by Kari Bovee
“What do these organizations do?” Annie perused the photograph more closely.
“The men’s organization fought in parliament for Irish Home Rule to release Ireland from England’s grasp, to fight for the rights of the Irish tenant farmers to own the land they worked on, and to abolish unfair landlordism practices in Ireland. They had Gladstone’s support, and the passing of his Land Act seemed to pacify the Irish for a while, but not permanently.”
Annie gasped. “Frank mentioned something about this.”
“Did he? Well, anyone who is interested in international politics would have heard about it,” Emma said. “Anyway, Parnell’s association with the Fenian Brotherhood, and his speeches—filled with violent language—were said to have incited bloodshed between the Irish and the English. Parnell and others were imprisoned, and Anna’s Ladies Land League continued the men’s work, supplying food and goods to the evicted tenant farmers as well as their counterparts in jail.”
“Sounds like a noble endeavor on Miss Parnell’s part,” Annie said. She knew what impoverishment and oppression felt like due to the state of her family after her father died, and her indenture with the McCrimmons. A helping hand in a time of crisis served to remind those suffering that there is still good will in the world. “Why do you think she is traveling under an assumed name?”
“Maybe wanting to avoid publicity?” Emma patted Buck on the neck. He nosed the papers in her other hand.
“Why would Anna want to travel incognito, lie about her identity?” Annie leaned into Buck’s warm shoulder. “What about Becky Brady? Is she traveling incognito as well?”
Emma shrugged. “And the gentleman traveling with them, Mr. O’Brien?”
“Seems harmless,” Annie said. “Miss Brady is an odd one, though. There is something about her. Something . . . frantic. Not right. I don’t feel comfortable when I am around her. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes. Quite the eccentric. Not the typical, obedient ladies companion,” Emma said, shaking her head.
“Lillie said something about her. Said she saw Miss Parsons—Parnell and Miss Brady in an argument. Said Miss Brady referred to the older woman as ‘Mother.’
Emma’s eyebrows shot up. “Pet name?”
“Who knows?” Annie handed Emma the paper, walked over to the stall door, and picked up the basket of goods Hulda had let her take. “I’ve got paint, beeswax, powder, and paper, among other things.”
“The great fingerprint experiment,” Emma said, giving Buck a final pat and letting herself out of the stall.
“Indeed, Watson. Care to accompany me?” Annie followed behind her, careful to shut the stall door. Buck raised his nose from the pile of hay at his feet, acknowledging the two women’s departure.
“No,” Emma said. “I’ll leave you to it, Sherlock. I’m going to see if I can find anything else in my trunk of newspapers about the Ladies Irish Land League. How do you think we should acquire fingerprints?”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” Annie settled the handle of the basket in the crook of her elbow. “I have an idea if you’re up to the task.”
“You know me, dear. I’m up for anything.” Emma tapped Annie on the shoulder with the newspapers.
“After the meal, I wonder if you could stash some used flatware in your reticule. You’ll have to be discreet.”
Emma grinned, leaning against the stall door. “I’m a journalist, remember. Discretion is my middle name. How will we know whose fingerprints are whose?”
“You’ll have to figure out a system,” Annie said.
“You are devious, Mr. Holmes. Not interested in pilfering yourself?” Emma asked, her pretty pink lips turning up in a smile.
“It’s against my Quaker sensibilities, but—you. . . .”
“Really, Annie. I don’t know if I am flattered or insulted.”
Chapter Eleven
Annie returned to her stateroom and found Frank sitting in the rocking chair, fully dressed and reading a newspaper.
“Feeling better?” Annie rushed to him, planting a kiss on his forehead. His skin still felt like bread fresh out of the oven—warm and moist.
“Honestly, no. I just couldn’t bear to lie around like an ailing old man anymore.”
“I’m going to get Dr. Adams.” Annie said, turning to leave the room again.
Frank lowered his paper. “You’ll do no such thing. I’m fine. It’s just a little seasickness. It will pass, I’m sure.”
Annie sighed. “Your stubbornness defies logic.”
“That is what makes me so loveable. I could say the same about you.” Frank opened the paper again and continued reading.
Annie took the basket over to the desk and pulled out scissors, parchment paper, several small jars, powder pots, powder puffs, and brushes, and set them neatly on the corner of the desk.
She took the roll of parchment paper and cut out two neat squares approximately the size of her hand. She then pulled out a glass jar labeled “grease paint,” the hue a burnished orange.
She bit her lip, considering her materials, and searched her memory for the passage in Twain’s story. She then took a small, wooden-handled brush, thick with stiff bristle—almost like cat’s whiskers—dipped it in the grease paint, and smeared a blob of the stuff on the paper. She worked the brush over the paper to get the thinnest layer of paint possible.
When she was satisfied, she took her index finger and lightly pressed it to the paint. She then flattened the tip of her paint-covered finger right in the middle of the clean square of paper. When she pulled her finger away, there it was—a perfect imprint of her finger. She examined the delicate swirls, lines, and fine ridges of her own signature print.
“Hah! Look, Frank.”
Frank peered over his newspaper, his eyes glazed over in disinterest.
“Right,” he murmured.
“Now, to compare it with something else I’ve touched. Ah!” Annie walked over to the vanity where the silver hair brush, comb, and mirror set Frank had given her as a wedding present lay. She picked up the brush and examined the back of it where he’d had her initials engraved.
Annie smiled at the memory of his giving her such a thoughtful, personal gift. She peered closer, looking for fingerprints. She couldn’t find any, so pressed her index finger to the silver. A faint image of the print appeared.
“Excellent.” She took the brush over to the desk. Taking up one of the fluffy powder puffs, Annie dipped it into a dark brown powder that the Indians used for their tawny skin, and sprinkled it over the print on the back of the brush. Tiny curls, twists, and coils sprang to life. Annie compared the two. “I think this will work,” she whispered.
“What will work?” Frank folded his paper and slowly stood up, rubbing his stomach.
“Did you use that glass?” Annie pointed to a water glass on the nightstand next to the bed.
“Yes.”
“Where did you get that? Did you bring in from the dining room?”
“Actually, yes.” Frank walked over to the glass, picked it up and brought it over to Annie. “When you were on deck, I ran into Miss Parsons and her ward, or her companion, Miss—?”
“Miss Brady,” Annie finished for him.
“Yes. They commented that I didn’t look well. I told them about my stomach ailment, and they gave me a packet of sodium bicarbonate. Miss Brady fetched the glass. I brought it to the room, drank it down, and lay down for a rest. That was right before you came in earlier.”
“Oh.” Annie couldn’t help feel a bit wounded that Frank wouldn’t allow her to help him in his time of discomfort. Or had she been too occupied with the murder investigation? Or her own stomach? “How kind of them. May I see it?”
Annie pulled Frank’s handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and took the glass. She held it up to the light. The sunlight in the room had shifted with the passing of time, making it difficult to see through the glass.
“What in the world are you doing?” Frank asked.<
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“I’ll tell you, but first, light that lantern, would you please?” Annie nodded to the lantern on the desk. Frank did as she asked. “Hold it up, here, so I can look through the glass,” Annie said.
A faint smattering of fingerprints covered the glass. Annie lowered it, thinking. She bent over the desk and delicately sprinkled the dark powder over the sides of the glass. Then, using the handkerchief, she set it down on the desktop. She cut out two more pieces of parchment, spreading grease paint on one of them.
“Frank, put your thumb or index finger in this splotch of grease paint, would you?”
“I don’t understand, but, for you, anything.” He bent over to kiss her.
“Frank, not now. Put your thumb in the grease paint.” He obeyed.
After he pulled his thumb away, she had him press it onto a square of paper. She held the paper and the glass close to the lantern. Some of the prints matched Frank’s, but there were others, much smaller than his.
“Frank, was Miss Brady wearing gloves when she and Miss Parsons gave you the sodium bicarbonate?”
“For the life of me, Annie—what are you trying to get at?”
Annie set the paper and glass down on the desktop. “Do you remember the tear catcher I showed you? The one with the note in it?”
“Yes. I thought we had put this to rest. You aren’t continuing with your ‘investigation’ are you?”
“Frank, please hear me out. That tear catcher had some fingerprints on it. What if it contained some kind of medicine—or poison? What if Mr. Bhakta was poisoned? I think it would be safe to surmise that if he was, whoever poisoned Mr. Bhakta handled that tear catcher, leaving their fingerprints on it.”
“And you think Miss Brady’s fingerprints are on the tear catcher?” Frank asked. “You think she could have possibly killed Mr. Bhakta? I think that is a stretch, don’t you? Why would she want Mr. Bhakta dead? You don’t seriously think Miss Brady is suspicious?”
Annie pressed her hands down on the rail of the chair-back at the desk, forcing her shoulders up to her ears. She rolled her neck in a circle to work out the kinks.
“Perhaps not, but I don’t believe she is who she says she is. Miss Parsons isn’t who she says she is, either. She’s really Anna Parnell.”
Frank’s brows shot up. “Parnell? Of the Ladies Land League?”
“You know of them?”
“What honest Irishman doesn’t?”
“So do you remember if Miss Brady was wearing gloves?”
“I think so.” Frank rubbed his chin in thought. “Yes, I remember the hideous color. Puce, is it?” Frank crossed his arms over his stomach, and the color drained from his face. He clung to the back of the chair for support.
“Frank, sit down.” Annie pulled the chair out for him and guided him toward it. “That’s it. I’m fetching Dr. Adams. Don’t move.” Annie shook her finger in his face.
Frank eased himself into the chair, rested his arms on the desk, and held his head in his hands.
“I guess you probably should. I seem to be getting worse.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Frank nodded, his forehead resting against his palms. Annie rushed to the door, but before she walked through it, she turned and looked back at her ailing husband. She didn’t know anything about doctoring, but she did have a strong intuition, one that rarely failed her. She feared Frank’s illness might be more than mere seasickness.
Annie sat on the bed next to Frank while Dr. Adams took Frank’s pulse. Frank’s face had gone white. Perspiration dotted his forehead and his sallow cheeks. He moaned, rolling his head back and forth on the pillow.
“What’s wrong with him?” Annie laid her hand on Frank’s chest.
“I’m not sure.” Dr. Adams lowered Frank’s wrist.
“More than seasickness?”
Dr. Adams placed his gold pocket watch back into the pocket of his tweed waistcoat. His eyes, nestled under bushy tawny brows sprinkled with gray, met Annie’s.
“Could be food spoilage. When did he last eat?”
“With me, at luncheon—we had the same thing, and I feel fine.” She wondered if she should mention her nausea, but that had started before they got on the ship.
“Has he had anything else?”
“No—well, actually, he mentioned that Miss Brady and Miss Parsons gave him some sodium bicarbonate.”
Dr. Adams placed the first two fingers of each hand into the small pockets of his waistcoat. His mouth made a clucking sound.
“I don’t see how that would have hurt. It should have made him better.”
“Unless it was something else,” Annie said.
The doctor raised his brows at her, as if waiting for her to explain.
“Someone pushed Frank overboard, along with Mr. Bhakta,” she explained. “They chose their moment carefully, when everyone on deck was preoccupied with my horse. You said Mr. Bhakta’s symptoms could have been caused by poison of some kind. What if someone was—is poisoning Frank?”
“I said Bhakta’s symptoms could have been caused by a number of things. And we haven’t been able to establish a motive—for why either man would be killed,” said Dr. Adams, fingering his waxed mustache.
“Yes, but I think Mr. Patel was on to something when he stated that someone could be after Frank because of his supposed affiliation with the Fenians.”
The doctor cocked his head. “But he himself denied that allegation.”
Annie shrugged. “People believe what they believe. I myself have been defamed in the past with false allegations.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Oakley, but it just doesn’t hold water.”
“Dr. Adams, look at this.” Annie went to her desk and pulled out the note she’d found on Bhakta’s suit. She held it up for him to see. “I found this pinned to Mr. Bhakta’s suit.”
“But I dressed him after I examined him. I didn’t see any note.” Dr. Adams took the paper, confusion written in his eyes.
“I went to the refrigeration hold. I wanted to look at him again, in case—”
“In case I missed something?” The doctor raised his brows.
Annie swallowed, embarrassed she’d admitted to second-guessing him. “Well, sometimes another pair of eyes . . . anyway, don’t you see? This is proof Mr. Bhakta was murdered.”
Dr. Adams’ face clouded over. Annie couldn’t tell if he was concerned or angry.
“Possibly,” he said. “But what does it have to do with your husband? Based on your theory, it’s obvious that Bhakta was the intended target, not your husband. Bhakta is much closer to the queen. One of her trusted servants.”
Annie nodded. “Yes, I suppose. I’ve just never known Frank to be so ill.”
Frank coughed and his eyes fluttered open. He tried to sit up. “Oh, no you don’t.” Annie pushed down on his chest.
Frank lay back down, confusion in his eyes.
“How do you feel?” Dr. Adams held Frank’s wrist again and took out his pocket watch.
“Better, I think. I’d like to sit up.”
Annie looked up at the doctor for his opinion. He helped Frank to sit up, and Annie fluffed the pillows behind him.
“I want you to take it easy, Mr. Butler. Bland foods, no alcohol. This ailment just needs to run its course.”
Annie took hold of Frank’s hand, her chest aching with worry for him. His color had improved, if only slightly, but his usually heart-stopping smile looked forced.
“I’ll be fine, Annie. Just a slight case of the grippe.”
“Pulse rate is still elevated, Mr. Butler. You need to rest,” Dr. Adams said, lowering Frank’s wrist to the bed.
Annie knew Frank was putting on a good front to alleviate her worries, and she still had her doubts.
“What’s all this?” Dr. Adams pointed to the mess on the desk.
“It’s an experiment I’m conducting. I’m looking at fingerprints. You see, Dr. Adams, I also found this.” Annie pulled the tear catcher from her dress pocket
. She had wrapped it in cloth, so it wouldn’t gather anymore fingerprints. “Miss Wilson and I are conducting an experiment to see if we can conclusively compare the fingerprints on this tear catcher to the possible murderer.”
“Uh-huh.” Dr. Adams rubbed his index finger over his lower lip. His voice betrayed his doubt. “Why are you doing this, Miss Oakley?”
“Because I want to find out who murdered Mr. Bhakta—and who might be out to harm my husband.” She blinked up at him.
“Mr. Bhakta’s symptoms—the bleeding in the eyes and gums—are nothing like your husband’s. Mr. Butler is suffering from some kind of intestinal ailment, not poisoning.”
“Perhaps, but don’t you want to know if this tear catcher has anything to do with Mr. Bhakta’s murder?”
“It is compelling,” the doctor said, smoothing his mustache. “You do realize that neither finding proves anything. The substance in that vial could be perfectly harmless. As to the note you found in Mr. Bhakta’s waistcoat—well, I’ll admit, it does give rise to speculation. If you are finished with the vial, I will see if I can determine what was in it.”
“Well, I haven’t taken the fingerprints from it yet.” Annie said. “But absolutely—you take it, just don’t handle it without gloves or a handkerchief. You can keep this piece of fabric.”
The doctor took the tear catcher wrapped in the fabric with a nod, amusement playing about his lips. Annie realized she probably did not have to tell the doctor how to handle the thing; she just wanted to make sure she could lift the fingerprints from it.
“As for your husband,” he said, looking over at Frank who had fallen asleep sitting up. “I will give him some more sodium bicarbonate. You make sure he drinks it every few hours.” He looked through his medical bag. “Oh, dear. I need to go to my office and retrieve it.”