by Orrin Grey
“No. Who is he?”
“Hemaraj’s family is one of the ruling nobles in the area. My father deals with his father in matters of business. They’re quite friendly. Hemaraj just returned from a trip to Egypt. This was one of his welcome home parties to display some of the treasures he’d found while there.”
“Treasures?” Helen furiously searched her memory for any hint of this conversation. But nothing came to mind. It was frustrating and made her feel that much more alone.
“Oh, yes. He’s a bit of an adventurer, tomb-delving and such. He found a marvelous treasure filled with gold jewelry and stone idols. My father brought an idol home yesterday. That’s how I found out you were there. Apparently, you made quite the impression on Hemaraj and his father.”
Helen stared at her friend, shaking her head. It was one thing to not really remember the night before because of overindulging on wine. It was another thing to remember nothing, to be bruised and battered, and to have your companion tell you about being at a party you didn’t remember. She opened her mouth to say so, but one of the wait staff, Sachio, stopped at her side and reached for an empty plate with a white-gloved hand.
A memory blossomed in her head. A handsome Assamese man in white and gold reached for her willing hand. His wrist was adorned with a heavy gold-cuff bracelet with an intricate design in thick swirls on it. In the center of the design was a large gem the color of fresh blood. Even as she accepted his hand, the bracelet made her shiver in fascination.
Helen flinched away from Sachio, pulling her hands into her lap.
The sudden movement caused the servant to freeze still. “My apologies, Lady Helen. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Elizabeth leaned to her. “Are you feeling well? You’ve gone pale—even for you.”
Helen shook her head and did not speak until Sachio moved away. “Something happened to me at that party. I don’t know why I didn’t call upon you to go with me. I don’t know why I can’t remember anything.” She bowed her head. “I wish you had been there. Then, at least, I would know what had happened.”
Elizabeth reached for her, then stopped as Helen drew away. “I’m sorry, I really don’t know what to do.”
“Neither do I.” Helen winced and let out a gasp as something turned over, sharp and painful in her lower abdomen.
“Helen?”
Helen shook her head. “Women troubles.” She gave Elizabeth a weak smile. “More tea should make things right.”
Elizabeth still looked concerned, but did not contradict her. The two of them enjoyed their repast in silence for a bit as Helen concentrated on convincing her body to relax while she looked around the Purple Room.
She had come here in hopes of nudging her memory and it had worked in part. As she let her eyes drift where they would, it seemed that people at several tables were watching her. At first, she thought it was her imagination. Then, as an English man at one table, then an Assamese woman at another, caught her eye and nodded, Helen was certain of it. She did not know either person. Though, they both seemed familiar somehow. Most likely, people of means that she had met at what passed for society parties here in Assam.
Still, it was unnerving. Both had been bold, as if there were a more intimate connection between than a casual meeting at a social gathering. Glancing around, Helen saw an unfamiliar servant quickly turn his head to look away from her.
Helen gave her companion a wan smile. “I’m sorry, Lizzy. I don’t feel well. I need to leave.” She stood without waiting for Elizabeth’s response.
Elizabeth stood and offered her arms. “I’ll call upon you in a couple of days.” As they embraced, Elizabeth murmured, “You’ll feel better soon. You’ll see.”
Helen pulled back from Elizabeth and searched her friend’s eyes. Lizzy had sounded so conspiratorial that, for a moment, Helen was certain that she knew what had happened and was, for some reason, hiding it. Helen dismissed the paranoid thought and nodded. “I’m sure I will.” She left Elizabeth at the table.
As she exited the dining room, George met her. After helping her into her coat, he took her hand in his and bowed over it. “Lady Helen, is everything well? Sachio said he startled you. I can remove him from the staff if he did.”
She shook her head. “It’s fine. Please, the Purple Room wouldn’t be the same without him. I was just lost in thought.”
“You’re certain?” The small man gazed at her, earnest and sincere.
Helen smiled at the Purple Room’s manager. She had no doubt that Sachio would be sacked—or at least removed from sight—if she asked for it. “I am. I just ... I don’t feel well. I need to go home.”
“Of course. Did you come by palanquin or motorcar?”
“Palanquin. My father’s business took the car out of the city today.”
George nodded. “Of course. I’ll have your people called to the front.” He bowed over her hand again. “Have a pleasant evening.”
“You, too.” Helen smiled, a genuine smile this time. George was a fixture at the Purple Room, with his balding pate and pressed suit. He knew how to make you feel better, even when you didn’t realize you’d felt poorly before. He was a good man and exactly the bit of normalcy she needed.
That normalcy disappeared as soon as she entered the lobby. The room was empty except for a black-clad nun with a white wimple. Nuns were a rarity in Assam and Helen had never seen one in the Purple Room before. This one stood as she entered. “Lady Helen.”
Helen fought the sudden urge to flee. “Yes?”
“My name is Sister Grace. I’m sorry to bother you, but we must speak.”
This was just a bit too much. “Perhaps another time. I’m not feeling well. I need to go home.”
“Lady Helen, this can’t wait. You’re in danger. I fear for your life and your immortal soul.” Grace spoke with calm clarity and no hint of hysteria. She kept her eyes on Helen.
“You cannot be serious.” Helen’s stomach sank at this strange turn of events.
“I am. I would not force my company upon you if weren’t required.”
“Fear for my life? Why?” Helen wondered if this nun knew what had happened to her and, if so, how? Nuns were not usually known for frequenting high society galas.
Grace glanced at the front door. “For one, your palanquin carriers are no longer yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“I watched them waylaid and stripped of their livery. There are only two reasons for such—to break into the home of a noble or to kidnap the person to be transported. In this case, you.”
Helen looked at the front door. Any moment, it would open and one of her carriers would enter. She shook her head. “I ….”
“I’ll show you. Trust me this far. Then you may choose to hear me out or not, as you will.” Grace offered a hand.
It was just too ludicrous not to be true. “Show me.” Helen gave her hand and trust to Grace for the moment. As she watched the nun, she wondered if Grace knew of her missing memories.
Grace flipped back one of the tapestries to reveal a hidden hallway. At Helen’s obvious surprise, Grace murmured, “Servants’ hallway.”
In all the months Helen had visited the Purple Room, it never occurred to her to wonder what paths the servants and wait staff used. All she knew, or cared about for that matter, was that the well-trained staff was there when she desired them to be. Now, as she traveled down the narrow, darkened hallways, she wondered about the servants’ passageways and quarters in her father’s estate. How had she returned home without anyone seeing her, much less with a male companion?
Turning this way and that, the two women traversed the back hallways until they were at a door and then outside. Cool in the winter afternoon, but nothing like an English winter, Helen huddled into her coat and hung back. She did not like the looks of the alleyway. As she pushed her free hand deeper into her coat pocket, she felt a crumpled card within. While Helen didn’t remember putting i
t there, it was something to be investigated later. “Where are we going?”
“Around to the front where you can see for yourself that those men are not yours.” Grace pulled her towards the main street.
Helen reluctantly complied. If what the nun said was true, it would mean she was in danger and that this woman might know what happened during her missing days. What else it would mean, Helen could only guess at.
The two of them crept to the alleyway exit. Though Helen could not see Grace’s face because of the wimple, she could hear the woman well enough. “Look there, those four men with your palanquin. Are they yours?”
Helen peeked around the corner, looking. The livery was familiar, but the faces were not. They all had the same dusky skin and dark hair of the Assamese, but one was pockmarked and another had a distinct scar. That was not allowed in the Keeling household. To her father, the carriers were part of the household aesthetic. One did not ride a broken horse, drive a rusted motorcar, or have ugly carriers. It just wasn’t done in her father’s world.
A shrill whistle caught her attention and the attention of the carriers. As she looked across the street to a small bead shop, an elegant man in fine clothing pointed at her and Grace. For a moment, everyone stared at each other. Grace grabbed her hand and pulled her back into the alley. Then they were running. “Hurry!” Grace commanded, pulling Helen behind her.
Helen tried to hurry, but stumbled over another brief memory.
Again, she was with the handsome Assamese nobleman in white-and-gold. This time, as he gripped her hand tight, he pulled her along and she resisted him, but there was a crowd of people behind her, urging her on.
Helen knew she was terrified—like she was now. It made no sense. Her first memory was of willingly accepting the man’s hand. Now, she was afraid and fighting him? What had she gotten herself into? The more Helen reached for the memory, the quicker it faded and became elusive, a series of images punctuated by fear and the sense that something horrifying was watching.
She looked back and saw the men in her family’s livery chasing them. It was only by Grace’s quick wit and knowledge of the streets that they had not yet been caught. Helen allowed Grace to pull her into the market crowd and put people between them and their pursuers. Every time Helen looked back, Grace pulled her harder. It was clear that she had a destination in mind.
Unused to such activity, even spurred on by the adrenaline of fear, Helen gasped for every breath, her side aching, her throat burning. The nun, on the other hand, appeared to have the stamina of an ox and, by the death grip on Helen’s hand, the strength of one.
“Please,” Helen panted, “I can’t.” She pulled away from Grace.
“You can. You will.” Grace yanked her forward. “Your life depends on it. Not much farther.”
“Where?”
“Where their kind cannot follow.” She led the two of them around another corner and stopped.
Across the street stood a small church made from the white brick of the area. It gleamed in the sunlight and promised sanctuary … except for the two rough white men lounging on the church stairs. These men, possibly sailors, stood and looked ready for all comers.
“What do we do?” Helen glanced over her shoulder and saw that their pursuers had found them again.
“What we need to do.” Grace’s voice was brittle with promised violence.
Helen looked down and was shocked to see the nun had pulled a wicked looking dagger from her robes. “Sister?”
“You get into the church. They can’t follow there. It’s protected.” Grace let her hand go and walked forward to meet the enemy.
Then several things happened at once: Their pursuers caught up with them; Grace slashed the first man with her knife; and Special Assistant John Sorin burst on the scene, fists and blackjack flying. In what felt like hours, but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, Grace became a whirling terror of flying blade and blood, clearing the way to the church stairs while John did everything possible to keep the would-be kidnappers off Helen. Every time one got a grubby paw on her, John attacked and pushed her forward towards the church.
When the odds shifted from six against three to three against three, there was another shrill whistle. Just like that, the fight was over and the enemy melted into the encircling crowd, shedding the formal livery as they went. Grace and John flanked Helen, watching them go.
“Come, let’s not give them another chance to get you.” Grace gestured towards the church.
John nodded and offered Helen his arm. She took it, but looked over her shoulder just before entering the church. There, in the shadows of a building, was the elegant dark-haired, dark-eyed man who had alerted the enemy to their presence. He turned away after they made eye contact.
Helen was certain she knew him, but had no idea why.
***
Inside the church, the sudden quiet dimness was startling as much as it was a relief. Helen took a breath before asking John, “What are you doing here? How did you know?” She also noticed that Grace had not hidden her deadly dagger, yet.
“I came to find you. Your steward told me you were at the Purple Room. I saw the carriers drop your palanquin and take off running down the alley. I saw flashes of you …” He turned to Grace. “... and saw your wimple. You’re known to the Commissioner’s Office. You and your accusations of growing occult evil. I thought, ‘Where would a nun go if she were running to safety?’ and took a direct path here. I’m glad my supposition was correct.”
“I’m known to you and your office, but you are not known to me.” Grace held the bloody dagger at her side with casual ease. She seemed prepared to do battle, even in this sacred place.
Helen saw that the nun was trembling. She stepped forward. “Mister Sorin, this is Sister Grace—whom I’ve just met—and Sister Grace, this is Special Assistant John Sorin. He is investigating ….” Helen faltered before finishing, “He is investigating a murder.”
When Grace did not move or speak, Helen shifted to her and gently took the dagger from the nun’s hand. “I don’t think we need this, anymore.”
Grace nodded. “Just so. We’re safe enough in here for now.” Without breaking eye contact with John, she addressed Helen. “You should find out what he wanted.”
“We know the identity of the murdered man. I came to name him to see if it helped with your memory loss.” John took out his notepad, paused, and looked around the nave of the small, but well-cared-for, church. “But I’m not certain this is the best place for this.”
“It is the only place for it. But let’s go to my cell.” Grace turned without waiting for assent.
John gestured for Helen to go before him. Helen knew whatever conversation was going to happen would be better conducted sitting down. It was only then that she realized that she still held Grace’s dagger. It disturbed her how good, natural, it felt in her hand.
Grace’s cell was small and cozy with stone walls, a bed, a chest of drawers, and a small table with two chairs. Helen returned the dagger to Grace, unwilling to keep the strangely comfortable weapon any longer. Grace gave it a perfunctory swipe with a dirty rag before hiding the blade beneath her robes again. She then sat on the bed, gesturing for Helen and John to sit on the two available chairs.
“I will begin.” Grace nodded to Helen. “I know you’re wondering who I am and why I chose to help you.”
“I was,” Helen agreed.
“Two nights ago, you went to a party thrown by Hemaraj Kumari at the Black Ram Club.” Grace paused as John’s head snapped towards her. “Something?”
He shook his head. “Not now. I apologize for interrupting.” His pencil moved in rapid swirls across the notepad page. When she did not immediately speak again, he gestured, “Please, go on. It seems you are part of this investigation, after all.”
“I’m not surprised. This is part of the evil I tried to warn the Commissioner of. He didn’t listen. Perhaps, now that Lady Helen’s life is at stake, you will.” Gra
ce collected her thoughts. “This party that you attended was as purported for most of the attendees—a welcoming party to show off the Chote Malik’s found Egyptian treasure. However, for a select few, it was so much more. It was a ritual and you were its victim.”
Helen looked away. “I don’t remember any of this.”
“And yet, you have the marks of being bound to an altar.”
“I have the marks of a struggle, yes.” Helen pulled the sleeves of her coat down to hide the bruises that were peeking out. “But nothing says it was a ritual.”
“What does your memory tell you?”
“Nothing.”
Grace nodded. “And what does your heart tell you?”
Helen did not want to think about that. What Grace was saying made sense. Except it didn’t. Why would anyone use her in a ritual? She was not an innocent by any means. Didn’t a ritual need such? And a magician? She was saved from answering by John.
“Excuse me, sister, how do you know what you know?”
Grace gave him a suspicious glance. “I have my ways.”
John nodded. “Please, it’s important for my investigation. You wanted the Commissioner’s attention. You have it through me. Now I need some facts.”
Grace stared at him for a moment before getting up and going to her chest of drawers. She drew a small bag from its depths. “I will answer after you hold this.”
Tilting his head, curious, John held out a hand. The bag looked heavy for its size. “May I open it?”
Grace nodded. Helen saw that she had her hand under her robes again. No doubt, there was a dagger in them. She wondered at this test and hoped he did not fail. It would make things so much more difficult if she couldn’t trust the Commissioner’s agent.
Putting the notepad to the side, John dumped the bag’s contents onto the table. It proved to be a small coin of alien design. It was black iron with an open, five-pointed star on one side and runes on the other. John picked it up and turned it over in his hand. He looked at both sides with a furrowed brow. “What is this?”