Peccadillo at the Palace

by Kari Bovee

  “Have you been to one of our performances?” she asked.

  ‘No,” the woman said with an indulgent smile. “I’ve been in Ireland for the past few years. I just moved to America about six months ago.”

  “I see. What takes you to England?”

  “My companion, Miss Brady, has an ill friend. We are going to look after him for a while.”

  “Oh, I am terribly sorry. I hope he is restored to health soon.” Annie directed her attention to Miss Brady, hoping to make a more positive connection, but the girl’s eyes seemed to look right through Annie, as if she weren’t there at all.

  “Becky? Miss Oakley is speaking to you.” Miss Parsons bumped the girl with her elbow and at that moment, Annie noticed that Miss Brady’s thick, wavy hair matched the hue of Miss Parsons’s identically. Suddenly Miss Brady snapped to alertness.

  “What have they done with the Indian man?” she asked. “He was a subject of the queen, is that correct?”

  “Becky, don’t be so impertinent. Why would Miss Oakley be privy to this information?” Miss Parsons’s brow creased in embarrassment.

  “Yes, he—was,” Annie said, surprised at Miss Brady’s cheek, but relieved they seemed to have no idea of her motives for engaging them in conversation. “Mr. Bhakta was the queen’s servant, sent to escort the Wild West Show to England.”

  “Do you know where the body is?” Becky asked.

  “Becky!” Anne Parsons’s face grew red.

  “We are traveling with a dead man, Mo—Miss Parsons,” Miss Brady addressed the older woman. “It makes me uneasy. Do you really know how he died, Miss Oakley? Does anyone? He could have been killed for all we know.” Miss Brady’s voice shook as if she were about to cry.

  “My companion has delicate nerves, Miss Oakley.” Miss Parsons’s cheeks flushed pink. “Please excuse her abruptness.”

  “Of course. I think we are all uneasy about the death of Mr. Bhakta. I’m not sure where the body is,” Annie lied. She needed to distance herself from Buck’s overboard event so as not to draw suspicion for her questions. “I’m sure the captain has everything in hand. I’ll leave you to your afternoon. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “What do you say, Becky?” Miss Parsons again jabbed Becky Brady with her bony elbow.

  “I thought you’d be full of yourself,” said Becky. “It was quite nice of you to speak with us.”

  Annie smiled through her shock at the girl’s continued brashness.

  “I’m a regular woman, Miss Brady. No better or worse than you.”

  “Oh, well, that’s where you are wrong, Miss Oakley—your talent with a gun surpasses us all.”

  It was an unusual statement for the young woman to make, but before Annie could ask her to expound upon it, the trio left Annie standing in the doorway of the dining room, completely baffled. She shrugged off the girl’s words and refocused her attention on something much more pressing—getting a look at the ship’s manifest.

  Chapter Eight

  Annie grasped at the locket watch hanging from the delicate gold chain around her neck and looked at the time. She had a few more minutes before meeting with Emma. She headed out of the dining room at a fast clip just as Emma breezed through the dining room entrance in emerald-green taffeta trousers. A chocolate-brown waistcoat with jewel-toned, intricate embroidered designs cinched her small waist, and her ivory, puffy-sleeved blouse buttoned high up on her neck made her look as regal as a swan. No hat graced her head, but she wore a headpiece of pheasant feathers that streamed down her back, and a sage-green, silk shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

  “There you are, dear. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” Emma said, out of breath.

  “No, I was just going to . . . run an errand.”

  Emma pursed her lips. “Sounds mysterious. Do tell.”

  Annie hooked her arm through Emma’s and led her out of the dining room into the expansive, chandelier-laden foyer. Rich, walnut-paneled walls lining the area shone with a candlelit glow, even during the day. Had the clock not just struck two, Annie would never have known the time of day due to the lack of natural light in the glowing foyer.

  “Have you spoken with anyone?” Annie asked.

  “Indeed. Several from your troop of merry players.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. Although, I can’t imagine there would be. Most of the Indians haven’t moved from their berths below decks. They are convinced that the colonel is leading them to their deaths. The news of Mr. Bhakta’s demise has made their situation worse. The chief is keeping them well in their cups. Liquid courage.”

  “What about the cowboys?”

  “I’ve only spoken with Bobby. Sweet boy. Wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

  “Of course not,” Annie said. “He’s devoted to the colonel and would do nothing to cause any trouble.” The two of them stopped in front of a large painting of a sea captain. Annie wondered if he was the ship’s previous master.

  “I can’t imagine anyone in the show who would want to cause harm,” Annie continued. “I know most of the cowboys fairly well. Even the animal caretakers, prop people, cooks, and general laborers. It doesn’t make sense that any of them would kill Mr. Bhakta.”

  “No. It has to be one of the other passengers on the ship,” Emma agreed.

  “Which brings me to my errand,” Annie whispered. “I want to go to the captain’s stateroom. Apparently that’s where he keeps the ship’s manifest. I’d like to look at it, to get the names of the passengers who aren’t associated with the show.”

  Emma looked over one shoulder and then the other, making sure no one could hear them. “I think that’s a splendid idea. Do you know where his stateroom is?”

  “Yes. One floor below. It’s where we first took Mr. Bhakta’s body.”

  “Lead on, Sherlock.”

  Arm in arm, Annie and Emma headed toward the stairs and then descended a flight. Once on the next floor, Annie led Emma toward the stern. Her breath caught in her throat as one of the cowboys passed by in the hallway.

  “Afternoon, Annie,” he said, tipping his hat.

  “Donald,” she said, and let out her breath as he passed. She pulled Emma to walk faster until they reached the captain’s stateroom door.

  Annie knocked. They waited in silence and when they heard nothing from behind the door, Emma grasped the handle.

  “As I thought,” Emma said. “Locked.”

  “Oh, dear. We won’t be able to see the manifest.”

  Emma reached up to her elaborate fascinator and pulled out a hatpin. “We might be able to yet. Good thing I used two of these this morning. Watch to see if anyone is coming.” She knelt down and put her eye to the keyhole. “I think I can make this work.” Emma stuck the hat pin into the keyhole and wiggled it around. After a few agonizing moments, a click sounded from the door.

  “Yes,” Emma whispered.

  “Wherever did you learn to do that?”

  “My gentleman suitor in the police force. Remember? The one to whom I was engaged in defiance of my mother’s insistence I marry money? He told me of a burglary case where the thief used a hatpin to pick locks.”

  “Amazing,” Annie said in awe.

  Slowly Emma opened the door. “Hello?” she said in a raspy whisper. When there was no answer, she urged Annie forward. “You go inside; I’ll stay here and watch the hallway.”

  Annie slipped into the room, her heart beating like a rabbit’s in a trap. She made a quick scan of the room and spied the manifest sitting on the ornately carved walnut desk that faced the door. She walked around the desk and just as she put her hands on it to open it up, she heard Emma loudly clear her throat and the door click shut. She heard Emma talking to someone. Was it the captain? Holding her breath, Annie waited.

  In seconds, Emma peeked her head through the doorway. “Just grab it and let’s go!”

  “I don’t want to take it. That’s stealing.”

  “We’ve broken into the man’s room and you d
idn’t have a problem with that,” Emma said, unable to hide the exasperation in her voice. “We’ll only be borrowing it.”

  “Just give me a minute,” Annie said. She took the pen from the inkwell and a blank piece of paper from a stack at the corner of the desk and, scanning the names, jotted down the ones not familiar to her, her hands shaking. She made a horrible mess of the paper as she hurriedly dipped the pen in and out of the inkwell. At least she hadn’t made a mess of the desk—yet. Her hand froze in mid-air as she heard the door click shut again, and Emma’s muffled voice just beyond it.

  “Why, Captain!” Emma said, loudly enough for her to hear.

  Annie felt the blood drain from her head. How would she explain herself to the captain? Why hadn’t she listened to Emma and just taken the manifest? The sound of her heartbeat thudding in her ears, she closed the book as quietly as she could, put the pen back in the inkwell and was preparing to hide under the desk when she thought she detected the voices moving away from the door. She stood, frozen to the spot, waiting.

  Yes, the voices were definitely growing fainter. She tiptoed to the door, laid her ear against it, and could hear Emma’s tinkling laugh far down the hallway. Somehow, she had successfully diverted the captain from entering his stateroom. Annie scurried back to the desk, opened the manifest, and continued to write down the unfamiliar names. She counted fifteen.

  She grabbed the blotter next to the inkwell and rolled it across the paper so as not to smear the names into illegibility, or ruin her dress with large inkblots. She blew on the paper for good measure, then folded it into a neat square and placed it in her pocket.

  Setting the manifest back where she had found it and the pen back in the inkwell, she checked to make sure the desk was as tidy as it had been before. Then she hurried to the door and laid her ear against it again, checking for voices or sounds of movement. Nothing. Carefully, she opened the door and peeked her head out to find the hallway blissfully empty.

  Giddy with relief, Annie nearly skipped down the hallway, feeling as if she’d just gotten away with murder.

  Annie found Emma where they had met before, in the foyer right outside the dining room, sitting on a plush, cushioned loveseat next to a potted palm. When Emma saw her, she stood up and rushed toward her.

  “That was a close call!” Emma said, her eyes glittering with excitement.

  “I’ll say. How did you ever manage to get the captain away?” Annie asked, still amazed she hadn’t been caught out.

  “I feigned disorientation—said I was lost. Men are always so eager to believe they can rescue a woman. He played right into my hands. Did you get what we needed?”

  Annie tapped her pocket. “Right here.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Annie pulled the note from her pocket and unfolded it. Emma took her elbow, and they went to the loveseat to examine the names.

  “This woman,” Annie said, pointing to the name. “Gail Tessen. Very odd.”

  “How so?”

  “She was admiring Buck. She said she’d come from a well-to-do family, but her clothes were in tatters. And there is something strange about her demeanor, a deep unhappiness. I could see it in her eyes. She softened when she looked at Buck, but when she addressed me, her gaze was like ice.”

  “She might be someone to watch,” Emma said.

  Annie looked up to see Anna Parsons, Becky Brady, and John O’Brien as they took the stairs to the upper deck. “And those three. I spoke with them earlier. The older woman seems sweet as pie, but her companion is either very spoiled or very ill at ease with people. I got the sense she might be a bit touched in the head. The man said nothing.”

  “Who’d she say she was? The older woman?” Emma asked.

  “Said her name was Anna Parsons.”

  “Hmm. She looks familiar to me. Have I told you I have an eidetic memory?”

  “What is that?” Annie asked, always amazed at Emma’s use of big words.

  “I remember things with startling accuracy. That’s why I am so good at my job. The boys at the Herald hated that about me at first—they were jealous, of course. But now, they quite rely on me.”

  “I know what you mean.” Annie agreed. She knew all too well what it was like rising through the ranks of a male-dominated industry. “So you’ve seen that woman before?” Annie asked.

  “Yes. In print, I think. Recently. I have scads of newspapers with me. I’ll have a look through, tonight, after my engagement with the handsome chief.”

  Annie lowered the paper to her lap. “Your engagement? What do you mean?”

  “What do you mean, what do I mean? He’s coming to call, silly.”

  “Emma. Please do not toy with the chief like you did with Sitting Bull. I know Red Shirt seems tough and stoic, but he has a gentle heart. You are too much for him.”

  “Too much?” Emma raised her brows. “Oh, please, dear. The man has led men into war, fought bloody battles, and probably scalped more than his share of enemies—yet, I am too much for him?” Emma set her fists on her hips.

  “Yes,” Annie said with finality.

  “Oh, darling. Relax.” Emma looped her arm through Annie’s. “‘Indian Chief’ is really not my type. I’m more of a ‘Wealthy Land Baron’ fan. I promise not to lead your chief on. We’re only meeting for a sip of champagne. Besides, he might have some information on our murder. He seems very wise.”

  “He is.” Annie said, not sure if she could really trust Emma with the chief’s feelings. Emma had a magnetism about her that attracted men like deer to a flowering meadow. She flirted without intending to flirt. Annie hoped the chief would not get the wrong idea.

  “Well, before you meet with him, there’s something else I want to do.” Annie clutched harder at Emma’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  Emma hesitated. “Where are we going?”

  “I want to see Mr. Bhakta again.”

  “Really? But why?”

  Annie stood up, pulling Emma along with her. “I don’t know. I just need to see him again. Maybe the doctor missed something.”

  “Right-o, Sherlock. My sentiments exactly. Do you know where the body is?”

  “The captain mentioned the refrigeration hold. I assume it’s below decks.”

  “You assume correctly,” Emma said. “Probably in steerage. When Mother, Daddy, and I traveled to the Orient on the RMS Oceanic, the captain gave us a tour of the ship. That was before they disinherited me for entering the disgraceful profession of journalism instead of marrying.”

  They walked across the foyer and down the staircase where they encountered a family of Indians cowering at the foot of the stairs. The mother held her two children close, her eyes wide with fear, and her face the color of day-old oatmeal. The father, slumped against the wall, held a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He looked as if he would fall asleep at any moment, but kept jerking himself awake.

  Several of the Indian players gathered around a large pot hanging over a flame. Two women doled out bowls of stew to the others. Some ate heartily, but others simply stared at their bowls, their faces wan and their eyes downcast. Two children were vomiting in the corner of the room.

  “Good Lord,” Emma muttered.

  “They’re scared,” Annie said, feeling as if she needed to defend them. “And there are no windows or fresh air down here.”

  “The chief said they don’t like looking at the water,” Emma said.

  They walked down the length of the hallway and came upon a large wooden door.

  “Do you think this is it?” Annie asked.

  “Looks like.”

  “What if someone sees us? Asks what we are doing?” Annie turned to Emma.

  “We tell them we are taking a tour of the ship. Simple.”

  “That’s good.” Annie pulled the heavy door open, the rusted hinges creaking.

  They stepped through the doorway, their breath immediately turning to mist. Annie shuddered with the sudden drop of temperature. She blinked her eyes to adj
ust to the dimness. Shafts of foggy light sifted through three small portholes in the curve of the hold’s wall. In front of them, stacked in neat rows, lay pig, chicken, and steer carcasses. A layer of ice gave them a shiny, pale glow. The metallic smell of blood and death filled the space.

  Annie felt a sudden wave of nausea and took a deep breath of the cold air in hopes it would quell her urge to be sick. She didn’t understand why she felt so horrible. She’d seen dead animals before—she’d butchered animals before, not to mention all the birds and game she used to shoot at home.

  Emma covered her nose and mouth with her lace-gloved hand, and Annie gripped Emma’s arm even harder.

  “Where do you think they’ve stashed him?” Emma asked, her voice muffled behind her hand.

  “Over there,” Annie pointed to a sheet-covered object on the ground, in the corner, next to some crates labeled MILK and BUTTER. “Looks like a body, all right.”

  Annie pulled Emma with her as they approached the white sheet. Kneeling down, Annie pulled the sheet away from Mr. Bhakta’s head. The face had turned an ugly shade of lavender-gray and the mouth hung open. A shiver of icy sweat trickled between Annie’s shoulder blades. She felt Emma tremble next to her.

  “Poor chap,” Emma said, her voice barely a whisper.

  Annie pulled the sheet further down the man’s body. His shirt and suit had been neatly re-buttoned and smoothed, and other than the ghastly appearance of his face and the hoary icicles clinging to his black hair, he looked as if he’d just dressed and decided to take a nap. As the sheet passed over his stomach, Annie’s breath caught in her throat. “Look!”

  A crisply folded note lay neatly tucked in the waistcoat pocket.

  Before Annie could say anything more, Emma yanked the note out of the pocket and opened it, holding it close to her face.

  “What does it say?” Annie asked.

  Emma lowered the note and turned her bright emerald eyes on Annie. “It says ‘The queen is next.’ This is proof Bhakta was murdered!”

  Annie took the note from Emma and read it.

  “Someone must have come down after the doctor placed him here and placed this note in his pocket. How strange. But why?”