A Fatal Journey Read online

  I couldn’t run. As much as I wanted to, I had to face this head on. I had to face him head on. For eight months, the man who had lobbed the bomb in the Simla marketplace had haunted my nightmares and my waking thoughts. He had been a ghoul, always lurking, waiting for me to lower my guard. But I wouldn’t turn and run this time. I would make a plan, and I would be ready to fight.

  I grabbed the key from my desk drawer and unlocked the trunk hidden in the closet. The kukri was wrapped inside of a blanket. It felt wrong to hold a weapon that had likely been used to kill so many, but if I could turn the blade on its owner, ending his life with the very weapon he had used to kill others, then I could think of no finer justice.

  Once the weapon was strapped to my side and hidden beneath a hip-length jacket with a matching tie around the waist, I stood at the door and listened. After several minutes of perfect silence, I found the courage to unlock my door and open it.

  The hallway was dark and quiet. The house had been asleep for hours. As far as I could tell, I was the only one awake. Though, I doubted that. The killer was watching, waiting for an opportunity to find me alone. There were too many people still in the house. Too many opportunities for things to go wrong and for their identity to be revealed.

  I walked carefully down the hallway, avoiding the center where the boards were the loudest, instead sticking close to the walls. I heard Mrs. Hutchins snoring as I passed her room, and I wondered if I’d see her again. The woman wasn’t particularly dear to me, but when faced with the reality that you might be dead within the hour, you become quite nostalgic.

  I was at the top of the stairs when I realized I should have left a note for Lord and Lady Ashton, Catherine, and Alice. If I died, I wanted them to know the truth. They deserved that from me.

  I had the thought to turn around and scribble out a hasty letter to be sent after my demise, but I resisted the urge. It was more a distraction than anything else. As much as I wanted to confirm Lieutenant Collins as the killer, I wasn’t ready to face him. I’d been in several situations where I felt certain I’d die, but still, I’d never been this frightened. Perhaps because in the past, the life or death situations had come as a surprise rather than a plan. I had never walked purposefully into a moment where I knew I’d have to fight for my life; whereas, now my eyes were wide open. I knew what I was doing and all of the potential consequences. I knew there was a possibility I wouldn’t see the sunrise. But as scared as I felt, I had to do it. There was no alternative.

  Lieutenant Collins had been thorough. There was no proof to convict him of either the murder of General Hughes or the Beckinghams. I could not turn him in to the police because they would have nothing with which to charge him. In fact, all turning him in would accomplish was to discredit myself. People would see me as the scarred survivor of a bombing. As a paranoid woman who needed careful handling and couldn’t be trusted. It would ruin my reputation and discredit any future investigative work I could hope to pursue.

  I had to face him myself and get a confession. I only hoped I could survive the ordeal.

  The stairs squealed beneath my feet, and I winced with each step, certain Lieutenant Collins would be waiting for me at the bottom with a devious smile spread across his face. However, when I turned the corner to move down the final flight of stairs, the landing was empty.

  But of course, it was. Lieutenant Collins would not confront me in the house for reasons I had already deduced. He would allow me to escape the house and meet me when I was alone, in a secluded location. I could have slid down the banister and landed in a somersault, and he still would have remained hidden.

  The sitting room was dark and vacant, but when I looked down the long hall that ran most of the length of the house, I could see light spilling out from behind one of the doors. It was the hall where most of the servants slept, but it also contained the guest room. I was too far away to see which room the light came from, but I didn’t need to see. It would be the guest room. It would be Lieutenant Collins. Lurking behind his closed door, listening to my slow movement through the house, ready to act as soon as his moment arrived.

  I felt for the kukri hidden beneath my jacket once again for comfort more than anything. To remind myself that I was armed. That I had fought off enemies before, and I could do it again.

  As I moved towards the front door, finally ready to leave the relative safety of the bungalow and step out into the moonlight, I noticed the Lieutenant’s uniform jacket hanging from the coat rack. A sudden hope flared inside of me, and I rushed for it, digging my hands into the pockets quickly as if I feared someone would appear and scold me for snooping.

  Could there be something hidden in the pockets that would connect him to any of his crimes? No. The brief hope fizzled like a candle at the end of its wick. The pockets were empty.

  I pulled my hand out, and as I did, I felt something solid through the starched material of the jacket. I opened the flap and ran my hand along the inside of the coat, which was finished in a red satin. There, my fingers felt an opening, a clean break in the material. When I slipped my hand inside, I felt the familiar heft of a pistol. I pulled it out, angling it towards the dim moonlight coming through the entrance hall windows.

  Lieutenant Collins had a gun hidden in the inside pocket of his jacket, yet he’d left his jacket in the entrance hall. Why?

  From somewhere deep in the house, I heard a floorboard creak, and I knew I didn’t have time to stand around and uncover the motives of a madman. I shoved the gun into the pocket of my jacket and backed slowly through the front door, my eyes trained on the long hallway until the door was firmly shut in its frame.

  I didn’t plan to go to the temple ruins. My feet simply carried me there. It was only a short distance from the bungalow and I was drawn to it as though possessed.

  It felt right, though. It was the place I’d first asked Lieutenant Collins for his help, the place I had first confided in him about the trauma of the bombing and my wish for closure. It seemed poignant that the temple would be the same place I found that closure.

  Because I was on foot, I approached the temple from the side through a thick crop of trees rather than via the road, which allowed me to hide behind the thicker patches of foliage and watch the courtyard, eyes narrowed for the slightest movement or shift in the air. After waiting long enough that my legs began to cramp and my eyes had grown heavy, I realized the killer would not show himself until I had done so. He operated from the shadows, and in the shadows he would remain until he was certain of my plan.

  So, I stood tall, clutched my weapons to my body, and stepped into the courtyard.

  It was still dark, the shadows thick at the base of the ruined colonnades, but the moonlight offered enough light to see, and I walked towards the carved stone deity of Hanuman sitting on a pedestal at the center.

  There I waited. Minutes ticked by with no movement, no sound, and I began to wonder if I hadn’t imagined everything. If my fear hadn’t woven an elaborate tale, and I’d allowed myself to be carried away. I was starting to feel foolish for standing in the middle of the ruins, alone, silently waiting for a man who may never come, when I heard a twig snap.

  It was the first sound I’d heard since arriving at the ruins, so I turned towards it quickly, vigilantly. The noise came from the small crop of trees where I’d been standing before moving into the courtyard. Even before the shape of a man appeared in the shadows, the hairs on my arms stood tall, and my body began to shiver. I knew I wasn’t alone.

  I stared at the spot where he would appear in only a matter of seconds with a hazy kind of focus, my eyes straining so hard that my vision began to go blurry. Then, I saw him, slinking from between the trees like a snake, seeking destruction.

  It took me several seconds to recognize that his shoulders were too narrow, his stature too short. To recognize that the bulky, blonde murderer I’d been expecting was nowhere in sight. The man before me was slim and short. His eyes were sunken in, nothing but circular blac
k shadows in his face. His clothes hung from him like rotten vines from a tree. He was a ghoul. A skeleton man if ever I’d seen one. He sparked fear in me more than shock because hadn’t I always known it was him? Somewhere deep inside the thought had wriggled like a worm in the mud, burying its head but there all the same. I was surprised, but not because it was him. But because it had taken me so long to realize it. My heart clenched in my chest, and I took a step forward to formally meet the man who had tried to kill me. Who had set my life on a course of death and mayhem.

  I tipped my head in greeting. “Mr. Barlow.”

  16

  “Rose Beckingham.” He smiled as he said my name, moving towards me like a lion on the prowl. He looked like a demon walking the earth. His cheeks were hollow, his skin pale and ashen. He did not look like a man who belonged amongst the living.

  “You attacked Mrs. Hutchins,” I said flatly. It was not a question, but an accusation.

  He shrugged his thin shoulders and tilted his head to the side. “I did not intend to.”

  The distance between us was getting smaller. He moved towards me so slowly I could almost convince myself he wasn’t moving at all. But he was moving. Like all predators, Mr. Barlow had focused his attention on me, and he would not stop until he received what he so desperately sought, or I defeated him. I intended it to be the latter. So, I took a large step backwards.

  “I know that, too. You thought Mrs. Hutchins was me,” I said, trying to sound calm. “I’m surprised a killer as adept as you could make such a mistake.”

  “Even a skilled knife thrower will miss his mark now and again. Do anything often enough, and you increase your chances for failure. It comes with the territory.”

  It was obvious now that the quiet, diligent secretary was nothing more than a façade. Mr. Barlow sounded haughty now, confident. He was proud of himself and his work. In his role as assassin, he bowed to no one, and he alone had control. It was incredible looking at him now that I hadn’t seen the madness lurking inside. Though, part of me believed I had.

  From the moment I’d met Mr. Barlow, he had unsettled something inside of me. Being in his presence made me uneasy, and where I usually found a rapport with the employees of the upper class due to my own low beginnings, I had no such relationship with Mr. Barlow. And at no point had there been a desire to have such a relationship.

  “And attacking women while out on their evening walks is something you’ve done often?” I asked. I’d always been warned not to intimidate a predator. To never look them in the eyes or engage their killer instincts. Yet, I wanted to anger Mr. Barlow. I wanted him to reveal the truth of himself to me. I didn’t want to see the humble Mr. Barlow serving Mr. Hutchins or the arrogant devil playing with his food before he took a bite. I wanted to see the true monster within. I wanted to see the anger that had to exist there for him to have killed so many innocent people.

  He smiled, his teeth dull and gray in the moonlight. “Not often, no. Occasionally my mission has required it, but usually my clients are men.”

  “Clients?” I asked, barely able to contain my disgust.

  “It is nicer than the alternative, don’t you think?” He continued moving towards me, and I knew I would have to navigate around the large pedestal holding the statue of Hanuman in order to keep a safe distance between us.

  “They are your victims, not your clients,” I said, angling my body around the front corner of the statue. My right foot brushed a stone from the pedestal and a chunk broke off and skittered across the grass.

  Mr. Barlow wrinkled his nose and shook his head like he’d eaten something sour. “Victims are innocent.”

  Mr. Beckingham’s face appeared in my mind. He had been harsh with me on several occasions, but always out of concern for the real Rose, his daughter. He worried she was a silly girl who would grow into a silly woman, and he wanted me to help steady her. When I gave in and gossiped with her or giggled during church, he would narrow his eyes at me as though it was my fault. But he was not a cruel man. Now that I knew Lord Ashton, Rose’s uncle, I realized he reminded me of Mr. Beckingham. They were both stern and solemn, but underneath it all was fierce love, like precious gems hidden inside a rock. One would only need to crack the surface to find it.

  “The Beckinghams were innocent,” I spat, my fear slowly morphing into rage. I could feel the weight of the pistol in my pocket, and I fought the urge to pull it out. He would confess his crimes to me. He would confess what I already knew: Mr. Barlow threw the bomb eight months before.

  His eyebrows lifted in surprise before he tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowed. “What an interesting way to refer to your parents.”

  I clenched my jaw. I’d let my cover story slip ever so slightly, but it wasn’t enough for him to understand the depth of my deception. So, I stayed quiet, my eyes boring into his, daring him to tell me the truth.

  Finally, he continued. “Mr. Beckingham was the target. The deaths of his wife and any servants with them in the car explosion were incidental.”

  His voice was cold and grating. I wanted to cover my ears and block out the sound. I didn’t want to hear the most tragic day of my life watered down to nothing more than an assignment. But I had to listen. I had to bear witness. Because the Beckinghams were no longer alive to do so. For their sakes, I had to look their killer in the face and let him know he hadn’t won.

  “I was in the car.”

  Mr. Barlow wasn’t surprised by this information, and I didn’t expect him to be. News of my miraculous survival was spread throughout Simla, and the killer would have a particular interest in the case, I was sure. But I didn’t say it to surprise him. I said it to remind him that I was a survivor. That he had tried to kill me once before and failed, and he could fail again.

  “I know,” he said. “Miraculous that you escaped.”

  “Miraculous,” I repeated, taking another step backwards when the space between us became uncomfortably close.

  “Listen,” he said, pressing his palms together and pointing his fingers at me, eyes lowered in what could only be false humility. “I’m sure you are not too fond of me given the circumstances, but you were not my target. I had no desire to kill you then or now.”

  “Had?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at his use of the past tense.

  His lips puckered and he nodded. “Yes, unfortunately, due to your investigation, I have to kill you. You really did not give me a choice. You were too close to discovering my identity, and there is more work to be done yet.”

  I decided not to tell him that I believed Lieutenant Collins to be the murderer until Mr. Barlow himself had broken through the tree line. Part of me believed I would have suspected Mr. Barlow eventually, but another part of me wondered whether he wouldn’t have slipped my notice. As much as I hated to admit it, he had left no trail. Aside from a few references to his short, gaunt appearance, there was nothing tying Mr. Barlow to the crimes. He was a skilled assassin.

  “And by ‘work to be done,’ you mean ‘people to murder,’” I said.

  He nodded, and I fought down a rising tide of nausea.

  “How do you choose your victims?”

  “My clients,” he said, placing special emphasis on his preferred word, “are given to me by the American.”

  “The American?” I asked.

  Mr. Barlow tightened his lips. Clearly, he had no more to say in regards to the identity of his employer. Then, the letter I’d found on the body of the assassin in Tangier came to mind. I’ve named your target in previous correspondence and will not repeat it here. Kill him and I will send the money and name of another minister. Unlike your counterpart in Simla, use discretion.

  “Are there other assassins working with you?” I asked.

  His mouth turned up in a half-smirk, but still he said nothing.

  “Because I met a man in Tangier,” I continued coolly. “He carried a letter written by an unnamed man. It discussed a previously agreed upon ‘target,’ but went on to say that th
e man in Tangier should use more discretion. There was mention of a Simla counterpart who had been a bit of a disappointment.”

  His carefully arranged façade cracked. Mr. Barlow’s brow lowered in concentration or frustration, I couldn’t tell which.

  “Who was this man you met?”

  I shrugged. “He was dead before I had the opportunity to ask him.”

  Here, finally, I shocked him. His face went slack, every muscle falling into disuse as he contemplated what I’d just said. After several long, slow blinks, he regained his composure, but if possible, his face looked even paler. “And how did the man die?”

  “I chased him beneath the wheels of a wagon.” This was an oversimplification if ever there had been one, but while talking to a man who had attempted to murder me and sought to do it again, I didn’t think it was the time to be humble. I wanted him to fear me.

  Mr. Barlow ran his tongue over his teeth. “I wouldn’t have thought you capable, Miss Rose.”

  “Then you have underestimated me.” I could feel both the knife and the gun pressing against my body as if eager for me to pull them out, but I wanted to wait. I did not want to show all of my cards at once.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps, I have. Though, I believe you have underestimated me, as well.”

  I shook my head. “Not possible. I know who you are. I know what you’ve done. I know what you are capable of.”

  “I am easily overlooked,” he said, taking a step towards me, his hands folded behind his back. His posture looked casual, but I knew it was purposeful. I could scarcely imagine how many different weapons Mr. Barlow had hidden on his person—where he could stash blades and guns inside his jacket and trousers. “As I am a small man, most think me to be weak. That is their downfall. General Hughes certainly did not anticipate my strength.”