A Grave Welcome Page 13

  I’d almost been murdered.

  Again.

  For the third time in as many months, someone had made an attempt on my life. First, the explosion in Simla that killed the Beckinghams. Second, when Dr. Rushforth attempted to strangle me on the ship once I suspected him as the killer. And now, third, the mystery shooter.

  Did the attack have something to do with Frederick Grossmith’s murder? Had I once again come too close to solving the case and put my own life in jeopardy? Or had it been a member of my own family? Had Edward attempted to take my life to ensure my inheritance went to him? If Catherine was to be believed, the Beckinghams were not in a financially secure situation, and my fortune would certainly solve the brunt of their issues.

  The question of who pulled the trigger stayed at the forefront of my mind, inhibiting rest until my body could no longer fight it off and I sunk into a fitful sleep full of shadowy attackers and the sound of gunfire.

  18

  Aside from Alice’s incessant discussion of the shooting and the miraculous way she had dodged the bullet by throwing herself to the ground at the last possible moment, Ashton House seemed to have settled back into its normal routine by the next morning. No one seemed overly concerned with the shooting or what it meant for the safety of the family. In fact, Lord Ashton had decided, apparently overnight, that the bullet that had lodged itself in the stone façade of his home must have been a stray bullet shot from the gun of a “passing troublemaker.” His wife, eager to rid herself of the excitement from the day before, latched onto this theory, as well.

  I wanted to dissuade them from becoming comfortable so quickly after the shooting, for fear another attack would be made, but I was no closer to answering the question of who pulled the trigger than the police were. The sergeant had come by the house during breakfast to inform Lord Ashton that his officers had walked themselves weary the night before and found nothing of any consequence.

  “I would not pull my men from your neighborhood if I believed you or any member of your family could be in danger,” the man said, his voice floating from the entrance hall into the dining room where myself and the rest of the Beckingham family sat still as statues, unchewed food sitting on our tongues lest we chew and miss a single word. “It’s just that this neighborhood is exceptionally safe, and my men are needed in other areas of the city.”

  “Of course,” Lord Ashton said. I could picture him puffing out his chest in an effort to make himself seem larger, more intimidating. “Thank you for all you have done for my family.”

  All they’d done? I couldn’t see how walking around a neighborhood all evening was much of anything. Of course, I hadn’t told anyone in the family or any of the questioning officers that I was looking into the murder of Frederick Grossmith, but they did know I was a witness to the crime, which should have sparked some kind of connection between the two investigations. Frederick Grossmith was killed with a gun and then someone shot at the only possible witness a few days later? That seemed a bit too coincidental for a stray bullet. Whether it was the murderer or Edward seeking to make it look as though I were killed because of what I’d seen the day I arrived in London, I couldn’t be certain. But the only thing I did know for sure was that the bullet was intended for me, and whoever fired it wouldn’t hesitate to do so again.

  If Achilles Prideaux hadn’t refused to assist me unless I spilled all of my secrets to him, I would have called him to ask for his opinion on the case. Of course, perhaps if he knew my life was in danger, he would be more willing to help me.

  “Now life can get back to normal,” Lord Ashton declared as he reclaimed his seat at the breakfast table. He took a deep breath and then released the air from his lungs, as if purging himself of the stress brought on by the previous night’s activity.

  “The sergeant isn’t worried about another incident?” Lady Ashton asked, saying the word ‘incident’ in a hushed tone.

  I couldn’t understand why everyone seemed ashamed, as if they themselves had fired the bullet and wished for no one to find out. In my estimation, we were the victims and shouldn’t have any shame on the subject at all. However, not wishing to make anyone more uncomfortable than necessary, I had kept discussion of the shooting to a minimum. Alice, on the other hand…

  “Does he think someone will try to shoot us again?” she asked boldly, interrupting her parents’ discussion.

  Lord Ashton took a sip of his tea and pursed his lips. “No, there will be no repeat of last night. He believes it was an accident and I agree.”

  Alice opened her mouth to argue, but Edward reached over and patted his younger sister’s hand. She looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed, but she couldn’t maintain her serious face when he winked at her. Alice returned the wink and then smiled conspiratorially as she hovered over her breakfast.

  I, however, nearly fell out of my chair at the sight of Edward doing anything but scowling and looking morose. When had he become so brotherly? So caring? I was still trying to determine whether he was always serious or whether that was something he reserved only for me. Perhaps, he was always this kind to Alice and I just hadn’t had occasion to see it before. Or maybe he was riddled with guilt for nearly shooting his own sister in an attempt to shoot me.

  I knew it was a far-fetched theory, but I also couldn’t shake the idea from my mind. Catherine had confessed to me the very day of the shooting that Edward believed me to be an imposter. She said he had his sights set on my inheritance, and he had been less than pleased to learn I had survived the explosion. Was that not motive enough?

  As I watched Edward dote on his sister, he shifted his attention to me. I quickly looked away, staring at the condensation rolling down the pitcher of milk near my plate, but I could feel Edward’s dark eyes on me. His gaze was heavy, like a warm blanket on a hot day, suffocating.

  When breakfast ended, I excused myself immediately, planning to go into the back garden. If Edward was the shooter, he wouldn’t attempt such a feat again—not when everyone’s attention was piqued. And if Edward wasn’t the shooter, perhaps the real villain would try again and, if they once again missed their mark, I would get a good look at them.

  “Do you think it is a good morning for a walk?” Lady Ashton asked, casting her nervous eyes from me to the window. It was clear she was more uneasy about the shooting than she wanted to let on.

  “The weather is fine, and there is a lovely breeze moving through the trees,” I said with a smile. “It feels like a sin to be indoors.”

  She gave me a shaky nod and looked to her husband to discourage me further, but he was lost in his newspaper and showed no concern at all as I left the house.

  I tried not to look at the bullet hole marring the front of the Beckingham’s home. Seeing it brought up a surge of emotions I wasn’t ready to dissect. I moved past it, keeping my eyes resolutely forward, and by my third lap around the house I was almost able to forget about it entirely. The day truly was lovely. People moved up and down the street, tipping their hats to those they passed, smiling as they gazed up through the lacework of leaves and tree branches to the unusually blue sky above. I was almost able to forget about the events of the previous day entirely. Almost.

  As I rounded the front of the house for my fourth pass through the front garden, I spotted a figure out of the corner of my eye. My body, still riddled with anxieties lurking just below the surface, shot to attention. I jumped backwards and threw myself against the stone wall, flattening myself to become as small of a target as possible.

  I stood there, breathing heavily, my heart leaping against my ribcage, when I realized nothing was happening. No sound, no movement. After a few deep breaths, I stepped forward and poked my head timidly around the stone corner. The figure was gone.

  My head tilted to the side as I tried to determine whether I’d imagined the figure or whether it had actually been there. A young couple moved down the path in front of Ashton House, seemingly without a care. Certainly, if they’d seen a gunman lurking in
the bushes they would have raised the alarm. Perhaps, I had imagined it.

  Doing my best to move casually, I strode across the front garden and followed the stone path through the wrought iron gate that opened onto the street. I was prepared to chalk the entire thing up to nerves. As much as I wanted to try and forget it, being shot at had left me feeling jangled. However, before I could convince myself to turn around and go back inside the gate I caught something just at the edge of my vision. Near the end of the block, I saw him. George.

  I’d nearly missed him because he was stooped over, the top half of his body practically buried in the hedge, but he’d come up for air just as I was beginning to turn back towards the house. I ducked back behind the coverage of the bush and watched. George seemed to be looking for something, and it took me a few seconds to realize he was standing in exactly the same place where I believed the gunman to have stood.

  George righted himself and glanced around to see whether anyone had noticed his odd behavior. Miraculously, no one else seemed to find it strange at all, and George was free to move on down the block, away from the Beckingham’s home.

  I knew I could go back inside and report his behavior to Lord and Lady Ashton. However, telling them about George snooping through the bush would mean nothing to them unless I also told them about his past. About his run in with the dead man at the docks. About how I’d seen blood on the door handle the morning Frederick was killed and found the burnt remains of George’s driving gloves. It would almost certainly lead to him being fired from his chauffeur position whether he was guilty of killing Frederick or not. And even with all of that evidence, I still wasn’t certain George had done it. If he had wanted to kill me, he could have done so when he found me breaking into his room. So, it didn’t seem to make any sense for him to wait and try to shoot me later, especially when I had moved on to other suspects. No, I needed more evidence.

  I stepped away from the bush and followed George down the street, keeping a fair amount of distance between us so that even if he saw me, it wouldn’t be obvious I had been following him. When he turned the corner at the end of the block, though, I broke into a run so as not to lose him. The heels of my shoes slapped against the concrete, so I shifted onto my toes, and all of the passersby who didn’t pay any mind while a grown man dug through a hedge were suddenly gawking at me as though I were a zany street performer.

  I reached the corner just in time to see George duck down the alley that ran behind Ashton House. My breathing was already erratic from running, but I pushed on, hustling to the mouth of the alley before George could disappear. As soon as I had him in my sights again, I slowed down to a normal pace, trying to let my ragged breathing return to normal. If George did wish to kill me and he spotted me following him, I wouldn’t have the energy to run away. I would have to roll over and depend on his mercy, because it felt as though my lungs were going to burst.

  When George turned sharply to the right and disappeared behind a fence I groaned and hung my head, not at all prepared to chase after him yet again. However, a few more steps revealed that he had gone into the Beckingham’s back garden. He had taken a rather circuitous route, especially since he could have just come through the front gate and walked around the back of the house. Unless, of course, the Beckinghams didn’t want the help using the front entrance?

  Had I been following George for absolutely no reason? Had I nearly fainted in the street due to lack of oxygen because George had to walk back to his room?

  I felt silly. Clearly, the investigation was going to my head. I was beginning to see suspicious behavior where there was only daily routine. However, I decided my running would not be in vain. I remembered a window along the back wall of George’s room when I’d broken in the first time, so when George unlocked his front door and stepped inside, I sneaked around the back of the building.

  It took me a minute or two to gather the courage to peek my head over the window sill. I kept imagining George standing just on the other side of the window, staring at me as I stood up, a gun held in his hand. However, as I looked through the window I didn’t see George at all. Somehow, that left an even larger knot in my stomach. Where had he gone? Just as I was growing bold, leaning closer to the glass and peering into every corner of the room, George came into view. He walked out of a washroom in the back corner and luckily, he was too engrossed to notice me at the window. I ducked down immediately, heart hammering as if I’d just run another few city blocks.

  Slowly, I lifted back up to watch him. He was standing in the middle of the room, mesmerized by something in his hands. It appeared to be some kind of fabric—a handkerchief or a bit of cloth—and he rubbed it between his fingers. His eyebrows were pulled together in deep thought, and I had the feeling I could have rapped my knuckles on the glass and it wouldn’t have disturbed him.

  George reached behind him to pull the cord of a lamp, illuminating the dark room, and consequently, the fabric in his hands.

  Now that I could see it properly, I realized it was not a handkerchief at all. The fabric was ripped along one of the edges as though it had been torn from a larger garment, and it was intricately adorned with beads that caught the light from the lamp as George moved the material through his fingers. Suddenly, I was struck with a memory.

  I ducked below the window and pressed my spine against the wall, my eyes shifting constantly but seeing nothing. I was too busy searching my mind, shifting through my memories to find where I’d seen that material before, until I had it.

  Everilda Cassel.

  The fabric came from the dress I’d seen Everilda wearing the first night I’d gone to The Chesney Ballroom. George had told me he didn’t even remember Everilda’s name. He’d claimed the fight between him and Frederick did not stem from any feelings George had for Everilda, but purely from Frederick’s jealousy. But, if that were true, why did George have a bit of her dress?

  The truth hit me all at once. George loved Everilda. He loved her and Frederick had decided to stand in his way. Frederick laid claim to Everilda, and George killed him because of it. It was the only thing that made sense.

  After all, Everilda had recognized George by name when I mentioned him to her. She remembered him coming in regularly for a drink. Whereas, George swore he didn’t know her at all. Why would he go so far as to claim he didn’t know her name? Any patron of The Chesney Ballroom would know Everilda’s name. It was announced on the microphone before each of her performances.

  I slipped away from George’s place and moved quickly down the alley towards the street. I knew it would be wise to go to the police. I could tell them what I knew, everything I’d uncovered in my investigation. And I would, just not yet. First, I wanted to talk to Everilda. I needed to warn her about George, allow her to protect herself.

  The lovely day felt suddenly more dreary as I navigated the London streets towards The Chesney Ballroom.

  19

  My legs were fatigued and my brain felt fuzzy with exhaustion, but purpose propelled me onward. I would have hailed a cab, but I left the Beckingham’s in such a hurry that I didn’t have any money on hand. So, I was left to walk the entire way to the jazz club. I found myself grateful for the extra time to plan what I was going to say to Everilda. I didn’t want to scare her unnecessarily, but it only seemed right that she should know about George’s feelings and about what he had likely done to Frederick. Again, the urge to go to the police was strong, but I knew how the law worked. Slowly. Who knew what damage George could get done in the time it would take for officers to arrest him? I decided to tell Everilda and then walk directly to the station.

  Just as I had on the ship from India to London, I found myself wondering how I could have let such evil slip by unnoticed. First, Dr. Rushforth had fooled me entirely, making me believe he was a friend even though he had killed poor Ruby Stratton. And now, George. His story had fooled me utterly. I had never fully let go of him as a suspect, but he had certainly moved to the end of a rather long line. Was
it so easy to trick me? George’s sob story had given me pause. I hadn’t wanted to be responsible for a good man losing his job, so I’d sat on the information I had when I should have been turning him in to the police. Briefly, I imagined how I would have felt if George had managed to kill Alice when he fired the gun at me. If my baby cousin had died because I’d kept evidence from the police. A shudder tore through me. The thought was too horrible to entertain. Thankfully, my foolish error seemed to have caused no one any serious harm. There was still time to make things right.

  The lovely breeze from that morning had shifted into a proper gale, lifting the skirt of my cream tea dress. I pulled my navy sweater tighter over my shoulders and lowered my head against the chill. I was only a few blocks away from The Jazz Club, and perhaps Everilda would be so grateful for the warning, she would pay for my cab to the police station. I wouldn’t ask for money, of course, but perhaps if I mentioned the chill…

  I was only a few buildings away from The Chesney Ballroom when the sound of heels against concrete caught my attention and I looked up to see a woman in black oxfords and a shin-length black dress moving in front of me. Her steps were quick and determined, and I looked around, trying to decide where she’d come from. I’d been mostly alone on the street only a moment before. I looked back at the woman, puzzled, and realized all at once who I was looking at.

  Her long, lean arms hanging from the loose sleeves of her dress. Her short curly hair slicked back against her head.

  “Everilda,” I called, quickening my pace to catch up to her.

  She turned, looking hardly surprised to see me, and smiled. “Rose, isn’t it?”

  I nodded quickly and immediately began to launch into the story, the words tumbling out of me in a jumble. Everilda’s smile faded as I spoke and she glanced around the empty street, clearly concerned about who could overhear. She held up a hand to silence me, and I swallowed the storm of unspoken words, nearly choking on them.