family had sought to make amends.
“We are so glad you accepted our invitation,” Lady Ashton said, reaching out to grab my hand and squeeze my fingers. “We all missed you, Rose.”
I smiled at my aunt and then cautiously glanced around the table. Alice was nodding in eager agreement with her mother, and I was relieved to see that Catherine and Lord Ashton were nodding, as well.
“I missed you, as well. All of you,” I said, giving Catherine a pointed look. She smiled.
Lord Ashton coughed, his fist over his mouth, and then began to speak. “When all of this came to light, things were confusing. We didn’t have all the information, and it was impossible to think a family member we all loved could be capable of such a horrific act. In our desire to clear Edward of blame, I know it may have felt as though some that blame landed on you, Rose.”
I shook my head, trying to stop Lord Ashton’s apology in its tracks. I had been hurt by his anger towards me at first, but soon I came to realize from where the feelings stemmed. It was easier to blame me than to think he had raised a murderer. And while it wasn’t fair, I understood. I didn’t blame him for anything he’d said or done in those confusing days.
“No, it’s important that this is spoken aloud and made known. We are all sorry for any additional pain we may have caused you, Rose. As the truth has been revealed, we have come to accept Edward’s responsibility. And in doing so, have been ashamed by how you were treated and abandoned in the early days of the investigation.”
Lady Ashton hiccupped, and I looked over to realize she was crying. I patted her shoulder, and she covered my hand with her own, her lips pursed in a sad smile.
Lord Ashton continued. “You are a prized member of this family, Rose. Edward sought to harm you because of his own guilt, and he has brought shame on our family. His crimes will forever be a blight on our honor. But you, dear Rose, represent the best the Beckinghams have to offer. We asked you here to dinner, so we could formally apologize to you for our behavior in the days and weeks after the murder.”
While the declaration had been awkward and left me nearly speechless, it was nice to hear, nonetheless. The Beckinghams were the closest thing to family I had left—I highly suspected Lord Ashton would not have made such an apology to me if he knew I was not truly Rose Beckingham, but actually her former servant in disguise—and I wasn’t eager to lose them anytime soon.
Still, even with the apology, it was difficult to be around the family of late. While they had forgiven me, they still struggled to accept Edward’s new identity as a murderer, and my presence and the impending trial did little to help them forget. I did my best to keep my distance and offer them privacy to mourn and come to terms with their new reality. And that meant I had no intention of telling them about the visit I was paying to Edward in prison.
The sun was rising behind the massive brick building, casting it into deep shadow. It looked like a blot on the horizon—a black ink stain across a perfectly clean sheet of paper that should be crumpled up and forgotten. Even looking at the building from the outside was a dreary exercise, so I didn’t particularly wish to experience the inside. However, that would be the only way to speak with Edward.
The guards at the gate were reluctant to let me inside, but the men inside were even more difficult to convince. One of them, a balding man with a thick mustache and dirty suspenders, crossed his arms where he stood behind a cluttered desk and shook his head when I asked to see Edward Beckingham.
“He’s on trial for murder. Only family allowed,” he barked, dismissing me with a wave of his hand.
“I am family,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “You a sister or something?”
“Or something.” I didn’t want word of my visit to make it back to the Beckinghams, and I didn’t want anyone to look at me the way so many people were looking at me lately, with pity in their eyes. I had survived and I had my freedom. As far as I was concerned, I was not a victim, though it was difficult to convince everyone else of that.
The man shifted his weight from side to side, stretching his shoulders out wide. “You can’t see him unless you are blood family.”
I sighed. “I’m his cousin.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. I could see the ghost of recognition in his face. “Cousin?”
“Do you know anything about this case?” I asked.
The man nodded his head slowly, clearly suspicious of me. I couldn’t exactly blame him. He probably didn’t see many young women knocking on the prison doors before sunrise, a hat and scarf pulled around their face to avoid detection.
I unwound the thick scarf from around my neck and draped it over my arm. “I’m Edward’s cousin. The cousin.”
His overgrown brow furrowed for a second and then jolted upward in surprise. He shook his head as he pushed the door open and let me inside. “That makes you family, all right.”
I was directed to a small concrete room to wait. It smelled wet and stale, and I found it difficult to inhale. For a moment, I felt a twinge of sympathy for Edward. He was accustomed to a much more luxurious life than what prison offered. And just as quickly as my sympathy came on, it passed. Edward was a murderer. A man who would have murdered again to save his own hide.
Just as I had this revelation, the door opened and a pale, thin creature was thrown in the room with me. It took several seconds for me to recognize my cousin. In the weeks he’d been in prison, his face had hollowed, his tan skin had turned an ashen gray color, and the thick dark locks of his hair had gone dry and brittle. Still, there was a familiar spark in his eyes, a haughtiness that couldn’t be tempered by incarceration.
“Hello, Rose,” Edward said, tipping his head to the side as if he needed to see me from another angle to be certain it was me.
“Edward.” I tried to keep my voice level, unemotional. If I showed any weakness, he would latch onto it. I had to be unaffected if I wanted to gather any information from him.
He lowered himself into the wooden chair across from mine, moving slower than I’d ever seen him move, though he had the same graceful air. “I didn’t expect to see you until the trial.”
“I didn’t expect to come,” I admitted.
“And why did you?” he asked, leaning back, hands folded over his chest. It was then I noticed the metal cuffs around his wrists, the chain that bound them together. It was a comforting reminder. He could not hurt me here. Just outside the door was a
guard who would burst into the room at the first sign of trouble. “Surely, you’ve been told not to fraternize with me. I suspect you’ll be testifying against me in the trial.”
It was a statement more than a question, but regardless, I had no intention of responding to it.
“I’m not here about the trial, and I don’t intend to discuss it with you. The decision regarding my testimony is my own.” I paused, leveling my gaze at him so he would know I was serious. Then, I continued. “I’m here to ask you a question.”
Edward’s dark eyebrows rose slowly. “Ask whatever you’d like, dear cousin. I cannot promise an answer, but I can promise to listen.”
Dear cousin. The words sounded slimy rolling off his tongue, and suddenly I wanted to take back the entire idea. Instead of sitting across from Edward in prison, I wanted to be warm beneath the blankets of my bed at home. I swallowed back my rising nausea and looked Edward square in the face.
“You mentioned the shadowy figure who supplied the poison you used to end Mr. Matcham’s life,” I said, easing into the question.
Edward shook his head. “I said no such thing.”
I furrowed my brow, confused. And then Edward winked, and I realized what was going on. He wouldn’t be heard by anyone—me or the guard—admitting to his crimes.
“You mentioned a member of the criminal underworld,” I said, rephrasing the question. “Would you tell me his name?”
“Why are you interested in associating with a criminal?” he asked. “I thought you were the solver of crimes, not the purveyor of them.”
The truth was, I didn’t want to seek out the Chess Master at all. I wanted to forget about him and move on from the entire incident. However, I’d asked Detective Achilles Prideaux to look into the whereabouts of my long-lost brother Jimmy—though Achilles did not know our familial connection—and he hadn’t had any luck. Whereas, the Chess Master had supplied me with solid evidence that he had some connection to Jimmy, though I had no idea how strong it was. He was the only person who had given me any hope of finding my brother, yet I had no clue as to his identity. Unfortunately, the Chess Master knew my secret identity. He knew I was not truly Rose Beckingham but actually Nellie Dennet, and I knew he could choose to share this information anytime he wanted. It felt as though an invisible sword was held just above my head, and with every passing day, the blade lowered. I had to find the Chess Master as soon as possible.