The Transatlantic Conspiracy (13 page)

Rosalind sighed and sank back into her chair. “The gilded cage is still a cage. Oh, but look at me. Who am I to speak of such things? And how dare I speak of injustice when I still happily go to balls and spend my father's money and cross the Atlantic on his train?”

Alix circled the table to join Rosalind. “That is foolish talk,” she snapped. “What matters is not how you were born, but what you do. You said that yourself. It is true for the rich as well as for the lowly. You and I were not born poor. Lamenting our wealth is self-righteous martyrdom. It serves nothing, do you understand me?”

Rosalind looked at Alix, unsure of how to respond. In truth, she did not understand a thing about this girl.

“You care about people, Rose,” Alix added. “About
people
. All people. That is the first step. Next, you must act.”

“Act?” Rosalind repeated.

Alix blinked. Perhaps she realized how dramatic she had become, for she backed away and stood by her chair. “I
. . .
I'm sorry, Rose.” She stumbled over her words. “I didn't mean to get so philosophical. I'm just in a state over
. . .
what happened. I should go. It is growing late and I am tired.”

“What?” Rose stood. “But—”

“Please.” Alix stepped forward. Then she hesitated and drew away again. “I think we should speak no more about such things while we are traveling. I got carried away. Perhaps when we arrive in New York City, there will be an opportunity for more such
. . .
conversations.”

Rosalind shook her head. She was almost tempted to block Alix's exit. “Alix, I don't understand
. . .
”
She
had been the one going on about madcap ideas, not Alix. She was grateful for a sympathetic ear. She should be the one worried about speaking out of turn. What the devil was going on?

“I must go,” Alix insisted. She hurried toward the door. “But know this, Rosalind. You are not alone in your thoughts. There are many who wish to make the world a better place.” She gave Rosalind a last look and smiled. Then she was gone, sliding the door shut behind her.

Rosalind stood still for a very long time. Then she glanced down at the half-finished dinner.

“What did I say?” she wondered aloud.

Chapter Fourteen

T
he Transatlantic Express arrived at Neptune Station ahead of schedule, shortly after breakfast—and Rosalind hadn't seen a soul apart from a member of the waitstaff. He hadn't said anything to her, of course, other than what was required of manners; he'd simply cleared her dinner and brought her the first meal of the day: tea, fresh bread, butter, jam, a sausage. She'd eaten alone in her room—in a daze, her mind whirling as the train slowed toward its next stop.

On the one hand, it was marvelous to learn that she was
not
alone, neither on the train nor in her political or philosophical views. But on the other hand, Alix's behavior disturbed her. It couldn't have been just a way to deflect their attention from the loss of their friend. Perhaps it was the excitement of meeting a like-minded person. She couldn't have met many, after all. Rosalind hoped that today Alix would be more herself. Then again, how could she be, under the circumstances? Besides, Rosalind didn't really know the girl. Maybe Alix was capricious like this; maybe it took the trauma of Cecily's death to reveal her true personality.

It was best not to think about what she didn't know, Rosalind decided as she stepped off the train into Neptune Station.

The place was much like the Brandenburg in terms of its layout. It had the same vaulted glass ceiling, providing a splendid view of the surrounding sea; the same polished brass and marble; the balconies, sitting rooms, and all the rest. But here, to her relief, there was no hint of nationalism. This was a grand homage to the wonders of the sea. The statues and tapestries were of mermaids and fish rather than of eagles and
. . .
well, more eagles.

As one of the first passengers to disembark, Rosalind was able to stroll about the concourse in solitude. Erich would be joining her soon enough for their appointed stroll. The few others were from Second Class, probably used to rising earlier. Rosalind did not mind the sparse crowd. She could imagine Cecily gawking at the statues of mermaids, delighting in all the various kinds of aquatic-themed art.

My friend is dead
,
she kept telling herself silently.
I saw her murdered body.
But she couldn't quite believe it. The entire journey seemed surreal, which was perhaps appropriate given where she was—another opulent palace under the sea—to say nothing of the method of travel itself. But any joy had been wrung from the wonder of it all. Beneath the shiny veneer of this marvel, a palpable madness lurked; it was very real and very deadly. Rosalind half expected to wake at any moment, to find herself back in London, Cecily and Charles with her.

Wandering back toward the train, she glanced at her reflection in the polished glass of one of the windows. She looked tired, drawn. A moment later, she caught a glimpse of a figure behind her. As she continued on her way, she managed to get a look at him out of the corner of her eye and saw Bauer's agent—the same one from yesterday, the one masquerading as the librarian—following her at a distance.

It wasn't all that subtle, and perhaps that was the point. It was a reminder that this was no dream. This was real, and it was in her best interest to keep her thoughts silent.

As she stepped away from the train, she was startled to spot Alix and Jacob emerging from one of the First Class cars, arm in arm. They were going for a stroll as well, it seemed. Alix wore a conservative dress colored dark blue and together they looked rather somber. But they seemed unusually
. . .
well,
close
. Had Alix spent time with him last night, after she'd left Rosalind?

Catching sight of her, Jacob raised his hand in greeting. Alix waved excitedly. Rosalind crossed the concourse and met them halfway, below a mural of a seahorse.

“Good morning, Fräulein Wallace,” Jacob said, giving a stiff bow. “I do hope you are well.” He lowered his voice. “Under the circumstances.”

So Jacob knew as well, did he? Rosalind wondered who had told him. Had it been Erich? Or had it been Alix? Or had
he known all along? Perhaps it didn't even matter. The train was small, and everyone was bound to find out sooner or later.

“A very pleasant morning to you as well, Lieutenant,” she said, extending her hand with the warmest smile she could muster.

Before Rosalind knew what was happening, Alix had swept her up in a tight hug. “Oh, um
. . .
” she stammered, extricating herself. “And good morning to you, Alix. Are you well?”

“I am
. . .
” Alix paused, searching for the right words. Finally she shrugged. “I am very well, thank you. I have been doing some thinking. It is very good for me.”

“Thinking is very good for a person,” Rosalind agreed cautiously. “And what have you been thinking about?”

“I cannot say,” Alix answered, sounding pleased. “It is a surprise.”

Rosalind blinked a few times. “Oh,” she said. “Well, I shan't pry.”

But she very much wanted to, as Alix seemed to have completely forgotten about Cecily's death, or about her grief over it. Rosalind wondered for an instant if the girl had gone mad. But no, Jacob would have noticed. Perhaps he would have even sought Rosalind's counsel.

“I must confess, I am surprised to see anyone out this early,” Rosalind said in the silence.

Jacob chuckled. “Oh, a man cannot be in the army and also be a late riser. It simply isn't done. I never sleep past breakfast.”

She smiled a little. He was so boisterous and enthusiastic, almost like a little child. And while she would never utter the thought out loud, he struck her as not terribly bright; but that only added to his childlike charm and sincerity. It was difficult not to feel cheerful around him. Perhaps that was why Alix had sought his company.

“Good morning, everyone,” a voice called.

Rosalind turned to see Erich approaching, looking very smart in a cream-colored suit. His expression was appropriately solemn. He nodded to each of them in turn. “Jacob, my friend; Lady von Hessen; and of course, Fräulein Wallace.”

So at least he had the decorum not to speak informally to her in public. Rosalind had worried about that a little since their time together in the arboretum, about her confession. But it seemed Erich truly was a gentleman. He did not intend to take liberties of any sort.

“Good morning, Herr Steiner,” Rosalind said.

She extended her hand to him. Erich took it gently and bowed to her, all the while holding her eyes. Rosalind felt a tingle at his touch, followed almost instantly by a wrenching emptiness deep inside her. Cecily should be at the receiving end of that gaze, her hand in his. Rosalind quickly withdrew and looked away.

“I'm surprised to see you awake this early, Herr Steiner,” Alix said. “I thought that you would still be abed, like all proper gentlemen.”

Erich tried his best to be cheerful. “Nonsense. If it is a gentleman you want, you should look to my dear friend Jacob. He is the one with the proper breeding. I am but the son of a humble businessman.”

Jacob snorted. “ ‘Humble,' he says! I know the old Herr Steiner well. He is many things, God bless him, but humble is not one.”

“That is true, God knows,” Erich agreed easily. “But still, I am just a man of the people. Of humble origin.”

“And a lot of money,” Rosalind noted, doing her best to keep the mood light.

“The two go together very well,” Erich replied in a dry voice. He held her gaze again. This time, she did not look away.

Alix cleared her throat. “The lieutenant and I had plans to take a stroll around the station before they seat us for lunch.”

“I am looking forward to lunch,” Jacob said happily.

“Aren't you always?” Erich noted with a good-natured nudge.

“Would Herr Steiner and Fräulein Wallace care to join us?” Alix asked. “A stroll is just the thing for an appetite.”

“I agree,” Rosalind said.

As she turned back to Erich, she had the distinct feeling she was falling, as if the world had become an abyss with no bottom; she had no idea what would become of her, of any of them, or if she should even bother to care
. . .
at least beyond what was happening right now, in this moment.

“Then it is settled.” Erich held out his arm to Rosalind. “Shall we?”

•••

It wasn't until much
later that Rosalind felt herself snap out of whatever trance she had succumbed to over the course of the day. Quite suddenly, dressed in a ball gown, standing in the grand concourse, she felt jolted awake. She'd had a wonderful day, a wonderful dinner; but how was that possible? Her best friend was dead. As she waited for the arrival of her new friends—acquaintances, really; people she barely knew—she watched the line of Second Class passengers as they were herded up into the gallery. At Neptune Station, they were tossed a proverbial bone; they could
watch
the ball, but of course they couldn't participate. Dancing was a First Class privilege only. But, oh, how lucky they were to be let out to watch
. . .
or so Father's thinking went.

Rosalind began to shiver, even though the temperature was perfect. She felt sick and angry. And she couldn't tell whether she was upset because of the parade of the “lesser” passengers—all of whom looked quite happy to be let out, if only to watch the First Class passengers dance—or because of Cecily's conspicuous absence. Rosalind's friend had lived for balls like this.

Perhaps a bit of both, she thought. But no; it was more. She thought of Inspector Bauer, of how dismissive and contemptuous he was of those in Second Class, of how certain he was that Cecily's murderer had to be one of
them
. One of those lesser humans.

“I thought I might find you hiding somewhere,” a voice said in her ear. “Your gown is a wonder.”

Rosalind turned away, trying not to take any pleasure in how dashing Erich looked himself. She didn't want to disappoint him, but she was in no mood for dancing. “I am not hiding,” she replied. “I am contemplating.”

“Are they not much the same thing?” Erich asked, perhaps trying to evoke some laughter. “What is troubling you, Rosalind? Cecily?”

“Of course,” Rosalind answered. “I keep thinking that I've accepted this. That she is gone, that the
. . .
the shock cannot get any worse. And then I think about her, lying there, dead, and it does get worse. One minute, I'm well; the next, I'm a wreck. And then
. . .
” She stopped.
The idea! Speaking to this boy so openly. What must he think of me?
“I apologize. This is none of your concern. I shouldn't be troubling you with all of this—”

“No,” Erich said. “No, no. You need to talk about this. If it will help, I should like to be the one to listen.”

Rosalind gave a slow nod.

“I am grateful for that
. . .
Erich,” she said.

Erich reached out and touched her cheek. Rosalind tensed, but his fingers were warm and soft and she did not pull away. But then she remembered herself and quickly turned, lest someone see them.

“As I told you before,” he said, “I am so very sorry for the death of your friend. If there were any way I could have prevented it,
for you
, I would gladly have done so.”

“The
. . .
sentiment is appreciated,” Rosalind said, still half turned away. “But I fear that there was nothing any of us could have done.”

“Yes,” Erich agreed. “Who can fathom the criminal mind? What drives a man to steal? To kill?”

Rosalind looked at him again, suddenly torn between trusting him and trusting no one. She glanced around. There was no sign of Inspector Bauer's men in the vicinity. Had they given her the night off? Or had they simply lost track of her? More likely they were hidden from view, but watching all the while.

“Erich,” she murmured before she could think better of it, “I am going to tell you something that I probably shouldn't tell you. It may very well put us both in danger.”

Erich drew closer. “Yes? What is it? Please, you can tell me anything.”

“I don't believe that Cecily was killed for her jewels,” Rosalind whispered. “In fact, I'm certain that is not what happened.” She fought to collect her thoughts. “I don't believe it was about robbery. I know it sounds strange, but I remember seeing her jewelry laid out on the table. None of it had been touched. And I know you'll say a man might panic after killing two people. But to have the courage to commit murder and then not to take the very jewels for which he'd murdered? I cannot believe that.”

Erich frowned. “I see,” he said slowly.

“As do I,” Rosalind insisted. “I
saw
. I remember everything about that room. Like it is a picture in front of me. Every time I close my eyes, I see
. . .
” She shook herself. “That's not important. What matters is that there is something else going on. I don't know if Inspector Bauer and the others have the right man, but even if they do, I am certain his motive was not the one they suspect.”