The Illusion of Murder (6 page)

Returning to New York, Jules’ taunt that women are too fragile and require too much baggage for such a trip stayed with me.
Poppycock!
I felt—nothing more than sentiments stewed up by men who underestimate the power and determination of women just because society forbids them to wear pants. “Nellie’s Folly” is what the other papers will call it if I fail. Worse, the effect that failure will have upon the ambitions of women to succeed in a man’s world will be severely damaged.

This is why I accepted the challenge and why I must succeed.

I was certain I could do it. The available transportation—steamships, trains, and carriages—are all about the same as those used by Phileas Fogg sixteen years ago, but two great advances have reduced travel time: the Suez Canal, making it unnecessary for ships to sail all the way around Africa’s Cape of Good Hope; and the completion of the transcontinental rail line from San Francisco to New York.

Knowing that I would have to sometimes scurry to make connections, I brought only one small handbag, a valise about sixteen inches long and seven inches wide. I never realized the capacity of an ordinary hand-satchel until dire necessity compelled me to exercise all my ingenuity to pack one with two traveling caps, three veils, a pair of slippers, toilet articles, an inkstand, pens, pencils, copy paper, pins, needles and thread, a dressing gown, a light jacket, a silk bodice, a small flask and a drinking cup, several complete changes of underwear, a liberal supply of handkerchiefs and fresh ruchings, and most bulky and uncompromising of all, a jar of cold cream to keep my face from chapping in the varied climates I should encounter.
^†

The travel dress I put on the day I boarded a ship in New York is the same one I wore today and will wear for the entire trip of nearly three months. I also have an ulster to keep me warm.

The evening before I started, I went to the office to say good-bye and to obtain two hundred pounds in English gold and Bank of England notes.
^‡
The gold I carry in my pocket, with a few pieces hidden in the heel of my left shoe. The Bank of England notes are in a chamois-skin bag tied around my neck. Besides this, I have some American gold and paper money to use at different ports as a test to see if American money is known outside the forty-two states and territories.

Even though it was quite possible to buy tickets in New York for the entire trip, because I might be compelled to change my route at almost any point, no itinerary was made; the only transportation I arranged on leaving New York was my ticket to London.
^§

A fellow reporter suggested that a revolver would be a good companion piece for my travels, but I had such a strong belief in the world’s greeting me as I greeted it, that I refused to arm myself. I knew if my conduct was proper I should always find men of any nationality ready to protect me.

The life’s blood of two men soaking the dirt of the marketplace had made the suggestion that I carry a revolver sage advice.

Raucous noise jolts me out of my thoughts and I tense up as a group of people turn onto the street. Women at the head of the procession are shrieking and wailing. “The Mahdi?”

“A funeral procession,” Von Reich says. “The barefooted women in front howling the loudest and tearing their clothes are professional mourners.”

“What nonsense is that?” Lady Warton demands. “Why in God’s name would they hire people to make those awful noises and rip their clothes?”

“It’s how they honor the dead—the more grief, the more the dead person will be missed. The black-robed women wait outside the house like a flock of crows until they’re told the deceased has passed and then they begin their expressions of grief, all the way to the cemetery and until the last shovel of dirt is thrown.”

I close my eyes tightly and turn my head to avoid looking at the group as they pass, but it does no good—the wails for the dead penetrate my bones, chilling my marrow.

Who will cry for the dead men in the marketplace?

We reach the beach where several boats are available to take us out to the ship.

“You ladies stay here and I’ll find our boatman,” Von Reich says.

He returns with a disgusted expression on his face. “It’s arranged, but the boatman would not permit us even to board until I paid him. His price is double what he charged to bring us to land. These people are robbers.”

“And murderers,” Lady Warton snaps.

7

The moment our feet are on the deck Lady Warton excuses herself, proclaiming a “horrid headache” and heads straight for her cabin and her headache powders.

Perhaps it is only my strained state of mind, but as she flees I’m left with the singular impression that in her estimation I am somehow responsible for her distress rather than the fact we had witnessed two violent deaths in the marketplace.

Instead of going directly to my cabin, I walk on deck, pacing swiftly from stern to bow, a habit I have of wearing off nervous energy and mulling over the day’s events before I retire.

This time I need to walk off ragged nerves. My body aches because I’ve been so tense. I watched two men die today. Who will cry for them? And how will their deaths affect me? Touching the side of my neck, I can still feel the dying man’s breath as he whispered his last word to me—“Amelia.”

I know I’ve left the violence at the marketplace and the rage on the streets where a mob thirsted for blood—
my blood
—yet I sense that I’ve carried some of the malevolence back to the ship with me, just as I brought the dust of Port Said on my shoes.

They were still coaling the ship from a barge when we boarded, dust-covered men with sacks of coal rushing up the steep gangplank between the barges and the ship. The men are not working quietly. Judging from the noise, every one of them is yelling something that pleases their own fancy and humor.

The frantic bustle is soothing in an odd sort of way. It’s an image long to be remembered, and just for the moment the aching memory of the horror in the marketplace fades.

I don’t know the identity of the bike rider who died in the marketplace, but regardless of who he was, in the morning I’ll ask Lord Warton what happened after we left and if anyone is planning to locate the dead man’s wife. If not, I shall attempt it. The man’s resemblance to a fellow passenger and the British accent still bewilder me, but I have to put aside my doubts and move on.

Returning to my cabin, I find the steward’s luggage cart parked outside the door of the man I had thought was killed in the marketplace. The door is cracked open.

Passenger names appear on slips of paper tacked to cabin doors and this one bears the inscription:
JOHN CLEVELAND
.

I hesitate briefly, my good sense telling me to move on and to mind my own business, but my curiosity prods me to peek in. I nudge the door open a bit more. Raymond, a ship’s steward who also serves as my attendant, is placing clothes on the bed. Behind him are two steamer trunks.

I push the door farther open.

“Madam? Can I help you?”

“Is Mr. Cleveland around?”

“No, he went ashore.”

I glance at the clothing on the bed and the trunks. “Is Mr. Cleveland leaving us?”

“Yes, he’s staying in Port Said. I’ve been instructed to send his luggage ashore.”

“Really? Who told you he was staying?”

The steward avoids my eye. “Those are my instructions, madam.”

“I’m just wondering if the instructions are correct. I saw Mr. Cleveland a short time ago and he never mentioned that he was leaving.”

“The instructions came from Lord Warton.”

“I see.” But I don’t—not at all. Lord Warton tells me that the dead man isn’t my neighbor on the ship and then has instructions for the man’s possessions to be left behind. That makes it all as clear as mud. Except for one thing. “Lord Warton isn’t on board the ship.”

“Her ladyship delivered the instruction for him.”

“I see…” More muddy waters, though it is readily apparent that Lady Warton received instructions to which I had not been privy and neglected to share them with me.

“I’m only obeying instructions, madam.”

He’s getting defensive, probably thinks I suspect him of stealing. “Of course, go on with his lordship’s instruction.”

As he turns back to his task, I add, “Raymond, I have a dreadful headache. Would you please go to the infirmary and get me some powder?”

“I got headache powders for you yesterday—”

“Yes, I know, but I need more. Here—” I pull a three-pence coin out of my pocket and slip it into his hand. “I’ll watch Mr. Cleveland’s possessions until you get back.”

Resisting the impulse to give him a push out the door, as soon as he is gone I start searching—for what, I don’t know. I haven’t a clue as to what to look for, but I obey my instincts, which are screaming that something is not right.

Why the devil makes me do these things has always been a mystery to me. As a fellow reporter once told me after I had narrowly escaped a brothel owner’s wrath, someday I’d end up sticking my nose in the wrong place and getting it chopped off.

Quickly checking dresser drawers, I find them already emptied. Leafing through the items on the bed reveals an ordinary collection of shirts, collars, cuffs, shirt fronts, bow ties, and other accessories. Taking care not to ruffle the clothes too much, I press down on the clothing to feel if anything is hidden beneath … and find nothing.

The two streamer trunks are unlocked and empty.

In a box on the floor are books and a case of fine kitchen and dinner knives with the name of a cutlery manufacturer in Liverpool. Inscribed on the cutlery case is his name:
JOHN J
.
CLEVELAND
.

One of those gallows humor thoughts I am inclined to get at the most inappropriate times suddenly flies through my head: A cutlery salesman is stabbed to death by a knife.

His choice of books is odd only because there is nothing on cutlery. He has a book on hunting rifles, a thin volume called the
Handbook on Egypt
, and a hefty tome entitled
Compendium of Laws of the County of Yorkshire.

A small piece of paper marks a page in the law book. Written on it in pencil are a series of numbers that have no apparent order, at least not to me. It makes no more sense to me than if I sat down and wrote numbers at random, but the numbers must have meant something to Mr. Cleveland.

Shamelessly rummaging through the man’s possessions, I find no indication that he has a family—no pictures of a wife or children, no letters.

So who is Amelia?

Even if she is a lover rather than his wife, might he not have a picture of her? Some keepsake such as a lace handkerchief with her favorite scent or a farewell note?

I hear footsteps in the corridor and almost drop the book.
I’m going to be caught.
I shove the paper back in the book, the books back into the box, and race for the door, opening it and stumbling out as the heel of my shoe snags on the threshold.

Getting my balance, I stare at a man who has opened the door to a cabin on the other side of the corridor. The footsteps I had heard were his. He stares back.

“I … I—” No alibi comes to my normally liquid tongue and I give him a smile instead.

“Good evening,” he says.

I choke on a reply as I hear two voices coming from the stairwell that leads into the corridor.
Lord Warton and the steward.

I leap forward and rush at the man, causing him to step backward into his room and nearly fall over a piece of luggage. I step in and slam the door behind me.

For a moment, we just stare at each other, his mouth agape.

“You’ll catch flies,” pops out of my own mouth.

He starts to say something and I can see that words fail him.

He is older than me, perhaps in his late thirties. My first impression is that he needs a shave, a haircut, and a bath. Soap, hot water, and a good scrubbing by the ship’s laundry would also make his clothes presentable. His appearance suggests he came aboard directly from an expedition of some sort rather than a hotel.

A tall, handsome man with sapphire blue eyes and an athletic build, he appears perplexed, perhaps even slightly amused that a short runt of a woman has forced herself into his room, although his jaw dropped at the sudden invasion.

“What I meant is, your mouth was open. You can catch flies that way if you aren’t careful.”

“Who told you that?”

“My mother, when I was a little girl.”

My mouth is flapping nonsense but my ears are tuned to hear the sudden banging on his stateroom door I expect at any moment, along with a demand that I come out and face the music.

He nods in a knowing manner. “I can see that your mother, dear woman that she no doubt is, probably spared the rod too much with her daughter. May I ask why you have stormed into my room?”