The Illusion of Murder (35 page)

I sit on my bed, unsure if I should scream with rage at myself or cry out of pity. What a blunder. Those damn stage lights.

“I will not give up,” I tell the monkey.

I shall simply bide my time and make my move when I am ready, while I keep taking one step forward at a time. Even if they are tiny steps I will be that much closer to accomplishing my goal.

The stewardess pounds on my door shortly before midnight. “Your friends insist you come back and usher in the New Year with them.”

Knowing that I must face others in the morning anyway, I reluctantly return to the dining room where champagne is being passed around. Frederick hands me a glass.

“I have made a fool of myself,” I confess.

He looks puzzled and shakes his head as if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Or does he? Is he that good of an actor? Or am I wrong in naming him as a culprit in the Amelia Cleveland charade?

When eight bells ring, we stand and sing “Auld Lang Syne” with glasses in hand, and on the last echo of the good old song toasting the death of the old year and the birth of the new, we shake hands all around, each wishing the other a happy New Year: 1889 has ended, and 1890, with its pleasures and pains, has begun.

Frederick escorts me back to my cabin and we stand in the hallway and face each other knowing that we harbor secrets from one another. There is an awkward silence for a moment before he speaks.

“Nellie, hunting big game is a dangerous business. It also requires great stamina and the ability to live under the most trying conditions. I have never taken a woman on an expedition with the unknown before and have sworn I never will, but after meeting you, I realize that I’m wrong. You would be more capable than most men, yet only half the size.”

I glow with immodest pride.

“Not only are you capable,” he goes on, “but you’re also beautiful and charming.”

“And you are a great liar,” I say, still glowing. “Go on.”

He smiles. “I’m glad I met you Nellie, and I hope that one day you will accompany me on one of my trips. I think we would make a good team.”

My heart melts when I look in his soft blue eyes.

“I should like that very much.” But there is a small part of me that wonders if it is just an empty promise since I am not totally confident of his intentions. I still don’t trust him.

“Very well then, it’s settled.”

Before he leaves, he leans slowly forward and kisses me on the lips. “Happy New Year, Nellie.”

Shortly after, I go to sleep lulled by the sounds of familiar minstrel melodies sung by the men in the smoking room beneath my cabin, the taste of Frederick’s warm lips on my mouth, and the feel of his body against mine.

54

Sarah and I leave the ship at Yokohama, Japan, because we will be in the country for five days and wish to stay in a hotel.

Full of surprises, she meets me on deck disguised as a man—clothes, hair, even a nice thin mustache, which, unless she can perform miracles, is false.

“What-ya-up-to, girl,” she says, with a Brooklyn accent.

“Why?” I ask. Not as to why she is disguised, that I know, but why she is dressed as a man.

“I get bored being just a woman; I like variety in my roles. I’ve played Prince Hamlet, my dear. Believe me, playing an American will not be as challenging.”

Her voice is not too masculine, but it will suffice.

We are taken from the ship, which anchors some distance out in the bay, to the pier in a small steam launch. The first-class hotels in the different ports have their individual launches, but like American hotel horse-drawn omnibuses, while being run by the hotel to assist in procuring patrons, the traveler pays for them just the same.

Frederick joins us on the shore launch. He is in a pleasant mood and gives me a nice grin, but when I see him look at Sarah with a smile in his eyes I am ready to plunge a knife in his heart.

The port on Tokyo Bay has a pleasant, cleaned-up Sunday appearance. The Japanese rickshaw men are clad in neat navy-blue garments, their legs encased in unwrinkled tights, the upper half of their bodies in short jackets with wide-flowing sleeves. With their clean, good-natured faces, peeping from beneath comical mushroom-shaped hats and their blue-black, wiry locks cropped just above the nape of the neck, they offer a strikingly “clean-cut” contrast to the rickshaw men of other countries. Their crests are embroidered upon the back and sleeves of their top garment as are the crests of every man, woman, and child I see.

Rain the night previous has left the streets muddy and the air cool and crisp, but the sun, creeping through the mistiness of early morning, falls upon us with most gratifying warmth.

We are both staying at the Grand Hotel, a large structure, with long verandas, wide halls, and airy rooms, commanding an exquisite view of the lake in front.

It takes a little persuasion, but finally I convince Sarah to join me in seeing the sights of Yokohama. “Oh my…” is all I can say when Sarah meets me later in the hotel lobby. She has transformed from a saucy young man from Brooklyn to an elderly woman—white hair in a bun, a cane, a little slouch to her walk, even a big broach in the center of her chest just like my grandmother always had. The lady is indeed an actress.

“Why?” I ask again, always at a loss for words around the great actress.

“I have been informed that the Japanese are extremely respectful of their elders, so I thought, What could be more perfect then a daughter out seeing their city with her grandmother?”

“All right. I thought we’d see Yokohama and then take a trip to nearby Tokyo. Think you can handle it, Gram?”

*   *   *

A
RICKSHAW IS TAKING US DOWN
a neighborhood street filled with men, women, and children playing shuttlecock and flying kites when Sarah gives me a coy smile. “I saw you looking at that handsome devil Frederick like a lovesick adolescent, so why didn’t you have him join you instead of me?”

“Nonsense, you saw nothing of the kind. Besides, I enjoy your company better than his.”

“Rubbish. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other with bedroom eyes.”

“With
what
? You’re not intimating that—”

“That you two are destined to be lovers? Of course I am. If you’re going to keep your passions hidden under a blanket, my dear, do have a man there to share them with.”

“Sarah, you are scandalous. Please … there is nothing between me and Mr. Selous.”

“My dear Nellie, you can’t fool me. You’re dying for him to water your garden.” She leans closer with a lewd whisper. “How long’s it been since a man put his—”

“Stop it! Or I’ll jump from this contraption.” My cheeks are burning but I can’t make up my mind whether to laugh at or run from her impudence.

“Nellie, you’re a grown woman; you’ve obviously dreamed of him whispering sweet nothings in your ear as you lie with him and he caresses your—”

“Stop! I won’t listen to you.” I put my hands over my ears.

She leans close enough so I can feel her lips on my hand covering my ear. “Tell me you don’t lie awake at night and massage your love button while you dream about him fondling it?”

I let out a scream that causes the poor rickshaw man to stumble and almost fall as he brings it to an abrupt halt.

“Sorry,” I tell him. “Keep going, please.”

I put my hands back over my ears and she pulls one off. “Stop being a child. I expect better of you. I’m giving you the best advice you will ever get. Go enjoy the magical, sensual passion he’ll give you. You won’t regret it.”

“And will I enjoy returning home as an unwed mother?”

“Come now, every woman knows there are ways to avoid conception. If you don’t know, I’ll show you, but I don’t think you’re a virgin. Wait!” She leans closer and whispers, “Do you prefer women?”

“I prefer you stop harassing me and deliberately embarrassing me. But since you raised the subject of lovers, why don’t you tell me what is going on between you and your mystery man that has put a cloud over us since Port Said?”

“Look.” She points to Japanese women happily playing shuttlecock in the streets. “Wouldn’t you say they are some of the prettiest women in the world? One would think an artist painted their faces … those perfectly shaped cherry lips and rosy cheeks. Not to mention their silky black hair. What amazes me is the graceful way they move while walking in those god-awful wooden sandals.”

In other words, she has changed the subject.

“My maid at the hotel says that rather than carry a purse, the women put money, combs, hairpins, anything they will need when they leave the house up their sleeves.” She gives me a sympathetic look. “Like most women, I’m sure they carry their hearts on their sleeves, too.”

*   *   *

T
HE RICKSHAW DROPS US OFF
at a covered market where everything from fish and rice, to cloth and chopsticks, are sold from booths. Sarah wanders off by herself to find a blind person to give her a bath and massage. “It’s a profession the Japanese reserve for the blind and they charge almost nothing.” She grabs my arm. “Come with me, it will loosen you up for Frederick.”

I jerk my arm out of her grasp and she leaves me laughing. Despite her teasing, I admire her. I believe I’m a modern woman with a proper rein on my passions, while she is completely free and uninhibited toward men and sex. A quality I secretly envy.

Wandering through stalls of goods, I find myself daydreaming about what it would be like between me and Frederick if I had Sarah’s sense of freedom until I spot a pair of shoes on a woman’s feet that cause me to stop and stare.

I can’t see the woman because she is on the other side of a wall. The stalls are partitioned by bamboo walls that leave a wide space at the bottom for air to circulate beneath and it’s that space that reveals the shoes—and the leather that catches my attention. It matches the description that the fake Mrs. Cleveland used in Hong Kong to describe the shoes of the woman who hired her: light brown, with bumps that have little holes or nicks on them.

My heart is already racing as I make my way through the ceramic shop I’m in and go into the shop next door to see who is wearing the shoes.

I hurry around the corner and almost fly into a woman, quickly taking a step back and exclaiming, “Sorry.”

“Perfectly all right.”

The young assistant to the Aussie sharpshooter smiles at me. I look down; she’s the shoe wearer.

“What’s the matter? Have I picked up a little something on my shoes?”

“No, not at all,” I stammer. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I saw your shoes and wondered if they are sold here.”

A complete lie. Her shoes are a high-top laced shoe similar to my own, an Occidental style completely unlike the five-inch-high Japanese sandals that make people look as if they are walking on stilts.

“Hardly the local style, don’t you think?” she says.

I had assumed she was an Aussie like the Murdocks, but while her accent is British, it carries a hint of some other European country. She has dark hair, green eyes, and a tanned complexion.

“It’s the leather I find interesting, the bumps and all, I’ve never seen it before. What kind is it?”

“Ostrich, those big birds that don’t fly.”

“Ostrich? Really. My name is Nellie Bly.”

“Cenza.”

She offers no last name.

“We almost met—once.”

“Oh yes, with me baring it all. I’m glad you didn’t appear offended. Most women have been so indoctrinated by their husbands to the point that they would faint at the suggestion of love between women.”

“I have learned that there is nothing wrong with people of like desiring flocking together.” I give the shoes another look. “I’ve heard of ostriches. Their feathers are popular. Are they an Australian creature?”

“There are ostrich ranches in the Outback, though I believe the big birds are native to Africa.” She glances down at my feet. “If we wore the same size, I would give mine to you since you are so enamored with them.”

“Actually, it was Virginia Lynn who told me about them. You were wearing them the night you hired her.”

She raises her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know your friend. Wasn’t that the name you mentioned during the magic act?”

So much for my frontal assault. I should have guessed she had been in the audience.

She brushes against me as she leaves. “If you want a little fun, drop by our cabin. Otherwise, piss off, bitch.”

Amazing. She’s hard and nasty not far beneath her skin. I have a strong desire to go after her and demand she tell me what she knows, but not only would I get nowhere, I’d probably go to jail for punching her the next time she used foul language on me.

“Nellie!” Sarah comes toward me, walking much too spryly for a granny. “What a wonderful experience. He had the hands of an angel.” Seeing the look on my face, she adds, “And you look like the devil just spit in your eye.”

55

Frederick calls on me soon after I return to the hotel and I meet him in the lobby.