by Kari Bovee
“A plot to kill the queen,” Emma said, her voice almost a whisper, her expression a million miles away. “We could be onto the story of a lifetime, Annie. A woman breaking a story like this could change the face of journalism—could change the world.”
“Yes, but the note, Emma?”
“Right.” Emma took the note back. “The killer placed it there thinking no one would find it until we disembarked in England. It could mean one of two things: either the killer somehow feels guilty and wants to be caught, or they are playing a game of cat and mouse. We must find out who did this before we get to London.”
“I agree. It wouldn’t do to arrive at the Queen’s jubilee with an assassin.” Annie tucked the note in her dress pocket and carefully replaced the sheet over Mr. Bhakta’s body.
“I wonder why someone wants to assassinate the queen,” Annie said.
“Well, she can’t please everyone. There are people in her council who despise her.”
“Like who?”
“Well, at the moment, Mr. Gladstone.”
Annie nodded. “The Irish problem.”
“Yes.”
“But the victim was Indian,” Annie said, a pang of sadness settling in her already unsettled stomach. She remembered Mr. Bhakta’s smiling face. Such a pity.
“Indeed he was, and the queen’s loyal servant,” Emma said. “The queen has a great love of India, although Britain’s relationship with that country has not been without its problems—many believe caused by the East India Company. After the Indian Mutiny in 1857, the Crown nationalized the company to soothe relations.”
“Perhaps the murderer is just a deranged person,” Annie said. “Have there been attempts on the queen’s life before?”
“Yes, in fact.” Emma held her gloved hands to her mouth and blew into them to warm them. “One of my mentors knew the English journalist who covered one story. The first attempt occurred in 1840, when Victoria was younger. A man by the name of Edward Oxford tried to shoot the queen as she and Albert were out driving on Constitution Hill. Some said he belonged to a secret society, but it was later determined that he acted on his own. He was, as you say, deranged. There have been a few more attempts throughout the years, but none in quite some time.”
Annie moved away from Mr. Bhakta, crossed her arms, and grabbed her elbows to fend off the cold. She looked over the frozen carcasses and peered through the slats of the crates to see fruits and vegetables piled inside. She stepped over to a butcher’s block and looked over the top, the sides, and on the floor for anything else that might be a clue.
Her gaze landed on something shiny under some crates, partially hidden under a piece of canvas. She marched over to the crates and pulled back the stained tarp.
“Emma, look.” Annie pointed to a corked vial, about three inches long with a beautiful gold pattern etched into glass.
“Don’t touch it!” Emma said, rushing toward her and nearly knocking over a burlap bag of potatoes.
They both stared down at the small bottle.
“Why can’t I pick it up? It might be evidence,” Annie said.
“It might be dangerous. I’m wearing gloves. I’ll get it.” Emma leaned down and picked up the vial. She held it up in front of her face. “Can’t really see anything.”
“The porthole.” Annie dashed to the faint light and urged Emma to follow. Emma’s heels clicked on the wooden floor as she hurried over and held the vial up to the light.
“It’s beautiful,” Annie said. “Is that a note in there?”
“Looks to be. I’ve seen this kind of decorative vial before. They’re called ‘tear catchers.’ People use them to catch their tears after the death of a loved one.”
“Fascinating! Let’s read the note.” A surge of excitement took away the sour feeling in Annie’s stomach.
Emma shook the bottle. “It’s partially wet from whatever substance was in here. I’m not sure we should touch it.”
“You’re right, Emma. Those lace gloves won’t provide much protection.”
Emma lowered the tear catcher and looked Annie in the eye, scorn on her face. “No, but they are fashionable.”
“Right, Emma. But we need to read that note. It could be a clue.” Annie scanned the refrigeration hold for any kind of tool they could use to pull out the note. Not finding anything small enough, she turned her attention back to Emma and saw the single hatpin holding the headpiece in her hair glimmering in the dim light.
“Your remaining hatpin. May I see it?”
“Yes, but whatever for?” Emma asked reaching up with her free hand to take it out of her hair.
“Open the tear catcher,” Annie said.
Emma grasped the cork with her fingers and gently pulled it out.
“Hold it up to the light,” Annie instructed. Emma complied, and Annie slid the hatpin into the opening of the tear catcher and, with it, pressed the note to the edge of the glass.
“You clever girl,” Emma said.
Annie held it secure and then pressed the hatpin down, hoping to spear the note with the fine point. After several unsuccessful tries, she changed her tactic and tried dragging the note out of the top of the tear catcher with the hatpin. The note moved upward ever so slightly.
“You’ve got it,” Emma said. “Steady now. Keep pulling.”
Annie angled the hatpin to get a more secure hold on the note and pulled the pin upward. The top corner of the note peeked through the opening.
“Can you pinch that with your fingers, Emma?”
With her free hand, Emma pinched at the vial’s opening. “It would be so much easier without gloves, but I think . . .”
“You’ve got it.” Annie tried to steady her hand so the hatpin would not lose its purchase. With a smile on her face, Emma carefully pulled the curled paper from the tear catcher.
“Voila.”
Chapter Nine
“Well done,” Annie said as Emma held up the note. “Take it to the butcher’s block so we can spread it out without coming into contact with it.”
Annie’s gaze fell on a small meat hook with a wooden handle next to the pigs. She tried not to look at the frozen swine with their sunken eye sockets and frosty snouts.
Emma dropped the note onto the butcher’s block and held a tiny piece of the corner with the tip of her gloved thumbnail. Annie smoothed the note with the meat hook, catching the other corner and opening up the curled piece of paper to display the words printed on it in a neat hand. Emma read out loud:
Till the villain left the paths of ease,
To walk in perilous paths, and drive
The just man into barren climes.
Now the sneaking serpent walks
In mild humility.
And the just man rages in the wilds
Where lions roam.
“What does it mean?” Annie asked.
“I’ve no idea.” Emma straightened. “It’s from Blake’s Marriage of Heaven and Hell.”
“Who is Blake?”
“William Blake, English poet, painter, and printmaker. A romantic.”
Annie frowned. “A romantic. What do you mean?”
“He was an adherent of Romanticism, an intellectual movement that started in the early part of the century. The central characteristic of the movement is revolt, stressing self-expression and individual uniqueness, as well as the glorification of all the past and nature. It’s medieval, Gothic.”
Annie shook her head at the gibberish coming from Emma’s mouth. She’d never heard of such a thing. She stared at Emma, her mind blank and her mouth open.
“Didn’t you learn any of this in school?” Emma asked.
“School? I never went to school regularly. I was too busy trying to keep food on the table. I want to continue my education, but there’s no time for that right now.” Annie’s declaration highlighted just how differently she and Emma had been raised.
“Oh, Annie. Forgive me.” Emma’s face crumpled. “I didn’t mean to insult you. You are so w
ell spoken and naturally intelligent, I forget that you haven’t had much time for schooling.”
Annie shrugged it off. “Forgiven. You on the other hand, seem to have an extraordinary education.”
“Not really. It’s the memory.” Emma tapped her index finger against her temple. “I remember everything I see. It’s like my mind takes a photograph. I read voraciously as a child, and much above my level. My father had an extensive library. William Blake was a favorite of his.” Emma paused, staring at the tear catcher. “Do you think the thing contained some kind of medicine or poison?”
“What about tears?” Annie asked. “It’s called a tear catcher, right? Or poison. Dr. Adams did mention poison. What if whoever decided to kill Mr. Bhakta was a fan of this William Blake you’ve just told me about? If so, they are probably well educated, like you, which means they might have come from a family with money. That rules out all the players and crew in the Wild West Show, except Frank—his family had some money, and he was fairly well educated, but not really the philosophical type.”
“And he, too, may be in danger,” Emma said, eyebrows pinched.
“Don’t remind me.” Annie’s stomach clenched at the idea. “I don’t know what I’d do without Frank. Emma, we must find the killer, and soon. We arrive in London in less than two weeks.”
“We have to consider that these clues might have been laid out to send us on a wild goose chase. Throw us off the scent.”
“A game of cat and mouse.” Annie bit the inside of her lip. “But my gut tells me we’re onto something here. We should at least explore it. Follow the clues to see where they lead.”
“And if we’re wrong?”
“Then we’re wrong.”
A conspiratorial expression crossed Emma’s features. “But it’s worth a try.” The determination in her voice made Annie grin.
Emma took the tear catcher over to the porthole. Annie followed and watched as Emma slowly turned it in the light.
“Ah ha!” Emma said.
“What is it?”
“Just what I was hoping for. Look.”
Annie squinted and focused on the tear catcher, partially lit in the dim light. Toward the top, a perfect oval appeared on the outside of the glass, with milky ridges and scrolls swirling within.
“That looks like a—” Annie’s eyes met Emma’s.
“Yes. A fingerprint.” Emma said.
“A fingerprint?”
“Look at your thumb or index finger.”
Annie held her hand up to the light, examining her nails.
“No, turn your hand over.”
Annie obeyed.
“Now, can you see the lines on the tips of your fingers?
Annie squinted as hard as she could. She folded her fingers up and looked at her thumb. Lines, ridges and whorls appeared in the dim light. “A thumbprint,” she whispered. “A thumbprint. I’ve read about a thumb-print somewhere. A man used red paint and a white piece of paper . . .”
“You continue to astound me, Annie.” Emma lowered the tear catcher, turning to Annie. “I thought you said you didn’t have much of an education. What you describe comes from Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi.”
“I didn’t have time for an education, but I love to read. Mr. Shaw, my stepfather, gave me The Adventures of Tom Sawyer for my birthday one year—that was before he and my mother started courting. He’s always been such a dear family friend. I told him how much I loved it, and he then gifted me with Life on the Mississippi. But what do we do with this fingerprint?” Annie asked.
Emma’s eyes widened with excitement. “We analyze it and compare it with the fingerprints of the other passengers.”
“How do we analyze it? Wouldn’t we have to wait till we get to London?”
“Maybe not. At any rate, we might give it a try.”
“Where would we get the necessary materials?” Annie asked.
“Who do you know who has access to talcum powder, paper, and perhaps a little paint?” Emma raised her brows, a Cheshire-cat grin on her face.
Annie returned the smile. “Hulda.”
Annie made her way back to her stateroom and found Frank had returned. She was bursting to tell him of their discovery. Maybe he’d be more convinced he was in danger.
When Annie entered their room, Frank was lying on the bed, his eyes closed and his complexion an ashen shade of gray.
“Frank?” Annie rushed to the bed.
Frank opened his eyes and raised his head. When he saw her, his head flopped back down on the pillow.
“Frank, are you still feeling poorly?”
“I’ve been better,” he said, raising his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“What is it?” Annie sat next to him.
“Nothing to worry about, dear. Just a headache and a bit of nausea. I’m sure it’s seasickness. It will pass as soon as I find my sea legs. Are you feeling all right?”
“Fine.” Annie shrugged her shoulders. She couldn’t let on that she felt less than fine. She didn’t want to concern Frank. He clearly felt much worse than she did at the moment. “But I’m worried about you. Shall I bring you something? Tea perhaps? Some bread? Mother used to fix us tea and toast when our stomachs ailed us.”
Frank patted her hand. “I’m fine for now, dear. Just a bit of rest is all I need.”
“Frank, Emma and I have had the most interesting day. We found something incredible. Well, quite troubling, actually.”
Frank grabbed her hand and held it in his, pressing her knuckles to his lips.
“Climb in beside me and tell me a story.” His voiced sounded weak, but his blue-gray eyes crinkled in the corners, causing her stomach to flutter as it usually did when he became sentimental with her.
He released her hand, and she placed it on his brow, brushing his sandy blond hair off his forehead. She didn’t linger with her caress as she was too excited about what she and Emma had found. She climbed onto the other side of the bed and, sitting cross-legged, arranged her skirt to circle her, covering her legs and lace-up, pointy-toed boots.
“Look at this.” Annie pulled the handkerchief from her pocket. “But don’t touch it. We don’t know what was inside, and we don’t want to smudge the fingerprint on the glass.” She unwrapped the handkerchief to reveal the tear catcher and the note.
“What is it?”
“Emma thinks it’s what is called a tear catcher. It could also be some kind of medicine vial. The note was inside.” Annie told Frank about the excerpt from William Blake’s poem and showed him the note she’d found on Mr. Bhakta’s body.
Frank’s eyebrows turned down, making a V on his forehead. “You found this in the refrigeration hold? What were you doing there?”
“We’re trying to find out who murdered Mr. Bhakta.”
Frank sat up. “You’re what?”
“You heard me. We aim to find out what happened to Mr. Bhakta.”
“Annie, the captain put the doctor in charge of any kind of investigation. You really shouldn’t get involved. If there’s a killer on board, I want you out of harm’s way.”
“I’ll be fine, Frank. I wasn’t the one pushed overboard—you and Mr. Bhakta were. This note about the queen is proof that Mr. Bhakta was indeed murdered.”
Frank gave her a faint smile. “It also proves I was not the intended victim. Mr. Bhakta has a relationship with the queen. I do not.”
“Probably, but we shouldn’t take any chances,” Annie said.
“My sentiments exactly. You will stay out of this.”
“Are you absolutely sure there is no reason anyone would want to cause you harm?”
“I’m positive. You needn’t worry, Annie. There is no reason for you to play detective.”
Annie bristled at his words. “I’m not playing at anything, Frank.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that we need you in fighting form for the performances in London. As your husband and manager, I insist you let the authorities handle the situ
ation.”
“We need you in fighting form, too, Frank. And you are ill.”
“It’s just a little seasickness.” Frank’s voice boomed. Annie leaned away from him and glared at him full in the face. She knew Frank meant no harm by his words or his tone, and he only intended to protect her, but she wouldn’t abide his raising his voice to her.
“I didn’t mean to shout,” Frank said more softly.
Annie nodded, accepting his apology. “I just want to go through these names with you, to see if any of them seem familiar,” she said gently, holding up the paper. She didn’t want to quarrel with him.
“Where did you get this list?”
“The ship’s manifest.”
“And how did you come by the manifest?”
Annie bit the inside of her lip. “Emma.” It wasn’t really a lie. If it hadn’t been for Emma, she wouldn’t have gotten the list.
Frank let out a puff of air in an attempted laugh and shook his head.
“Just humor me. Please?” Annie said.
“Fine. I’ll listen, but only if it will make you cease this inquiry.”
Annie blinked at him.
“Go ahead,” he said, resignation in his voice.
Annie straightened her legs out in front of her, the tips of her boots kissing. She rearranged her skirt and pulled the paper out of her dress pocket.
“Let’s see. We know about Miss Parsons, Becky Brady, and Mr. O’Brien. Then there is Mr. Patel, Miss Tessen and . . . Haley, Mr. Richard H.? I believe it said in the manifest he is a general scenic artist of Wallack’s Theater.”
Frank shook his head.
“Lilford, Mr. Arthur Lilford and Mrs. Arthur. I’m not sure why they didn’t give his wife a name.” Annie smirked, irritated the woman had been written down like an extension of her husband, a possession.
Frank raised himself onto his elbow, wincing with the effort. “How were we listed?”
“Butler, Mr. Frank and Oakley, Miss Annie. Well, I suppose that is better than Butler, Mrs. Frank.”
“Perhaps they don’t know we’re married and think we’re living in sin.” Frank grinned at her, his eyes twinkling.