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  Tom’s question seemed much more genuine this time around, and I wondered whether his tone had really changed or whether my perception of him had.

  “No, I have absolutely everything I need,” I said, smiling up at him. “Thank you.”

  He bowed his head once and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Once he was gone, I realized how hungry I was. I tucked into my sandwich, finishing the whole thing in less than ten bites, making me glad there was no one else in the club to witness my unladylike manners. Then, I left a few bills on the table and a tip in the bartender’s jar on my way out.

  Just as I reached the door, a familiar figure came walking out of the door to my right—the door that led to the employee and performer break rooms.

  I lifted a hand in greeting to Everilda, but the moment she saw me, the easy confidence in her face turned to stone. Her ruby red lips tightened and she pivoted and disappeared back down the hallway. I stood in the doorway, stunned. What had changed since the last time I’d spoken to her?

  I turned around and saw Tom standing at the bar. Perhaps, she was afraid of what Tom would think if he saw her getting friendly with the girl who had asked all the questions? I didn’t know the answer, and standing dumbstruck in the doorway to the club wouldn’t provide any solution, so I stepped out onto the sidewalk and turned right.

  I couldn’t entirely explain what was compelling me to try and solve Frederick’s murder anymore. Part of it was the fact that the family’s chauffeur could have been the murderer, but deep down, I didn’t truly suspect him of the crime. If he had done it, wouldn’t he have tried to dispose of me when he found me trespassing in his room and I discovered the bloody gloves? I had all the evidence I needed to at least accuse him of the crime, if not entirely convict him of it. That would have been enough reason for him to kill me right then and there. However, he hadn’t. So, what made me want to keep going?

  If I was being honest with myself, part of it was a distraction. A distraction from the seemingly endless series of obstacles I’d faced. The first of which was losing my locket. The cheap jewelry didn’t exactly hinder my plan at all, but it had been a constant in my life for as long as I could remember, and I felt a little lost without it. The second had been receiving my inheritance in installments rather than all at once. While still in India, I’d doubted my plan. Mostly, I’d doubted my ability to maintain the charade of being Rose full time while living with her family members. To keep calm, I’d reminded myself that I could always claim the inheritance and then move away. No one would blame Rose for choosing a solitary life after surviving the trauma she’d suffered. I could take the money and start over someplace where no one knew the name Beckingham. I could go back to being Nellie Dennet if I wanted. Or someone else. I could be whoever I wanted. But now, without the full sum at my disposal, I had to stay in London. I had to stay in contact with the family’s solicitor. I no longer had the option of disappearing. And finally, the biggest blow of all, I lost the help of Achilles Prideaux. Now, I had no idea how to go about finding Jimmy’s whereabouts.

  Whatever the true reason, though, I found myself headed towards the brick house with the faded blue door Tom had described. It stood one block to the East of The Chesney Ballroom, on the corner. As I walked up, I noticed a blonde man standing on the front steps, banging on the door. I slowed my walk to a crawl.

  “Let me in,” the man shouted, pounding his fist against the ancient door.

  I heard a woman’s muffled voice respond, but I couldn’t make out any of the words.

  “Baby, it was nothing,” the man said, sounding considerably softer this time. He leaned against the flaking wood, his cheek squished.

  I felt uncomfortable listening to what was clearly an intimate moment, but I couldn’t walk away. I needed to know who I was looking at. Was this man Arthur Burton?

  Slowly, the door cracked open and a woman with long brown hair pulled into a twist at the base of her neck popped her head out. Her large eyes were focused and sharp, unforgiving.

  “You promised me, Arthur,” she reprimanded. “You swore to me, and I believed you. I’m not sure which of us is the bigger fool, but either way, I’m tired of being lied to. I’m tired of being fooled by you.”

  Arthur reached out to stroke the woman’s cheek, but she pulled her face away, diving back into the darkness of the house, the door still open.

  “It was only one drink, sweetheart,” he said, shrugging and looking down at his shoes. “There was more water than vodka in it, I swear.”

  “You swore you wouldn’t have any vodka at all,” she snapped. “But you can’t stay away from that stupid club. Spending time with me is always second to drinking and partying. And Artie? I’m tired of coming second.”

  Artie shook his head the entire time she spoke. “You aren’t second. You are first, Lissa. My number one.”

  “Then how come I sat on my sofa in my favorite red dress waiting for you to come pick me up all last night and you never showed?” she asked.

  Artie opened his mouth to answer, but Lissa kept talking. Apparently, she didn’t really want Artie to answer her questions.

  “And where were you two days ago when you promised to come over and help me paint the sun porch? And,” she added, her voice growing louder through the crack in the door, though I still couldn’t see her, “where were you at the beginning of the week when you promised to go with me to pick up my mother from the ship? We had to carry her luggage by ourselves and I ripped my good stockings.”

  This caught my attention. The ship? Could she mean the RMS Star of India? The same ship I’d come in on the day Frederick Grossmith was murdered? Arthur was supposed to meet his fiancé that morning but hadn’t shown up. So, where had he been instead?

  “I told you,” Arthur said, his words coming from behind clenched teeth. “I got caught up.”

  Lissa cut him off. “I’m tired of your excuses, Artie. And we’re causing a scene.”

  I couldn’t see her any more, but she must have gestured towards the street because Artie turned to look in my direction. I quickly picked up my walking pace and stared at the ground, trying to make it look as though I hadn’t been eavesdropping on their entire conversation.

  Artie turned back around. “I don’t care about what anyone else thinks,” he said. “I just want to make it up to you.”

  “You’re not welcome here anymore, Art. Goodbye.” With that, Lissa slammed the door shut, leaving Artie once again standing on the front steps, banging against the wood.

  I moved down the street quickly, forcing myself not to turn back and study Arthur, which proved to be incredibly difficult. Had I just passed by his house—or Lissa’s house—at the exact moment Lissa was explaining that Arthur had no alibi for the time of Frederick’s murder? Could I truly be that lucky?

  The facts were: Arthur frequented The Chesney Ballroom and had argued with Frederick recently; he had ample opportunity to have committed the murder and escaped quickly; and he was supposed to meet Lissa the morning of the murder, but never showed.

  I needed to talk to Arthur somehow. Or Lissa. Because I was pretty sure I’d just found my new main suspect.

  15

  When I finally made it home, Lady Ashton was in hysterics.

  “I was moments away from alerting the police, Rose,” she chastised, alternating between pulling me in for a hug and shaking my shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, aunt. I never intended to scare you,” I said.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. “I woke up and you weren’t in your room. I had the entire house searched for you, yet you were nowhere to be found. You didn’t leave a note or tell anyone where you had gone.”

  “I went for an early morning walk and then stopped for a bite to eat,” I said, offering up a half-true, yet flimsy explanation.

  “A walk that lasted halfway into the afternoon?” she asked, dubious.

  I nodded. “I visited the cemetery,” I said.

  This was a direct li
e, but I knew no one would fault me for spending so much time alone if that time had been spent in mourning. I didn’t think she or anyone else could blame me for going to see the headstone that had been erected in honor of my parents.

  This theory proved correct when Lady Ashton’s face morphed into a mask of pity, her eyes drooping down forlornly. “Oh dear,” she said, wrapping me up in another long hug.

  “I’m all right,” I assured her, patting her on the back. “It was nice to see the headstone. Thank you for having it commissioned.”

  She smiled at me, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Of course, dear. We miss your parents terribly.”

  Once my fake trip to the cemetery was offered up as an excuse for my absence, no one else mentioned it to me, and I was free to go about my day unhindered. I begged out of afternoon tea with the explanation that I was weary from my walk and would love to lie down, so I spent the better part of the afternoon in my bedroom. I did actually manage to take a short nap, but most of the day was spent in thought about how I would ever locate Jimmy without Achilles Prideaux’s help and how I could casually speak with Arthur Burton or his ex-fiancé, Lissa, about Arthur’s connection to Frederick and his whereabouts the morning of Frederick’s murder.

  After Monsieur Prideaux had saved my life aboard the RMS Star of India, I had felt us to be something akin to friends. Although I still knew little about his life and he knew even less about mine, the experience felt as though it had bound us together somehow. Rose had been one of my only friends, and I had lost her in the accident. So, it had been nice to think that I had found at least someone who was practically a friend in Achilles Prideaux. However, Achilles had quickly relieved me of that childish notion. He had referred to us as little more than acquaintances, words which, while they had wounded me rather more deeply than I cared to admit, also helped pull me from the pit of despair I’d allowed myself to fall into that morning. The truth was that Achilles and I were acquaintances. I had only known him a few short weeks, whereas my plan to locate Jimmy had been in motion before I even met the Frenchman. I had planned to come to London, retrieve Rose’s inheritance, and use the money to find Jimmy before I had ever heard a whisper of the famed Detective Prideaux. So, I now realized his refusal to help me should not hinder my search.

  A couple hours before dinner, I was feeling much more positive than I had been that morning. I’d finally climbed out of bed, prepared myself for dinner, and with help from the restorative nap I’d taken, was ready for a few laps around the back garden. I was on my way down the back stairs when I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see Catherine running after me.

  I had spent little time with Catherine since arriving in London. The few words she’d spoken to me had been harsh and unforgiving, and she seemed intent upon disliking me, so I did little to convince her otherwise. Now, however, it was clear she wanted to speak to me.

  She wore a long silk gown that emphasized the delicacy of her tall frame, and her hair was curled into perfect waves that hugged her oval face and made her already large eyes look even more prominent.

  “We missed you at afternoon tea, cousin,” Catherine said, offering me what appeared to be a genuine smile.

  “Ah, yes. I was tired after my adventure this morning.”

  “You had the house in a bit of a stir,” she said with a laugh. “Though, no one was as concerned as Mama. She can work herself into a right tizzy over nothing.”

  “Sorry if I caused you any trouble,” I said.

  Catherine reached out a hand and placed it on my shoulder, pursing her lips. “Do not apologize, Rose. My mother told me you visited your parents at the cemetery, and I can only imagine what an emotional experience that must have been for you.”

  I suddenly felt guilty that this tender moment between Catherine and I was entirely based on a lie. Of course, I had visited Rose’s parents at the cemetery, just not that morning. And it had been an emotional experience, but not for the reason Catherine believed. While living in India, I was close to Rose’s family, but her parents never treated me as family the way Rose did. Rose had become like a sister to me, whereas her parents were always more like my employers than anything else. The emotions I felt while visiting their memorial site were linked to the guilt I felt at taking Rose’s identity. At the thought that Rose would not receive the proper memorial she deserved.

  I swallowed down my guilt and smiled at Catherine. “Thank you, cousin. It was emotional, but the cemetery was quite beautiful. A fitting location for their memorial.”

  Catherine smiled at me again, though this time, it appeared as though she wished to say more. She bit her lip and looked down at the floor, her hand still resting on my shoulder. I didn’t want to turn and walk away but standing with her in silence was too uncomfortable to bear.

  “Well,” I said, turning slightly.

  “Wait.”

  Catherine dropped her hand and crossed her arms over her chest. She took a deep breath, and suddenly I was more nervous than ever. Catherine always appeared to be wholly confident. She moved through life with an ease and grace brought on by wealth and status. If she was nervous to say something to me, then I didn’t even want to imagine what could be the cause. I swallowed down fear while I waited for her to gather the courage to speak.

  “Yes?” I prompted, looking up at her.

  She pursed her lips together and then began to speak quickly, the words rushing out all at once. “I feel I must apologize for my behavior towards you since your arrival. I have been unkind, and I see now it was unwarranted. I hope you can forgive me.”

  Whatever I’d imagined Catherine would say, it hadn’t been anything close to an apology. I stared up at her, dumbstruck.

  She must have taken my silence as anger, for she continued.

  “You must understand, we haven’t been in one another’s confidence in many years, so your sudden arrival was rather unexpected. And, of course, you know that. Leaving India was unexpected, and I know you have been through a trauma, but the root of my anger stemmed from our disintegrated relationship. You and I were good friends when you lived in London, were we not? I considered us as close as sisters. When you left, I expected to remain so.”

  “Oh,” I finally managed to say, the rest of my words caught in my chest. Catherine was angry because Rose had stopped being her friend? I’d taken her anger to be because she missed out on my inheritance or because I was stealing attention away from her. Never had I imagined she could be complex enough to desire my friendship.

  “I simply wished to apologize for my behavior and beg your forgiveness. I plan for things to be much different moving forward,” she said, nodding her head in earnest.

  “Oh,” I said, still stunned. “Yes, all right.”

  “So, you forgive me?” she asked, eyebrows pulled together in doubt.

  I reached out to still her nervous hands, which were pulling at the silk of her dress. “Yes, dear cousin. Of course, I do.”

  The smile that lit up her face could have been a substitute for the sun. She was beaming, and I felt a sudden kinship with her that I hadn’t felt in the entire time I’d been in London. Then, suddenly, her face fell again. Worry darkened her eyes.

  “I feel I must apologize for something else, as well,” she said, barely daring to look up at me.

  I squeezed her fingers, reassuring her. “Yes?”

  She sighed. “Well, Edward was dubious when word of your miraculous survival reached us, and I fear I encouraged his disbelief. We had thought you dead for several days, and then suddenly you were alive, and everyone was thrilled and talking at length about having you at the house. Jealousy sparked inside me, and though I see how silly my feelings were now, they did not feel silly at the time. I allowed myself to be controlled by envy, and it has now created a large chasm between you and my brother.”

  My heart felt as though it were lodged in my throat. Had I not been holding on to Catherine’s hand, I might have tumbled backwards down the stairs. “So, Edwar
d does not believe I truly survived?” I asked, my lips dry as a desert. “I’m afraid I do not understand.”

  “In short, he believes you are not our cousin, Rose Beckingham,” Catherine said, shaking her head. “Please do not be angry with him. I know how it must feel, but he has been going through a hard time. Not as difficult as yours, of course, but then very few people experience the kind of misfortune you have, dear cousin. Edward is the eldest child and the only son of my parents. He went to school but has done nothing with his education and has few prospects. Our family, if I may be honest with you, is approaching uncertain financial circumstances in the future. Nothing that will ruin us, mind you. Perhaps Edward and I have exaggerated that a bit. But things are tighter than they used to be. Although news of your family’s tragedy shook us to our core, there was also talk of the inheritance, and I’m afraid Edward may have taken to the idea of having the money. As sad as the circumstances were, the money would have helped us. When word of your survival reached us, Edward didn’t want to believe it right away.”

  Somehow, it was a comfort to me that Edward had begun to doubt my identity even before seeing me. It meant my disguise was better than I thought. His disbelief didn’t stem from my appearance or memories—though, that certainly could have been fueling his fire—but from his own greed.

  “I’m not angry,” I said. Quite the contrary, in fact. I felt a renewed sense of peace. I had begun to believe that perhaps Edward and Catherine doubted my true identity, but to hear Catherine say she believed me to be Rose all along and that she had, in actuality, encouraged Edward’s disbelief gave me hope that he could be persuaded. That he could come to believe I was his cousin. “Thank you for your apology, but I assure you it is unnecessary. I’m only sorry we lost touch over the years.”

  Catherine smiled down at me. “You are as kind as ever, dear Rose.”