Mr. Powell was an attentive and considerate listener. He did not interrupt when I began my sordid tale, asked insightful questions when I paused in the story, and offered a quiet strength that was sorely lacking in my life. Imagine my surprise when the first thing he asked was, “Where is the sari now?”
“Er… it’s in Mr. Perez’s basement.” I squinted up at him, having removed my spectacles through the worst parts. “Aren’t you going to condemn me or something?”
“Condemn you? For what?”
“For taking the sari. I’m a thief.” I made a face. “Lower than a common thief, actually.”
“Are you always this dramatic, Miss Gibson?”
“Only on Tuesdays.”
He handed me another handkerchief from a pile he apparently carried with him in his briefcase. I dabbed at my eyes and blew my nose. He smiled down at me. “Feeling better?”
“Um… not really.”
“I would very much like to see it.”
“So would I. I’m afraid to touch the thing if you must know.” I told him about the shadows. “They follow me everywhere.”
“Are they here… now?”
He didn’t sound afraid, but merely cautious.
“I want you to know I am a skeptic, Mr. Powell.”
“So am I.” He shook his head. “This Anjuli asked you to take it. Am I correct?”
I nodded. “Then the sari is under your protection. It’s all how you look at the matter.”
“But it was locked in that trunk!” I cried, fearing I had just signed an affidavit. “He had to have known it was up there.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Mr. Powell stood up and wandered to the window. He pried it open and left it cracked. The room soon filled with the unmistakable odor of a slaughterhouse. He quickly slammed it shut. “Perhaps it would be best if we had some supper. Then we may proceed.”
“Proceed?” I wiped my spectacles and slipped them back on. “Proceed how? I’ve got to get rid of it. It’s cursed!”
Mr. Powell laughed softly. “Now who’s superstitious?”
“I am telling you that thing is cursed!” I told him about what happened in South Dakota. “Macha died shortly thereafter. I think they had something to do with it.”
His eyes widened. “You don’t believe that.”
“I do.” I allowed him to help me to my feet, where I stood brushing my skirts off. “She was perfectly healthy, then she’s dead. Just like that!” I snapped my fingers. “Her son said she was as healthy as an old pack mule.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Mr. Powell had a strange look in his eyes. “Have you tried on the sari?”
I nearly expired of apoplexy. “Are you mad?” I cried. “It’s bad enough I pierced my ears! But to try it on? Come now.”
“So, she wields power over you as well?”
“Not in so many words. But yes. She influences what I wear and what I eat. It’s quite… unsettling.”
“That’s because you let her,” he said, startling me. He shrugged at my questioning look. “I’ve seen things myself. Heard things. You’d be surprised what one sees in a drafty old castle.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Not here.” He shrugged on his jacket. “I don’t think we can linger, Miss Gibson.” He retrieved his bag and hat and advised me to do the same. “We’re leaving.”
“N-now? But we haven’t eaten!”
“We’ll eat on the way.”
“What about your meeting?”
“I’ll send them a telegram. Let’s go!”
The rest of the evening proceeded in a disjointed blur of sights and sounds. We picked up a couple of chicken salad sandwiches from a drugstore and had the carriage driver drop us off at the train station. The ticket office was closed, so we huddled on a bench nibbling our sandwiches and sipping soda from glass bottles with paper straws.
“This is the first time I’ve ever had a drugstore sandwich,” he said, taking a tentative sniff. He bit into it with a grimace. “I hate onions.”
“So do I.”
“Can you make chicken salad?”
“Oh, yes,” I mumbled through a mouthful of chicken and bits of boiled egg. “My mother’s recipe. She used chopped walnuts.”
“Sounds delicious.”
After we dispatched the sandwiches, we discussed the differing aspects of spirituality. He was especially interested in seances. “Have you ever attempted to contact her that way?’
I shook my head. “Macha advised me not to. Said it was dangerous. As is the use of a Ouija board.” I gave a shudder. “She said it was like opening a door and inviting Jack the Ripper into your home.”
Mr. Powell had a serious yet thoughtful answer. “You need protection.”
“From what? The board or the sari?”
“Probably both.”
I brushed crumbs from my lap, glancing just beyond the platform where the train tracks merged. My eyes struggled to focus. For a moment, I thought I saw a man in a bowler hat. I let out a shaky breath, having come to a decision. “I’ll need a witness,” I said aloud, forgetting Mr. Powell was sitting next to me.
“A witness?”
“Hmm? Yes. I’ll need a witness for the… procedure.”
“Miss Gibson, you are making little sense.”
“I have to get rid of it,” I blurted, startling myself and probably my traveling companion. I knew I was betraying Anjuli and hated myself for it. I have always considered myself to be a trustworthy person. Goodness knows, even Joshua used to confide in me. There was one time he snuck out to be with his friends, met up with his sweetheart, and climbed back into the house through my window. He made me swear never to tell our parents. But familial bonds superseded those of the recently departed.
At least, in my case.
“The trunk,” I said, turning to face Mr. Powell. “I must rid myself of the burden.” I told him what I was planning to do once we arrived in New York. “Will you help me?”
Mr. Powell had just taken the next-to-last bite of his sandwich and was still chewing. He seemed to ponder my request as he chewed… and chewed. I realized he didn’t wish to answer. “That’s fine,” I said, deciding the only one I could depend on was myself. “Kindly forget I asked the question.”
“I’m sorry,” he said once he could speak. “The sandwich was dry.” He took a sip of his soda, peering up at me as though we had just met. “You were asking me to be a witness to your disposal of the sari?”
“That’s quite all right.” I stood, shaking out my skirts. I could not bear to look at him, so I gazed at my feet instead. My boots were in a terrible state, scuffed and in dire need of repair. “Where do you get your shoes repaired, Mr. Powell?” I inquired, ignoring his muttered oath. “Or should I buy new?”
“Miss Gibson,” he ground out through clenched teeth. I was familiar with the sound. “You have just asked me to be an accomplice and now wish to know where I get my shoes repaired?”
“Er… would it be a crime to dispose of the sari?”
“I think so, yes.”
“How?” I glanced up to find him scowling at me. “Really, Mr. Powell. Put that away.”
“I will not,” he huffed, setting his soda aside. “The sari was obtained under… questionable circumstances.” He leaned forward. “Don’t you think you ought to try to return it first?”
“I’ve thought about that.”
“And…?”
I shook my head. “Macha said I was not to touch the sari.”
“But you had to when you placed it in the trunk.”
“I wore gloves.”
“Why not get a priest to bless the thing?”
“I don’t think a priest could help, Mr. Powell.”
“And why the hell not?” He was getting angry. I took a step back. “Well?”
“Anjuli was of the Hindu faith,” I explained, repeating what Macha said to me. “I also believe she was murdered. And you know what they say about those who’ve met a violent end.”
“Let me guess,” he retorted. “This Anjuli told you who snuffed her flame.”
“That’s disrespectful, sir. Apologize.”
“I will do no such thing,” he growled, hurling his napkin to the ground. He rose and took a step towards me. “If that bloody sari is cursed, what makes you think none of it will transfer? To you? To me?” He gesticulated wildly. “Do you see where I’m going with this?”
“Not really.”
He let out a ragged breath and took another step. I instinctively took another away from him. “Mr. Powell? Are you… angry with me?”
“Does it show?”
“For goodness’ sake! Why?”
“Because it’s not your property to do with as you please.” He ran a trembling hand through his hair, mussing the combed locks and leaving it to tumble over his brow. “In all the years I’ve been doing this, no one has ever asked me to be party to a crime! How could you?”
“Doing what? I thought you were a salesman.”
“Hardly, Miss Gibson.”
As though a curtain had been parted, Macha’s warning sounded loud and clear in my head. “Who are you?” I demanded. “You’re not Mr. Powell, are you?”
He took another step, sending me backward until my feet grazed the edge of the platform. “I am Mr. Jonathan Powell. That is my name.” His eyes glowed eerily under the anemic glow of platform lights. “And you, Miss Gibson, have been a thorn in my side ever since you left South Dakota.”
I gulped as I always do when frightened. “Who… are you?” I whispered. “Did they send you to find me?”
Another step.
I could not move forward. If I moved back an inch, I’d be on the tracks. Panicked, I tried to go around him and tripped, landing in the middle of the train tracks. “Now, look what you’ve done!” I wailed, trying to sit up. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Me?” He held out his hand. “No need to be afraid, Miss Gibson. I was sent to protect you.”
“By whom?”
“By your erstwhile employer, which now makes him mine.” He laughed. “Isn’t that ironic?”
“Get away from me!” I shrieked, leaping to my feet. “You can have the blessed sari!” I marched to the other side of the platform and tried to climb up. My skirts tangled, causing me to fall again. “Drat! I hate these things!”
“Miss Gibson!” Mr. Powell called over. “Are you intact?”
“Why do you care?” I had to shove my skirts up in an unladylike manner and hop up. “There!” I cried triumphantly. “I didn’t need your help after all!”
“I’m coming over. Wait there!”
“Stay away!”
“I can’t do that, Miss Gibson.” I watched in horror as he jumped down and made his way over to me. Where was a train when I needed one? I fled to the far end of the platform, feeling like a cornered rat. “Do you honestly think he wouldn’t notice she was gone?”
“Don’t touch me!” I hissed, making him flinch. “You’re no better than he is!”
“Colonel Havelock may be many things, Miss Gibson. But he is no murderer.”
“And how would you know?” I shot back. “Did he pay you to say that?”
“Now, look here—”
“No! You look! You don’t know what it was like in that house!” I screamed my frustration, wishing I had the strength of three men. “He pawed me! Touched me where no other man has dared. What do you say about your employer now?”
He didn’t believe me. I could see it in those extraordinary eyes. Those eyes I now wished I had never laid mine upon. “I will proceed to New York and give Mr. Gadot my notice. The sari stays with me.”
“But you said you wanted to get rid of it.”
“And you said you were a gentleman.”
“Miss Gibson—”
“Stop saying that!” I shouted, darting past him and leaping from the platform to head back to the other side. “I’m leaving!”
“And where will you go? You’re better off with me.”
I told him where he could go and how to get there, wishing Joshua hadn’t taught me those words. But, as I made my way across the tracks, I thought they expressed my anger and sense of betrayal in a way only a man could understand.
“Miss Gibson!” Mr. Powell’s voice was frantic. “Get off the tracks!”
“What’s that you say?” I could not hear him. There was a buzzing sound in both my ears that prevented me from hearing the approaching train. As if held by unseen hands, I could not move. Could not escape the roaring shriek of steam engines barreling down steel tracks at 80 miles per hour. “Mr. Powell…”
“Anne!”
In that moment, a life barely lived flashed before my eyes. Regret and shame filled me. I had squandered time and allowed bitterness to fester. I had not sought forgiveness. Mr. Powell looked on helplessly and just before I met my untimely end, felt myself being thrown clear of the tracks and yanked over the platform.
My ears ringing and my heart attempting to pound its way through my chest, I gazed up at my rescuer and saw it was not Mr. Powell.
His face was familiar and his voice… that of a distinguished gentleman.
