Holiday Gone

by Beth Byers

  Hettie gasped, and stared too long at a lamp to well up fake tears. “You don’t need to yell at me, Ro,” Hettie sniffed, letting her bottom lip tremble. “It was a rhetorical question. I never expected you to actually answer.”

  “I’m not buying that nonsense,” Ro said, waving her hand towards Hettie’s face.

  Hettie let her mouth drop open and tried desperately for a tear. It took too long, but she got one to roll slowly down her cheek.

  Ro stood, laughing, taking Hettie’s face between her hands and pinching her cheeks. “My poor, poor little lamb.” Hettie sniffed, but the corner of her mouth twisted with enough of a smile that Ro declared, “I won.” She paused. “I have a declaration to make.”

  Hettie paused, framing her face with her own hands, and blinking with rapt attention. “Tell me all.”

  “I prefer travel by ship.”

  Hettie dropped her hands. “Agreed! Shuffleboard. A ballroom. A stateroom that makes this compartment a cleaning closet.”

  Ro picked up the magazine again but rolled it with anxious frustration. “I know. I’m going mad. I’m tired of being cooped up. I wish we were there already.”

  “We’re spoiled,” Hettie said, bypassing her fur coat for her next warmest coat. “Let’s go for a walk. It’ll be good for us.”

  “But what about—?”

  “Cecil won’t leave his room.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “We’ll borrow a lead pipe from our conductor friend.”

  “Oh?” Hettie took up the fur coat and shook it out before handing it to Ro. “Are you going to put it in your brassiere?”

  “Yours darling,” Ro said. “You have far more bounty than I.”

  Hettie shot Ro a dark look. Being voluptuous was not the style of the day, but Ro pointed out that women cared more about the style than men. Hettie didn’t believe it.

  “I don’t think we need to worry about Cecil,” Hettie finally said. “He knows that others will leap to my help, and he’s not enraged currently.” She held up a spoon from their afternoon tea and then pocketed it, watching Ro’s eyes bulge nearly from her head. “Oh don’t be dramatic. I’m sure I won’t have to use it.”

  “Use it?” Ro’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “What are you planning to do, spoon him to death if he assaults your person again? You’re far too overconfident if you think that a teaspoon will protect you from the likes of Cecil Cavanaugh or any man.”

  Ro lifted her suitcase from the floor. “I have another confession to make.” She clicked open a lid and moved things around to reveal a small, shiny revolver tucked away in the clothes.

  “You brought a gun?” Hettie shrieked. “We will definitely shoot ourselves.”

  “I know how to use it,” Ro said. “You, however, are definitely a risk to mankind.”

  “That’s not nice!” Hettie cried. “Even if I agree.”

  “The affair with the adventure club set my teeth on edge and I got to thinking that next time we needed to solve a problem, we might not have the luxury of driving to my father’s house to get his antique war pistol. I’d say I was exactly right, wouldn’t you?”

  Hettie relaxed, but she looked at the pistol ruefully. “I suppose you are right, but it seems so barbaric that we’d need to carry a weapon for protection.”

  “I don’t know if it is precisely legal and I may well have broken international law by bringing it over, but I think the incident at lunch proves it was worth the risk.” Ro put on the fur coat, adding the gun—gingerly—to her coat pocket. “C’mon. Let’s go explore. If we run into Cecil, we’ll have nothing to fear.”

  Hettie snorted. “Except ourselves.”

  Ro followed Hettie into the narrow corridor, mumbling under her breath that Canada had turned them all into vigilantes. “I never thought I’d already be eager to return to England. Your mother might be here, but mine is there.”

  The corridor was deserted between their compartment and the dining car as far as Hettie could see ahead of her. She was on alert for Cecil, but she didn’t think he’d be a problem. Every compartment they passed had their doors shut and Hettie heard a telltale squeaking from one, snoring from two, and a person singing in another.

  Finally, they passed a room with an open door. Hettie peeked in and saw the conductor. He stood over a crumpled body and his hands were spotted with blood from the lifeless victim.

  “Mr. Ribsy?” Ro asked. “Oh my! What’s happened? Who is that?”

  The conductor was pale and clammy and his hands were shaking as badly as her own earlier. He was clearly not going to be of any help. Hettie risked a look closer.

  It was Cecil Cavanaugh. He was most definitely dead and it was most definitely not an accident. There was a medium-sized clock covered in blood on the ground next to Cecil’s head. Somebody had bludgeoned Cecil to death in the middle of broad daylight on the railway.

  This day was getting worse and worse. Hettie bent down to take a closer look at Cecil. She supposed she should be squeamish about it all, but it was an odd observation to her that she felt nothing but relief at this turn of events. No guilt, no wondering what could have been, something she’d wrestled with after her husband died, but plain and simple relief. Her world was a better place without Cecil in it.

  Behind her, she heard Ro’s voice. She was speaking to Ribsy, who was beginning to at least make basic groans and grunts through his shock. Cecil lay on his stomach, his face turned to the side, and his hand outstretched in the direction his eyes looked. There was nothing anywhere within reach of Cecil’s hands or within view of his now unseeing eyes. His hands were curled.

  “Does it look to you like he was holding something?” Hettie asked Ro, who glanced back and then nodded.

  If so, the killer took it, whatever it was. Perhaps it was the reason behind the killing.

  How heavy was the clock? She moved around to the other side of his head where the clock lay. She had to step over the body, but that didn’t bother her. She stood away from the blood pooled around Cecil’s head. What an odd way to die.

  The poor conductor had blood on his hands and his shoes but not anywhere else on his person that Hettie could see. Hettie had little doubt the man hadn’t killed Cecil, but she also had little doubt that Amy would rally everyone against the poor fellow.

  Ro had been talking to him in a very soothing voice, and awareness was returning to his eyes. “Step back, ladies. You’ll get blood on you.”

  Hettie bit back a snort at that. “Don’t worry, Mr. Ribsy. We haven’t touched anything. You, on the other hand, are a sight to behold.” His right hand was bloody and upon closer look at the clock there was a handprint in the blood. “Did you kill Cecil, Ribsy?”

  He gasped, and her feeling that he had nothing to do with it deepened.

  “I would never!”

  “I wouldn’t blame you,” Hettie told him. “Ro was thinking he needed to die just after luncheon.”

  Ro patted his back. “If you did kill old Cecil, tell us, and we’ll do what we can to help you.”

  “Kill him?” Ribsy stuttered, his voice rising an octave at the accusation. “Of course not. I happened upon him only moments ago and found him like this—in a heap on the floor. I knelt and turned him over so I could see who it was and if he was yet alive. He was already dead. There was nothing I could do, but this wasn’t me! Please believe me.”

  “I believe you, of course,” Ro said, patting his back again. “But you look quite guilty. Blood on your shoes. I’m sure those are your fingerprints on the murder weapon. Blood from him on your hand. Not to mention finding you standing over the bastard after the confrontation earlier.”

  He squeaked, looking down as if shocked to learn of the blood on his hand. He absentmindedly wiped his hand on his jacket. Now he truly looked guilty. For the love of goodness, Hettie shook her head and glanced at Ro.

  The conductor spoke. “I—I—I must—must have moved the clock when I was checking to see if he was alive. I didn
’t kill him. I can see now what this looks like, but I didn’t. I didn’t!”

  “I believe you, Ribsy.” And Hettie did. “Where can we find your train’s security officer? I think we should ring for him under the circumstances, don’t you?”

  He nodded and Hettie backed up to the doorway and knelt to look at Cecil’s face. His eyes were glazed over and he was staring into the distance.

  It wasn’t a look that Hettie wanted to see ever again, and a part of her remembered that boy who’d cut off her braids, laughing hysterically. He’d been so full of life then. She didn’t like to see this version even if she despised him.

  Chapter 9

  They’d called for the train security officer while Ribsy had locked the door to the compartment from the outside. He’d taken a seat on a stool nearby to watch the door and prevent anyone else from entering. The train was still stopped on the tracks, but local police officers—the Canadians apparently referred to them as mounties—had arrived on horseback.

  There was organized chaos around the compartment, which she and Hettie watched from nearby, given that the Mounties wanted to talk to them both. One of the maids who had been nearby with Ribsy said that they’d heard arguing from inside. They’d also seen a person in a dark cloak that covered their face quickly leave. There was a hint of snow on the cloak, so—at first—the maid had assumed it was a passenger who had ventured off the train, but now—the girl was hysterical that she’d come so close to death herself.

  The compartment where Cecil had been found was assigned to Janet and Humphrey Banks, Hettie’s aunt and uncle. Hettie’s entire family secured compartments near to one another. Cecil’s compartment was three down the aisle from Humphrey while Amy and Frederick’s door faced the one where Cecil had been found.

  Hettie dreaded the thought that a person Hettie was supposed to love might have killed Cecil.

  Jonas Cavanaugh was the first family member to get word of the murder and arrive at the compartment. He took in Hettie’s distraught expression but said nothing, and his face didn’t reveal his thoughts. Before long, Amy and Frederick came teetering down the hall toward their room, clearly inebriated. It seemed they’d been lingering in the dining area, drinking heavily. They didn’t appear to notice the crowd gathered outside their rooms until they were nearly standing on top of them.

  “What’s all this?” Amy demanded, glancing between them all. She took in Hettie’s presence and hissed, “Come to your senses?”

  “Ah,” Ro said too loudly, “that does seem in particularly poor taste.”

  Amy turned to Ro, gaze narrowed, and snarled, “That’s enough out of you. I know what you are, and I don’t like it.”

  “What am I?” Ro asked.

  “Sister stealer.”

  “You lost me all on your own,” Hettie told Amy. “Cecil is dead, and you’re embarrassing yourself.”

  Poor Ribsy shuddered at Hettie’s flat tone. “I—I—I found him. Someone—someone clocked—oh dear me—I didn’t mean—” His voice trailed off.

  Hettie had to bite down on her bottom lip to prevent the very in-poor-taste laugh. She met Ro’s gaze and saw the same flustered expression that she assumed matched her own. She fixed her gaze on her sister, but inside, she wanted nothing more than to escape the madness and start their journey anew. Without the presence of family, living or dead.

  Recalling what Hettie had said regarding her shared secret language with her sister Amy, Ro watched Amy very actively avoid making eye contact with Hettie who was staring her down. It was odd how hard Amy tried to not look at her sister.

  Amy’s fists clenched when she glanced at the Mounties and then said with cloying sincerity, “How terrible. This is just awful. Do you have any idea who would do such a thing? We certainly know he had every reason to be furious with Hettie, among others.”

  Ro heard Hettie’s gasp over her own. How dare Amy! Insinuating Hettie had killed Cecil? What kind of sister would do such a thing? Ro’s mouth was gaping in unison with Hettie’s, who stared at her sister. All the while, Amy continued to avoid Hettie’s gaze.

  The Mountie studied them. Ro had to admit he had fabulous shoulders and he had that whole ‘man of the peace’ feel that was attractive in its own way. Especially when he addressed Amy and Frederick. “It’s a bit early to be throwing accusations at each other. Does anyone have any idea where the Bankses are?”

  “I certainly don’t keep their schedule,” Jonas Cavanaugh said blithely. “Cecil could have been here to discuss one of his many business dealings with them—or personal ones. He was pledged to wed my business partner’s daughter, Hettie. She is niece to the Bankses.”

  “That’s preposterous, Jonas. We weren’t pledged to anything of the kind.” Hettie’s voice rose above the din of the rest of the voices in the corridor. “He’d proposed many times and I’d said no just as many. Once very publicly today on this very train. Many of you were witnesses to that. I was never going to marry Cecil Cavanaugh.”

  “Only because you are too selfish,” Amy snapped.

  The Mountie looked between the two. “How do you know the victim?” he asked Amy.

  “He’s a longtime friend of the family,” Amy said.

  Ro added, “And she is Hettie’s sister. Wait long enough and Amy will come at Hettie claws out. You see, Amy wanted Hettie to marry the dead man and Hettie said no. There was no need for Hettie to murder him. All she had to do was continue to say no to torture him. Plus, and I must state this clearly, Hettie and I haven’t separated since we all saw that fiend Cecil alive.”

  “You’d lie for her,” Amy shot out.

  “One would expect that you would lie for her, being her sister. I don’t have to, however, because we were together and nowhere near this compartment.” Ro focused on the Mountie.

  “I understand that there was a ruckus about a proposal.” The Mountie faced Hettie. “That was you?”

  “He seemed to think that if he kept asking I would succumb.”

  The Mountie snorted. “Why was he fixated on you?”

  “His father lost their fortune and I still have mine,” Hettie said.

  “They’re longtime friends,” Amy cut in. “Our families have been linked for years and it was the desire of everyone involved.”

  “Except Hettie,” Ro reminded her. “She has her own fortune. She has no need to share with Cecil, and quite frankly, he wasn’t exactly a charmer. Even alive, he was not handsome. He had nothing to offer except his connection to her family, and there’s a reason that we’re only visiting.”

  The Mountie’s brows rose and he examined Hettie—along with everyone else outside the compartment.

  Hettie bit down on her bottom lip and then admitted, “That sums it up nicely.”

  “Surely not,” Frederick said, looking almost hurt. “You wouldn’t leave now. We’re your family.”

  Hettie closed her eyes. “This life doesn’t fit me anymore, Frederick. The fact that even after Cecil tried to hurt me but it’s still my fault because I refused him is a compelling enough reason to remain in England. Even if that weren’t a factor, I’m happy there.”

  Ro noted the Mountie was taking in everything they said.

  “Well, who else would want to kill Cecil?” Amy demanded. “Are you suggesting that the conductor killed him?”

  Hettie scoffed as Ro snapped, “Why would you say that?”

  The Mountie waited for Amy to answer, but she crossed her arms over her chest and instead snapped. “This is making me quite lightheaded. Frederick, do be a gentleman and let me into our room. I’m afraid I’ve had quite a lot to drink. And I’ve discovered that either my sister or this fellow is a murderer. I must lie down.”

  Ro rolled her eyes and silently plotted a way to toss Amy from the train at the earliest opportunity. Frederick complied, if sheepishly, and the Mountie addressed both before they pulled the door closed behind them. “I’ll need to talk to you both since your compartment is across from where the victim was killed and you
were well-known to the deceased.” As the door closed in his face, he added loudly, “Do not leave your compartment until I’ve had a chance to speak with you.”

  “Rich people truly are despicable,” Ro muttered, and the Mountie choked on a laugh.

  Jonas spoke to the Mountie again. “We must determine who did this to my nephew. What do you know so far?”

  He paused for a moment and finally said, “Not much. He was killed, likely in a fit of rage, most likely by a blow over the head with that clock. The details are sparse after that.”

  Ro guessed that he knew more than he was saying. She did like the look of the Mountie fellow. And she looked forward to talking about him with her Scotland Yard man. She hid an evil grin.

  Janet and Humphrey rounded the corner and stopped abruptly. “What all this? Why are you all standing here outside my compartment?”

  “Cecil is dead.” Jonas spoke before the Mountie had a chance. “Someone killed him in your compartment.”

  Janet gasped and leaned into Humphrey, who held her up while looking about the corridor as though he expected to find the murderer standing among them. “Why our compartment? Of all the infernal impertinences! Where will we sleep now? This is unacceptable. Conductor, your superiors will be hearing of this.”

  “Oh my goodness,” Janet breathed, tears forming in her eyes. “Cecil! Cecil can’t be dead. Why…why…he was practically family.”

  “Bloody hell,” Ro said, “your family is awful.”

  “I know,” Hettie said, rubbing the back of her neck. “Save me.”

  Sounding exhausted, Humphrey demanded, “What suspects do you have? What’s being done to solve this problem and what will you do with Mr. Cavanaugh’s body?”

  Ro noticed Hettie was eyeing her aunt and uncle with overt disdain. She’d yet to meet anyone from Hettie’s family who was kind. How had she gotten to be so wonderful when everyone around her was pure devil?

  The Mountie replied, “Why don’t we come this way so I can interview you, Mr. Banks. I need a few details.”