My aunt had been right about one thing. Anne Gibson was coming up in the world. In fact, I felt like boasting after they wheeled me from surgery. I had netted myself a broken arm, a sprained ankle, and two cracked ribs. They were also afraid I had a concussion and wanted me to stay in the hospital for a few days. I vowed I’d never forgive the man responsible. Mr. Powell was as sorry as could be, bringing me gifts of flowers and boxes of caramels. I threw the bouquets and kept the chocolates.
“You should be sorry,” I snapped. “You tried to kill me!”
He shuffled his feet, unable to look me in the eye. “What do you want me to say? How many times have I apologized?” He glanced up, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink. “When I revealed my true identity, I never expected you to leap in front of a train!”
“Me?” I choked out, feeling as if two giant hands were crushing my skull. “If you had been upfront in the very beginning, none of this”—I pointed at my cast—“would have happened!”
“I know,” he sighed, hunching his shoulders. “But you could have been a little forthcoming yourself.”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Er—” He cleared his throat. “You could have… confided in me before we departed for St. Louis.”
“Yes. That would have made it easier to plot my untimely demise, wouldn’t it?”
His mouth dropped open. “I never!”
“Never mind!” I popped a caramel into my mouth, hoping he felt as miserable as he looked. “What did you find out about my knight in a bowler hat?”
Mr. Powell turned an ungodly shade of green. “He’s a… Pinkerton,” he said, as though the word left an unpleasant aftertaste. “And a cowardly one at that.” He snorted in disgust. “Waiting until the train was coming to make his appearance? How chivalrous.”
“You sound thrilled. He saved my life.”
“I could have done that.”
Arching a dubious brow, I ate another caramel. “Do you know him?”
“A Pinkerton? Come now.”
I was suspicious either way. Macha’s prophecy about the two men now fulfilled, I swore to keep on my guard. What she had said about Mr. Powell was true. As for the Pinkerton…
That remained to be seen.
“Well,” I said finally. “He can’t be as bad as all that. He could have been killed.”
“If you think he dashed gallantly to your rescue out of the kindness of his black heart, you are sadly mistaken.” Mr. Powell took a seat by the window. “He’s after something. They never send their best agents unless personally requested to do so.”
“You sound worried.”
“I am worried.” He shot a troubled glance my way. “I believe he followed us all the way from New York.”
Unsettled by the accusation, I wanted him to tell me about himself. “What about you? You followed me all the way to South Dakota. How long were you watching me?”
“Not as long as you think, Miss Gibson.”
“I don’t believe you. What were you doing while I was at school? Nosing through my petticoat drawer?”
“Now see here—”
“I will not. You’re just as much of a coward as he is.” I pulled the blanket over my chest. “Probably worse.”
“Is that so?” He stood, more agitated than ever. “I’ll have you know I kept my distance. I never once strayed beyond the hotel.”
“Indeed?”
He nodded. “Colonel Havelock said I was to keep a close vigil, but not to frighten you away. He didn’t care about the sari. He was just afraid of what would happen if you remained in close contact with it.” Mr. Powell shoved his hands into his pockets with a sheepish grin. “Would it help if I told you I work for Scotland Yard?”
“Oh!” I hurled the empty confection box at him. “You show up now? Where were you when I needed you? Do you know how many letters I wrote asking someone to investigate my brother’s death?”
“I know nothing about that.”
“Of course you don’t. Silly me!” I eyed him as if he carried a loathsome disease. “So, what are you? An inspector or something? What is the hierarchy?”
“I am a sergeant, if you must know. I volunteered when no one else would take the job.”
“How—” I paused. “Volunteered? Why?”
“Because I’ve always been fascinated by the supernatural. It is a hobby of mine.”
“Oh. So, my welfare did not interest you in the slightest? I should throw my bedpan at you, good sir.”
The man hurried to explain, stumbling over his words, and had the decency to look chagrined. “You must understand, Miss Gibson. No one wanted the case. Colonel Havelock was frantic. You might even say… terrified.” He tugged at his collar. “Everyone thought he was mad.”
“And what were you to do when you found me?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I repeated incredulously. “All this way for nothing?”
“I was to observe, report my findings to Colonel Havelock, and offer my services should you have need of them.” He shrugged. “I was hoping it would never come to that.”
“But finding Mr. Gadot was no accident?”
“I wanted to help him, yes. I felt rather sorry for him if you must know. No one wanted to work for a—” He shook his head. “Dare I say it?”
“No.”
“Yes… well. I suppose it presented the perfect opportunity to get to know you. See if what the Colonel said about the sari was true. I was just as much a skeptic as you were, Miss Gibson.”
“I think at this point you should call me Anne.” I leaned my head back, wishing I had another one of those white pills that made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. “My head hurts,” I said, wincing. “How long has it been?”
“An hour.”
“Drat.”
“And will you address me as Jon?”
“I don’t know,” I sighed. “Perhaps when I feel inclined to forgive you.”
“You mean you haven’t?”
“Not today.”
“Has your tongue always been this sharp?”
I tried not to laugh. “Only recently, Mr. Powell.”
He gestured towards the empty box. “Should I get you another?”
Never one to indulge in sweets, I suddenly found myself craving them. “Make it two,” I said.
Mr. Powell chuckled, retrieving the box. He shook it out. “How many will it take to get you to forgive me?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Perhaps I should bring you a box of pastries as well.” He burst out laughing when I tried to sit up. “Mind those cracked ribs.”
“Lemon scones!” I shouted after him as he turned to leave. “And cream puffs!”
“Maybe a chocolate pie!” he called over his shoulder.
“Make it a cake!”
I lay back after he left, wondering if I was mad for trusting him. Anjuli might have. I think she found him charming. I, however, found him about as charming as a rattlesnake. On the bright side, it was rather nice to have someone to talk to.
Even if he wasn’t a gentleman.
* * *
“Prescott Anderson at your service, ma’am,” the Pinkerton agent declared with a courtly bow.
At first glance, he was a perfect representation of the Pinkerton detective agency with his black bowler hat and curled mustache. His manners were impeccable. On further scrutiny, Scotland Yard apparently had some sort of quarrel with the Pinkertons, as evidenced by Mr. Powell’s naked hostility. He made no attempt to conceal his disdain for the older gentleman, and I wanted to know why.
“You want to know the truth?”
“That would be refreshing.”
Mr. Powell visited once a day, usually after they served supper, and I had barely made a dent in my pudding. I held it out as a peace offering. “It’s vanilla, I think.”
“I hate vanilla,” he grumbled sourly. He yanked his cravat loose and took a seat. I noticed his eyes were bloodshot, and he appeared to be tired. “My mother forced enough vanilla pudding down my throat to last me until the Second Coming. I’ll pass.”
“Goodness,” I said, picking up my spoon. The hospital didn’t like the sound of my lungs when they noticed I had trouble breathing and decided to keep me for another week. I was fond of the bed, not the food. “And does your mother do this to all her children?”
“No. Just me.”
“How… utterly depressing.”
“Well, I’m the only male in a house full of girls. My father was thrilled when I was born. My mother, unfortunately, was not.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yes, well…” He reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from his brow. “About Mr. Anderson—”
“Yes?”
“He was not sent by Colonel Havelock.”
“That’s a relief.”
“He was sent by Anjuli’s brother.”
I should have been shocked, but wasn’t. “I didn’t know she had one.”
“Didn’t she tell you?”
“Mr. Powell,” I replied tartly, “she doesn’t tell me everything.”
“I find it alarming the man would shadow us and then choose a near fatal accident to reveal himself.”
“Accident?” I needled. “I’d say it was partially your fault I’m in this bed.”
His brows shot up in surprise. “I apologized, didn’t I?”
“Did you?”
“Look, this man—Anjuli’s brother— hired Mr. Anderson to locate the sari. He traced it to Colonel Havelock but was unsuccessful in gaining access to Briarwood.”
I nodded. “That still doesn’t explain how he found me.”
Mr. Powell looked ill. “I’m afraid I led him straight to you.”
The spoon clattered to the floor. “How?”
Hurrying to retrieve it, Mr. Powell set it back on the tray. “He followed me. Though I was careful with expenditures and places to stay, he traced me to New York. The rest, shall we say, is history.”
“But he couldn’t have known the sari was in my possession.”
“I don’t think Mr. Anderson knows. He keeps chiseling away at me, though. What do you want me to tell him?”
Uncertainly gnawed at me. I couldn’t admit to taking the sari without implicating myself, and I couldn’t hand it over. My thoughts must have revealed themselves on my face, for Mr. Powell suggested the very thing I was thinking. “We should give him what he wants.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hear me out.”
My fingers toyed with a loose fiber on my woolen hospital blanket. When he was through, I thought he’d had too much Worcestershire sauce with dinner. He pulled up a chair. “It’s been over sixty years since Anjuli’s wedding. No one remembers what it looked like.”
“Aren’t all wedding saris the same?”
“They’re all different, Miss Gibson.” He explained we should obtain a sari similar in color and design and hand it over to Mr. Anderson. “He’ll never know the difference.”
“What’s this about being party to a crime?” I queried. “Or don’t you remember what you said before I was nearly smeared from one end of the tracks to the other?”
“I remember,” he said with a rueful smile. “I was hired to return the sari safely to Colonel Havelock. And I intend to do so. It’s up to you whether you wish to proceed.”
“Return it?” I cried. “She wanted me to keep it safe. From him!”
“Are you so certain? Spirits have a peculiar way of communicating their intentions. She may have meant someone else.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.” Mr. Powell’s mustache twitched, and I knew he was up to no good. “I suggest you feign ignorance about the sari to Mr. Anderson. Just until we find a replacement.”
“You don’t trust him,” I observed, knowing I didn’t either. “Very well, Mr. Powell. I will go along with your… nefarious plans. For now.”
“Nefarious? Really, Miss Gibson!” He held out his hand. “Care to shake on it?”
“Do we have to?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s only proper when plotting a scheme.”
My hand nestled in his and I was suddenly assailed by an image of Anjuli standing in the corner with a frightened look on her face. “She’s afraid,” I whispered. “Why is she afraid?”
Mr. Powell glanced over his shoulder. “Is she here?”
“No. I just had an impression. She’s afraid of something.”
“Then all the more reason to get the sari back to Colonel Havelock. He’s the only one who knows what we’re dealing with.”
“Is he?” My voice sounded small, defeated. “And what makes you say that?”
“This…” Mr. Powell pulled out a rosary from his pocket, along with some sort of gold amulet. “It’s the Hamsa Hand,” he explained. “It belonged to Anjuli.”
“What was he doing with it?”
Mr. Powell eyed me sadly. “She gave it to him.”
