The Transatlantic Conspiracy (14 page)

Erich ran his fingertips along his chin. Rosalind wondered if she had offended him with her talk about the murder. But after a little while, he turned back to her, his lips pressed into a tight line.

“You know,” he said, “I think that may be so. But until you spoke of Bauer and the wrong man in custody, I had been trying to dispel this terrible thought of mine.”

“You agree with me?” Rosalind gasped.

Erich's face grew grim. The light that had always been there seemed to have been extinguished from his eyes. “Yes, and it is worse than that. I think
. . .
I fear
. . .
that my friend may have had something to do with it.”

“Your friend? You mean Jacob?” Rosalind stared at him. “What on earth for? That's impossible—”

“One would think, yes?” he interrupted, avoiding her eyes. “But I think
. . .
I think Cecily may have been killed by Jacob and Alix together.”

Rosalind was speechless. “But why?” she demanded.

“That I do not know,” Erich replied. “But I have given it some thought. The two of them seem a little too familiar for people who have only just met. Surely you have noticed that?”

He nodded toward the dance floor. Indeed, as if he'd magically conjured the display for proof, there were Alix and Jacob, spinning through the crowd, entwined, almost rapturous.

“I
. . .
Well, I just assumed Alix was coping with the death of our friend by trying to forget it,” Rosalind stammered, unable to stop gaping at them. “And Jacob was a distraction
. . .
” She turned back to Erich. “Forgive me for what I'm about to say. I know he's your friend, but he's not terribly intelligent. I don't think he could do it.”

Erich averted his eyes once more. He appeared visibly ashamed to be harboring such evil thoughts. “I used to think as you do of him. That he was a happy-go-lucky sort, a committed soldier, a personable companion, nothing more. But I've never spent time with him like this, in such close quarters. There are certain things that Jacob has said since we arrived
. . .
certain things I have seen him do when he thought I was not watching.”

Rosalind felt her heart thudding in her chest. “What has he done?”

Erich sighed. He forced a smile at her. “No. I cannot do this. I cannot betray his confidences. I must beg your pardon. I should not talk about Jacob like this. It could all be coincidence. Here I am, impugning my friend's reputation on conjecture, without a piece of evidence.”

Rosalind nodded, as much out of frustration as out of admiration for this boy she'd only just met. She could hardly expect him to tell her the sordid details of his friend's conduct when there might be no actual connection to the murder; it was incredible enough that Erich had told her of his suspicions in the first place—and that he even had them.

“I won't pry,” she assured him, “but I won't assume that Alix
or
Jacob were involved without proof.”

“Thank you,” Erich said, sounding relieved. “I suppose I shouldn't have said anything. It is only that
. . .
I want to help you, Rosalind. And I promise you this: whoever is behind the death of your dear friend—Jacob, Alix, even the captain of the train—I will not rest until I find the culprit. I will not rest until you have justice.”

Rosalind laid a hand on his arm. She was troubled by his words, his tone, his outlandish theory that Alix von Hessen was a murderer. But at the same time, she believed in his intention: he did want to help her. And he had his own reasons, clearly, if he thought his friend was not a friend at all, but rather a criminal in disguise
. . .
“To have justice, we will need evidence,” she said. “Something we can bring to the police.”

“Agreed,” Erich said. “We will begin with Jacob and Lady von Hessen. God willing, we may eliminate them as suspects.”

“A faint heart never solved a mystery,” Rosalind said, as much to herself as to him. Secretly, she prayed that they
could
be eliminated. Again she felt that terrible weight of memory. Her two best friends, her hosts for a joyous and carefree spring, were
gone
. One dead, one missing. Her heart thudded again. Perhaps Charles had been murdered, too, before they'd boarded the train? Or perhaps he'd sensed mortal danger and had run to protect himself? But no, Cecily would have been panicked in either instance
. . .

“We will watch them,” Erich continued. “Like hawks, yes? You will watch your friend Lady von Hessen. I will watch my friend Jacob. If she reveals anything, you come to me. If he reveals anything, I come to you. And together we will go to Inspector Bauer and force him to see the truth.”

“Do you think it will work?” Rosalind asked, snapping back into the present, forcing herself to focus on some course of action over which she could have a semblance of control. She peered out at the dance floor, where Alix and Jacob were still twirling.

“It is the only thing we can do. So we must hope that it works.”

“And if it isn't them?” she asked.

Erich sighed. “Then we will have a very long list of suspects.”

She drew closer, narrowing the distance between them. “Why are you doing this for me?” she asked. “You didn't even know my friend.”

“As I said, I had my own suspicions,” Erich replied. “You simply brought them to light. And besides, though I may not be a dashing officer, a man does like to think that he may be a hero to a beautiful young woman from time to time.”

Rosalind couldn't help but smile at the compliment, though she felt awkward doing it. “You make a very good knight-errant,” she said. “All you need is the shining armor.”

Erich extended his hand. “That I cannot obtain. But I wonder, Fräulein Wallace, if you would be so very kind as to join me in the next dance.”

Rosalind hesitated. She wanted to ever so much, but she found herself unable to put Cecily out of her mind. Everything had happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, so awfully. Then again, it
was
a ball. And a dance was only a dance. Cecily would have danced. Moreover, she would have wanted
Rosalind
to dance, so that she could pretend to be scandalized. Rosalind could almost hear her old friend's carefree giggle.

“Herr Steiner,” Rosalind said. She took his hand, smiling and fighting back tears at the same time. “I thought you might never ask.”

Chapter Fifteen

U
pon the train's departure from Neptune Station the next morning, Rosalind met Alix in her room. And as instructed, she spent the next few hours watching the girl “like a hawk.” Not that she particularly minded; nor was it particularly difficult to watch her. They'd adjourned to the Red Parlor after breakfast and sat together until lunch. Whatever had sparked Alix's bizarre fervor the other night, the flame had died. Now Alix was simply sad, appropriately so. She spent the entire morning talking of Cecily, of the adventures they'd shared at school, of Cecily's troublemaking and generosity and joie de vivre. She and Rosalind had both wept as often as they'd laughed.

By midafternoon Rosalind was certain Erich's suspicions were entirely unfounded. What reason could Alix possibly have for killing Cecily? Was Alix even capable of killing someone? She was a true product of the aristocracy, sheltered and naive about so many things. Perhaps it was Jacob's doing alone. Or perhaps Erich had a wild imagination and had mistaken Jacob's odd private behavior for something more sinister. Regardless of what the truth proved to be, Rosalind was determined not to be swayed by assumptions, even if she did trust Erich's own motives.

And she did. Didn't she?

•••

Rosalind finally parted company
with Alix in the late evening. As she made her way down the corridor back to her own compartment, she realized she was not the least bit tired. She didn't wish to go to the library and engage with that phony librarian, but she needed something to help her fall asleep. Perhaps listening to a little music on the gramophone by her bedside would do the trick. Otherwise she might be reduced to pacing back and forth.

When she entered her room, she felt certain that something was out of place. At first she did not know what. Her things were as she had left them, strewn about, and a quick check showed that she was alone. She turned in circles until she spotted what was different: a cylinder lay in the receiving tray of the pneumatic post machine.

How odd.

Who could possibly be sending her messages? Not Alix, surely; they had only just parted. Erich, perhaps? She smiled a little at the thought. Then her smile faded. More likely Inspector Bauer, inquiring about whether she was satisfied with the performance of his spies
. . .

Rosalind opened the cylinder and unfolded the slip of paper within. It was a short note, only three lines long, but it was enough to make her dizzy:

 

I am alive. I am on the train.

Meet me in the last baggage car at midnight.

I will explain everything.

 

At first she thought it might be from Cecily—impossible though that was—but there could be no mistaking the handwriting.

It belonged to Charles.

Rosalind dropped the cylinder and sank to the floor, her head swimming. Charles? On the train all this time? But how was that possible? Why hadn't he boarded with them? Why hadn't he said something before now? Why hadn't he been there when Cecily was killed?

Rosalind shut her eyes tightly and concentrated on breathing for a short while. It was all just a dream, she thought. Some insane fever dream. She was at home, deathly ill. Cecily was still alive. None of this was real.

But when her lids fluttered open, she was still clutching the note. Cecily was dead, and her brother was alive, demanding to meet in the last baggage car at midnight. Rosalind's chest felt tight, as if she couldn't suck enough air into her lungs. She forced herself to stand. She needed to get out, away from the blasted train and its claustrophobic compartments. She needed to think.

Stumbling to the door, she braced herself against it and straightened. She couldn't lurch through the hallways like a madwoman. No, she needed to compose herself. Nobody could see that her heart was pounding. Nobody could see the panic inside, provided she kept an even keel. After another deep breath, she opened the door and went outside. There was no one in the corridor, which was good. Most of the cars were deserted, in fact. As she made her way toward the rear of the train, she passed only an occasional porter. It was a little past ten o'clock, and it appeared most of the passengers had gone to bed.

When she reached the arboreal car, she managed something approximating a relaxed state. She wandered up and down the paths for a few minutes, collecting her thoughts. Once or twice she stood still and closed her eyes, listening to the birdsong.

I didn't know there were birds here
, she thought.

Ah, but of course, they weren't real. Just a recording played on the speakers to help with the ambience. What
was
real aboard this train? It was so hard to distinguish
. . .

“Good evening, Rosalind,” said a voice from behind her. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Rosalind's eyes popped open, and she whirled around in surprise. For a moment it felt like her heart had stopped. But there was no cause for concern. Quite the contrary: it was Erich. He stood a few paces away, smiling at her, still in his evening finery.

“I am sorry, I did not mean to startle you,” he apolo
gized.

Rosalind shook her head. “It's fine. I have simply been
. . .
confounded this evening.”

Erich tilted his head and approached her. “You are upset,” he said.

“It's nothing to worry about,” Rosalind assured him.

“But it is everything to worry about,” Erich replied. “I do not want you to be upset, Rosalind. You are too wonderful to be upset.”

Rosalind laughed in spite of herself, and it made her feel quite foolish. She drew in a breath. “It has simply been a very trying day. And yet it hasn't at all. And that is what's so peculiar. I watched Alix, as we agreed I'd do
. . .
and I saw nothing untoward or suspicious. We both mourned.”

“Your friend's death is weighing on you,” Erich said with a nod. “I understand that.”

“Yes,” Rosalind said. “And it has just become fresh for me again.”

Erich took her hand and gently raised it to his lips. “I want you to know that I am here for you, Rosalind,” he whispered. “I want to comfort you. I would do anything in my power to make your sadness go away.”

“Erich—”

“You are such a beautiful woman,” Erich continued, his eyes aflame. “I simply cannot put into words how marvelous you are
. . .
” And then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. It was wonderful, and delicious, and Rosalind felt herself being swept away, dizzy and delighted and confused, until she could think of nothing but the kiss. The kiss and
. . .

Charles
.

Rosalind gasped and pulled away. She held on to Erich's coat for a moment as she tried to steady herself. Breathing heavily, she looked up and managed to say, “Wait. I'm sorry. Wait.”

Erich straightened. His lips quivered as he fought not to appear hurt.

“Have I done something wrong?” he asked. “I am sorry, but I thought
. . .
I have great affection for you. I thought that you felt the same.”

“I do,” Rosalind said. But no, that wasn't quite true, and she couldn't lie about such a thing, even to soothe his feelings. “I don't.”

“I am confused,” Erich said. “You say one thing, then another. What am I to think?”

Rosalind shook her head. “Erich, you are a wonderful man. I thank you so much for your kindness, but there is someone else.”

A long and uncomfortable pause fell between them.

“Ah,” Erich finally said with a sad smile. Yet he seemed relieved that a rival suitor was the cause of the rejection, not any fault of his own. “I am sorry, I did not know.”

“How could you have known?” Rosalind said. “I would have spoken sooner, but I didn't realize
. . .
”

“Yes, of course,” Erich said, looking away. He was silent for a time. But presently he looked back at Rosalind and forced a disappointed smile. “I hope you will forgive me for having been so forward.”

“All is forgiven, absolutely,” Rosalind promised him. “I'm flattered, Erich, truly I am. But my heart belongs to another, and you deserve better than to be deceived about such a thing.”

Erich gave a thoughtful nod. “I appreciate that, yes,” he said. After a moment, he asked, “Will you tell me who it is? Someone else on the train?” He chuckled, sounding very sad. “I hope it is not Jacob. He always steals the girls, you know. And I am still not certain he's innocent
. . .
”

Rosalind took Erich's hands and squeezed them. She wanted to be comforting and reassuring, but she had no idea how to do that without giving him the wrong impression all over again.

Erich managed a smile. “Whoever this man of yours is, he is very fortunate.”

“It's
. . .
” Rosalind began, hesitating. “It's Cecily's brother, Charles.” So strange: until she'd said the words out loud, she hadn't fully admitted the truth to herself.

“Ahhhh,” Erich said. “Ah, yes, it becomes more clear. Then he is indeed fortunate, in spite of the tragedy that has befallen his family. At least he is not on the train. I daresay if he were to learn about my courting you, he would find me and punch me in the nose. And my nose is very dear to me. It is one of my best features. All the girls say so.”

Rosalind tried her best to laugh for his benefit. But Erich's attempt to deflect his embarrassment and rejection with humor made Rosalind feel all the worse. The kiss had betrayed where both their feelings lay. Still, he deserved to know the truth, insofar as she knew it herself.

“That's the funny thing,” she said. “I
. . .
I think he may actually be on the train with us. Not that I would tell him about this,” she quickly added. “Simply a
misunderstanding. It will stay between us, I promise you.”

“He's on the train?” Erich asked in disbelief. “But that is impossible. He left you at Hamburg, did he not?”

“He did,” Rosalind said. “Simply vanished.” Her eyes narrowed. “But how did you know that?”

“You mentioned it, of course,” Erich replied. “Perhaps it was Cecily. I'm certain it came up in conversation. But you say he is on the train?”

Rosalind frowned, her mind whirling. “Erich, may I confide in you a second time? Even after this?”

“I hope that I am still your friend, Rosalind. Of course, you may tell me anything.”

Rosalind drew the crumpled note from her sleeve and showed it to Erich. “It's Charles's handwriting,” she said.

Erich's eyes widened as they roved over the words. “Are you certain?” he asked. He sounded very worried. “It is unsigned, and this person asks you to go to one of the baggage cars in the middle of the night? I do not trust this, Rosalind. Truly, I do not.”

“You don't want me to go, do you?”

He sighed. “You are going to go regardless, aren't you?”

“Yes,” Rosalind said. “I understand that there is a risk and I appreciate your concern. But I
know
that handwriting. Signed or not, it is Charles. And I need to know what is going on—”

“This is a very bad idea, Rosalind,” he interrupted. “A very bad one.”

“You can't stop me,” she warned, seeing where he was going.

“No, no, I would never do such a thing,” Erich said quickly. “But, um, perhaps you might allow me to accompany you. I would not stay
. . .
I'll tell you what: meet me here at one quarter to midnight. We will go together. I will escort you through Second Class and the staff quarters, and if it truly is your Charles, I will leave the two of you alone. But if it is some sort of trap by persons nefarious, I would rather be there than to learn of it afterward.”

Rosalind bit her lip. She felt a twinge of guilt for how he must feel. But she could not change her heart any more than he could change his. “If you insist,” she said. “It is very kind of you. I
. . .
” She broke off at the sound of rustling in the leaves of one of the nearby trees. She turned to look but could see nothing in the shadows. Was someone watching them?

“Did you hear something?” she asked.

Erich listened for a moment and shook his head.

“No,” he answered. “Did you?”

Rosalind swallowed. “No matter. But I think we should part ways now, to be safe.”

Erich nodded and whispered back, “I will meet you right here at a quarter to midnight, yes?”

“Agreed,” Rosalind said. “And
. . .
thank you, Erich.”

He gave her one last melancholy smile. “For you, anything.”

•••

Back in her room,
Rosalind regretted departing from Erich. Alone, time turned to molasses as she alternately paced and stared at the clock in the hopes that it might be made to move faster. She changed out of her gown into the simplest dress she owned—it allowed for running, if necessary. She even entertained the thought of going to the rendezvous early, but there was no guarantee that Charles would even be there before midnight. Indeed, there was no guarantee that Charles would be there at all. Erich was right to worry.