The Transatlantic Conspiracy (15 page)

When the clock finally showed eleven forty, Rosalind walked as swiftly as she could to the arboreal car, self-conscious in her futile effort to maintain something resembling poise. She followed the main path to their appointed meeting point—the spot where she'd left Erich only an hour and a half earlier—and stopped abruptly.

There was no sign of him.

Rosalind turned in a slow circle, peering into every shrub and tree and flower bed. She held her breath, listening for a telltale rustle of leaves, quiet footsteps on the flagstones. Nothing. She turned back to the door from whence she'd come, expecting him to appear. He simply wasn't here.

Had Erich changed his mind and decided to abandon her? Not that she would be surprised, given how she'd spurned his advances. Nor would it change her mind about the rendezvous. She fully intended to find Charles, with or without Erich's help. But it seemed unlike Erich to have broken his word.

Rosalind stepped toward the rear of the car. A shadow under a nearby clump of bright azaleas caught her eye—and she froze. It wasn't a shadow; it was a body.

Her knees turned to jelly as she knelt down, her legs nearly collapsing under her. In an instant she knew why Erich had not arrived: he was already here.

Here
. . .
but gone. Dead. Of that she had no doubt.

As Rosalind pushed aside the rough and brittle branches, her breath started coming fast. Her eyes roved over his suit, stained with the arboretum's soil. His eyes were closed, his face as white as ivory, a stark contrast to the blood pooled and caked around his upper body. He must have been stabbed somewhere
. . .
Whoever had killed him had tried to conceal the corpse but hadn't done a thorough job. Perhaps the murderer had been in a rush.

Rosalind began to tremble uncontrollably. She forced herself to stand, clinging to the brush for support. Her head swam. Poor Erich! This boy was dead because of her. Her eyes fell once more to the bloody corpse, and her body seized. At that moment, she spotted the murder weapon. It was still lodged in his neck. It was so slender that she hadn't seen it at first. But there was no mistaking what it was: a hatpin.

A hatpin shaped like a peacock feather.

Oh my God
, Rosalind thought, recoiling more from the revelation than from the horror beside her.
Erich was right all along
.

Chapter Sixteen

H
owever much it pained Rosalind to leave Erich's body in the bushes, she had no choice. It was almost midnight. Charles or no Charles, she would do as the note had bidden. The note represented her last hope, her only chance to find an explanation for this nightmare.

Either that or she could return to her room, perhaps to be murdered by Alix as well. Or she could report the body to train security, thereby allowing Inspector Bauer to take control both of the investigation and of her very life for the remainder of the journey. He was already hostile toward her. She knew how Father's trains operated, too: she would be placed under arrest—“for her safety” or some similar nonsense—locked away with no hope of ever learning the truth.

On the other hand, she would be safe.

Or would she? If Bauer and his men had been any good at their jobs, three passengers would still be alive.

Turning away from Erich, she made for Second Class, forcing herself not to look back or second-guess the decision. She had a purpose and she would not be swayed from it.

As she hurried through the last cars of the train, Rosalind was struck by the contrast to First Class, a contrast that only grew more pronounced the farther she went. Second Class was still comfortable, still clean. The metal was polished; the windows were washed. But the carpeting was coarser. The corridors were more cramped, the compartments more tightly packed. There were half as many carriages for an equal number of passengers.

And once Rosalind entered the crew cars, all pretense had been abandoned. They were sparse and functional, and clearly not for public viewing. For people like Doris, for people like those silent porters and the waiter who'd brought her breakfast.
The Serving Class
,
she thought. The invisible. Here, at this late hour, some were out and about, joking and drinking ale in the cramped halls. Rosalind caught a few curious stares, but she kept her head down and plowed forward.

When she finally reached the baggage cars, she heard some raised voices and the beginnings of a commotion behind her. No doubt Erich's body had been found; now the staff was being roused to help secure the train. Well, good. At least maybe they'd be able to apprehend Alix. Rosalind reminded herself to remain in the moment, not to care about what came next. All that mattered was finding Charles.

The guard on duty at the baggage car door had fallen asleep. He was a portly fellow, with his head tilted back and his mouth open, snoring loudly. A mug of coffee sat almost full on the floor beside his chair. Tiptoeing around him and holding her breath, Rosalind tried the door. It was unlocked. Her pulse quickened as she stepped inside and gently shut the door behind her.

Thankfully the baggage cars were lit with the same electric lamps as the rest of the train, but here they were bare, lacking any sort of glass covering to soften them. She squinted in the harsh glare as she dashed past racks of luggage and stacks of crates lashed to the floor with leather straps to keep them from sliding.

She placed her hand on the door to the last car and took a deep breath.

When she stepped inside, she exhaled.

The carriage was empty.

Rosalind very nearly swore aloud. She was tired, and frightened, and at the end of her wits. Was Charles dead, too? Was
everyone
dead? Jacob as well? Had Alix murdered everyone Rosalind had met since boarding the train in Hamburg?

As if in answer to her silent questions, a pair of strong arms seized her from behind. She tried to scream for help. A hand clamped down on her mouth, muting the sound. Her eyes bulged. She struggled to twist away. In the reflection of a darkened window she caught a glimpse of a porter's uniform.

So it
had
been a trap. Erich had been right. But of course, that was why he was dead. Being right was a rather hollow victory for the dead.
That will not be me
,
Rosalind thought, panic turning to fury.

She would
not
be murdered by some strange conspirator in a baggage car on her father's train.

Kicking backward violently, Rosalind drove the heel of her boot against her attacker's shin. He cried out in pain. His grip loosened just enough for her to wriggle free. She spun around, and nearly shrieked.

“Charles! What in God's name are you doing?”

He hobbled backward, leaning down to rub his shin.

“Being kicked by you, Rose,” he groaned. “I see my message reached you. I suppose I should have signed it, but I couldn't trust that Bauer wouldn't be reading the mail.”

“How did you do it?” Rosalind asked. “Send the message?”

Charles smiled slightly. “A porter can go almost anywhere without being noticed. I simply waited until everyone was preoccupied with dinner and then I sent the message from the machine in the stewards' carriage. I could have broken into someone's room to do it, but that would have been rude.”

“Very rude,” Rosalind agreed dryly.
As rude as abandoning someone in Hamburg.

Charles grinned at her, but a moment later he slumped down on one of the boxes and winced, rubbing his injured leg again. “You're quite strong, you know.”

“You shouldn't sneak up on a girl,” Rosalind said.

“I realize that now,” Charles grumbled. “I assumed it was you, but right now I can't be too careful. And I wanted to be sure you weren't followed—”

“What are you doing here?” Rosalind demanded.

“Rosalind, please let me explain,” he began. He stopped rubbing his shin and leaned forward. “There are—”

“Cecily's dead, Charles,” she barked at him, cutting him off again. She thought that seeing him might make her swoon, but the opposite was true: she was enraged, unable to keep her voice from shaking. “Did you know?”

Charles inhaled deeply and looked down. He nodded.

“I did
. . .
I do,” he said. “But
. . .
to my shame
. . .
I learned she was in danger too late. I thought that disappearing in Hamburg would give the two of you some distance from me. I was wrong.”

“What are you talking about?”

Charles rose to his feet, limping a little. After a moment, he steadied himself, a little gingerly, on his injured leg. He looked into Rosalind's eyes with an expression of the utmost seriousness and said simply, “I'm a spy.”

Rosalind laughed. She couldn't help herself. “What?”

“I am serious.”

“A spy. Since when?”

“Since I was sixteen,” Charles answered. “Not very long, really,” he admitted, “but I've been training most of my life, in the de Vere tradition.”

“Charles.” Rosalind pronounced his name slowly. “You're not making any sense. You realize that, don't you?”

“I assure you, it is true,” Charles replied. “My family, the de Veres, have served the English Crown for scores of generations.
Scores.
Since the reign of King John, we have worked to preserve England from all threats, within and without. Even now, my father advises King Edward on matters of intelligence.”

“All right, now I
do
understand what I am hearing,” Rosalind told him, “and I am quite certain you've lost your mind.”

“That is a shame, Rosalind, because it is true,” Charles said. “And unfortunately, against our best intentions, it seems you have been dragged into it.”

Rosalind folded her arms. “I am well aware that I've been dragged into
something
, Charles. Something that cost your sister her life. So yes. Please. Explain.”

“Cecily should never have come,” Charles muttered, shaking his head. “But she and I assumed that if we traveled with you—you, the daughter of the railway's owner—we would be above suspicion. And of course, there was also the hope that being so young, we might be overlooked where an older agent would be found out. That was always the problem, you see: getting someone onboard to carry out the work. But then your father wanted you to take the inaugural voyage. It was too perfect a chance to miss.”

“A chance? What chance?” Rosalind asked, growing angrier by the second. “What are you talking about?” It was not just Charles's implication that she was simply a pawn in some scheme that upset her. Worse than that was the very notion that Cecily of all people had used their friendship for some other purpose. But could she even believe that? It was too far-fetched. Cecily was so flighty, so devilish, so clueless: hardly the sort of person who could be involved in any sort of plot
. . .

Unless she wasn't flighty at all. And in that moment, Rosalind felt everything she had taken for granted crumbling into pieces around her. Nothing was what it seemed. Worse: anything, no matter how horrid, was possible. Perhaps Charles really was a spy. Perhaps she
was
nothing more than a pawn.

Charles held out his hands in an effort to calm her. “Rosalind, please,” he said. “We weren't using you, not really. It was just that the coincidences were too perfect—”

“What are you doing on the train, Charles? Just tell me.”

He took a deep breath.

“We're going to blow up the tunnel.”

Rosalind stared at him, once again silenced by the horrible and abject absurdity of what had popped out of his mouth.

“Why?” she eventually managed. “Why would you want to blow up the train? There are people on it. Innocent people.”

“Not the train,” Charles corrected. “The tunnel.”

“What's the difference?”

“The difference is that no one is going to be hurt,” Charles answered. “It's very simple. We have a bomb—”

“A bomb?”

“It's set on a timer. As we approach the shores of America, I will arm it and decouple the baggage car. By the time the bomb blows up, the train will be safely on land. No harm done, but some lost luggage.”

How could Charles speak so blithely about this? Furious, Rosalind rushed forward and struck him in the chest with her fists.

“You're mad!” she shouted. “Mad!”

Charles grabbed her hands to stop her, as gently as he could.

“I'm not mad,” he grunted as she squirmed. “It has to be done. And don't you think that if Bauer was willing to murder Cecily, there's a damn good reason for our wanting to do it?”

Rosalind finally wrenched herself away and backed off. Her lungs were heaving. “Bauer?” she gasped. “He killed Cecily?”

“Perhaps not himself, but he must have ordered it,” Charles said. “He's an agent of the Prussian Secret Police. They sent him and his men to protect the tunnel from us. One of them recognized me in Hamburg before we boarded
. . .
”

“The man with the mustache,” Rosalind whispered.

He nodded. “That's why I had to disappear. But I hadn't realized they suspected Cecily as well. I'd never have allowed her to go if I'd known.”

“You've got a right to feel guilty about that,” Rosalind said, still seething. “They may have killed her, but it's your fault she's dead. And why would you want to blow up my father's tunnel?”

Charles took a few steps toward her, limping slightly. He tried to touch her shoulder, but Rosalind jerked away. “It's not about you or your family, Rose,” he said. “It's about England and Germany. This tunnel
. . .
It's not only for passengers. It's meant to give Germany a lifeline to America in the event of a war with the British Empire.”

He sat back on a crate and rested his hands on his knees. He winced again. She'd really hurt him.

Well, good. He deserved it
, Rosalind thought.

“The facts speak for themselves,” Charles said. “The tunnel is meant to safeguard the German supply line in the event of war against a superior naval power,” Charles continued. “That means Britain. If war with Germany comes—and I'm certain it will—the Royal Navy will blockade them.

“But with this tunnel, Germany has a solution. They can run trainloads of supplies and munitions back and forth, month after month. We won't be able to stop them. Germany will be free to warmonger unchecked.”

“My father would never agree to that,” Rosalind protested.

Charles's face darkened. “It was your father's idea. How do you think he sold the Germans on the project?”

Rosalind looked away and thought it over. Was that possible? Could her father be conspiring with Germany? Not out of political allegiance, of course, but for money? Did he see war coming as well and plan to make yet another fortune supplying it? Of all the terrible secrets she'd uncovered about people she thought she knew, this one, sadly, was the least surprising.

Behind them, Rosalind heard the door to the carriage open. She and Charles both spun around. Charles drew a revolver from his pocket.