Rosamunda's Revenge Read online

“Nothin’, I reckon,” he said at last. “That fellow at the back table looked familiar for a minute is all.”

  Turning to peer over her shoulder once more, Tacita stared hard at the man whom Jed had indicated. She didn’t recognize him. Hunched over his table, glaring at the menu, he didn’t appear familiar at all. A chubby fellow with dark, almost black hair, he had on those dark-lensed spectacles people with poor eyesight were apt to wear in sunny climates. He’d wound a long scarf around his neck and drawn it up over his chin, and he’d pulled a derby hat low on his head. He also sported a thin mustache and wore an extremely crabby expression. Tacita frowned.

  She disliked those thin mustaches. They seemed silly to her, and always looked like somebody’d drawn them on a gentleman’s upper lip with a pencil. Her own father had been clean-shaven—he said it was easier for a man to keep clean with as little hair on his body as he could get away with, particularly when traveling in exotic locales where the bathing facilities were not the best. Lice, he’d said more than once, were not a man’s best friend. Her uncle Luther sported praiseworthy, somewhat bushy, whiskers that joined his sideburns and made him look quite elegant in Tacita’s estimation.

  Those skinny mustaches, though—well, Tacita just didn’t care for them. Glancing at Jed, she was charmed by his well-scrubbed, clean-shaven appearance. Not, of course, that his whiskerless chin meant much. Jedediah Hardcastle would look marvelous in anything. Or nothing.

  She quickly turned to stare out of the window and hoped Jed wouldn’t notice her blush. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that man before, Mr. Hardcastle.”

  After another frowning moment, Jed said, “Reckon you’re right, ma’am.”

  He didn’t like it, though. When he first set eyes on the fellow, he got an itchy, uncomfortable feeling that crawled across the back of his neck and made his scalp prickle. Jed had felt that prickly sensation before and he didn’t like it. He generally paid attention to it, too. It had rescued him from a tight spot more than once. This one prickled at him like nettles.

  He kept staring at the man throughout breakfast, but the fellow didn’t do anything but look cranky and eat his eggs and hash.

  After breakfast, however, when Jed walked Tacita and her mouse-hole terrier out of the dining room, Rosamunda took one look at the man with the thin mustache and tried to leap out of Tacita’s arms and attack him. Tacita held her in check only with difficulty. Jed wondered if the dog had lunged at that particular man for any real purpose or if, as usual, it was just being irrational and nasty.

  The animal’s behavior was worth thinking about, though, especially when added to Jed’s already-funny feeling about the fellow. After he left Tacita and the rat in their stateroom to rest, he took himself to the smoking car, where he planned to sit and observe his fellow passengers.

  Somebody was following Tacita Grantham and her dog. Jed knew it in his guts. He didn’t know who it was any more than he knew why, but he’d bet anything he owned that he was right. Mr. Piskywhiskle and Farley Boskins hadn’t just appeared out of nowhere within hours of each other for no reason. Jed didn’t believe in coincidences. Besides, Boskins had all but admitted he was after something specific, even though he hadn’t said what it was or who’d sent him after it.

  Jed’s money was on the uncle, although he couldn’t imagine why Mr. Williamson should be after Tacita. He suspected, however, that if he was right, Uncle Luther wasn’t doing his own dirty work, but was hiring it done. That would account for both Boskins and Piskerwhinkey. Jed figured that if Luther had already gone to that much trouble, he wouldn’t give up just because the first two attempts to get at Tacita had failed. Maybe Luther stood to inherit a lot of money if Tacita died. Or maybe he’d taken out an insurance policy on her. Both possibilities made him shudder.

  Then again, he thought grimly, maybe it wasn’t Luther at all. Whoever was pursuing them might be some person from Powder Gulch, thinking to cash in on that damned jeweled dog collar of hers. Tacita’d pretty much advertised her wealth all over the whole town. Shoot. Without half trying, city folks could be such blasted fools.

  That man in the dining car, though . . . Jed decided the man, even though Jed couldn’t place him, bore watching. He was glad they were on the train and he didn’t have to keep guard over Tacita and her hell-bound terrier all the time, but could leave ‘em tucked up securely in a locked room.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t learn much during his day spent in the smoking car. The Indian gent and the British fellow retired there after breakfast and spent the entire day arguing. The man with the pencil-thin mustache buried his face behind a newspaper and didn’t lift it once.

  By late afternoon when Jed finally gave up, his lungs were about to burst from a surfeit of stale cigar smoke, his eyes were watering, and he’d learned more than he ever wanted to know about Indian politics. He’d learned nothing whatever about the man behind the newspaper.

  # # #

  “I don’t understand, darling. Why are you in such a temper lately? I know our journey across the desert was difficult, but we’re on the train now, sweetheart, and things won’t ever be that hard again. I promise.”

  If Rosamunda could have expressed herself in English, Mistress would undoubtedly never recover from the blistering she’d get. Hadn’t she recognized that man with the silly mustache as the craven dog-napper, Mr. Cesare? Good Lord, even a human being ought to be able to sniff out an enemy better than that! Rosamunda’s own sharp nose had recognized his scent in an instant.

  Rosamunda, who had always considered Mistress a pearl among the generally swinish lot of human beings, began to have serious doubts about her. First she’d developed a fondness for the monster, then she’d failed to discern so despicable and unmistakable a fiend as Mr. Cesare.

  Since Tacita couldn’t comprehend Yorkshire, Rosamunda tried to explain matters to her in a way she could understand. She grabbed the flounce of Tacita’s petticoat in her sharp little teeth and yanked hard. As soon as she heard it rip, she released the fabric, pattered to the door and whined, shaking her head and uttering a series of short, sharp barks to add emphasis to her message.

  “Rosamunda! You tore my hem!” Completely ignoring Rosamunda’s obvious intent, Tacita lifted her skirt and frowned at her torn petticoat hem. “My goodness, darling, I’ve never known you to be in such a state. Are you nervous about train travel? Is that what’s wrong?”

  If Rosamunda’d had hands, she’d have wrung them in frustration. Since she didn’t and couldn’t, she barked out one of her loudest, shrillest Yorkshire alarms. She also stamped her tiny feet, which clicked out a warning tattoo on the shiny floorboards of their sleeping compartment.

  Instead of instantly rushing to the door to chase down the vicious criminal about whom Rosamunda was alerting her, Tacita strolled over to the door and picked her up.

  “There, there, darling. Let me take you to the baggage compartment. That nice porter told me I could spread some newspapers on the floor just for you.”

  Rosamunda could hardly believe it when Tacita marched her out of their room, down the aisle, through two more railway cars, and made her squat on the newspapers in the baggage compartment.

  Humans. They were simply impossible.

  # # #

  Cesare Picinisco leapt out of sight when he saw Tacita Grantham step out of her stateroom on the arm of Jedediah Hardcastle. She was holding the animal under her arm. Drat. That meant he couldn’t get her while Jed and Tacita were away. Didn’t that woman ever let the animal out of her sight? Picinisco didn’t approve, because such a course of action on her part would make his job more difficult. Well, why should that surprise him? She and that wretched guide of hers had been making his job difficult since the first moment he’d seen them.

  On the other hand, they were undoubtedly heading for the dining car right now. That meant Picinisco would have an uninterrupted period of time in which to reconnoiter in her sleeping chamber. Since he was apparently going to have to snatch the dratted dog
while Tacita slept, he could use this time to his advantage.

  Rosamunda growled when she passed the curtain behind which Picinisco had hidden himself, but Tacita didn’t let go of her.

  “My goodness, sweetheart,” Picinisco heard Tacita murmur. “Whatever can the problem be? You’re grouchy as an old bear today.”

  “What’s the matter, Rosie?” Jed asked.

  Tacita said, “Rosamunda.”

  Rosamunda yipped twice.

  Jed muttered something Picinisco couldn’t make out very well, although the words “bear” and “betwaddled” were clear.

  Because he hated them all so much, Picinisco thrust his head between the curtains and stuck his tongue out at the dog. Rosamunda continued to snarl at him from her mistress’s arms, but couldn’t do anything else because Tacita wouldn’t let her go. Picinisco felt a surge of triumph.

  He fairly swaggered to Tacita’s stateroom, where he picked the lock with the ease of long practice. He planned to investigate the arrangement of her belongings thoroughly, so that he wouldn’t bump in to anything when he sneaked in that night to grab the dog.

  Several minutes later, he was concentrating so hard on memorizing the layout of the stateroom that he didn’t hear the door open. His first clue that he was no longer alone came in the form of a loud gasp.

  Sure that he’d been discovered, Picinisco whirled around. “Aaaaargh!”

  “Sir! Sir! Do not shoot me, please!”

  Shoot him? Picinisco glanced down at the perfume bottle he held and wondered if it really did resemble a gun or if the Oriental-looking fellow clutching at his heart in the doorway possessed an overactive imagination. He wasted little thought on the matter, deciding he didn’t care.

  He pointed the perfume bottle at the intruder. “Who are you?”

  It was the fellow who’d been sitting with that man in the red uniform, Picinisco realized. He remembered them well because he’d felt a faint stirring of jealousy that the two should be enjoying such an animated conversation. He, Cesare Cacciatore Picinisco, never got to chat for hours with his friends like that, undoubtedly because he had no friends. Because he resented this man’s ability to make and keep friends when he couldn’t, he shook the perfume bottle in a menacing manner and growled, “What do you want?”

  The interloper shrank back, the arms he held in the air quaking like the branches of an aspen tree. “Oh, please, sahib, do not shoot me. I, Virendra Karnik, am but a poor passenger on this train. I am but a miserable creature who has been hired to perform a deed. I—I must have entered the wrong cabin. Yes, yes! That is what the problem is. I have entered the wrong cabin! Dear me, how foolish I am, to be sure!”

  His dark eyes narrowed. “Although, it must be admitted that you do not look as though you belong here, either, my good fellow.”

  Picinisco, uncomfortable with the penetrating stare Mr. Karnik was directing at his perfume bottle, jammed it into his coat pocket and thrust it forward to give the impression he was holding a weapon in the pocket.

  It was too late. The interloper allowed his arms to drop even as his eyebrows dipped into a disapproving V. Drawing a wicked-looking dagger from a hitherto-unsuspected scabbard secreted somewhere on his person, he began to advance towards Picinisco.

  “All right, my friend, why are you sneaking around in Miss Tacita Grantham’s first-class cabin?”

  Abandoning his perfume bottle, Picinisco backed up in rhythm to Virendra Karnik’s advance. “D-d-don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me! I was just leaving.”

  “That may well be so, my good fellow, but why were you here to begin with? Tell me” Karnik shook his dagger in Picinisco’s face.

  # # #

  Picinisco came to when he felt a cold liquid splash his face. Shaking his head, he opened his eyes to discover himself being loomed over by Virendra Karnik, whose dagger looked positively enormous from this angle.

  “Don’t kill me with that thing! Don’t stab me.” He began to weep, visions of his own precious blood staining Tacita’s sleeping room overpowering the remains of his ever-precarious courage.

  “I shan’t kill you if you tell me why you were rummaging through Miss Tacita Grantham’s stateroom, sahib.”

  “I-I-I only want her dog,” snuffled Picinisco.

  Karnik frowned. “Her dog? You want her dog?”

  “Y-yes.” Picinisco squeezed his eyes tightly shut, bracing himself to feel the sharp blade of Karnik’s knife slide between his ribs.

  After a moment’s pause required to digest the information Picinisco had delivered, Karnik said, “Why would you wish to possess such a useless creature as Miss Grantham’s very small dog, sahib? Does your desire to take the animal involve ritual sacrifice?”

  Picinisco’s eyes popped open. “S-sacrifice? Goodness gracious, no! She told me the animal was worth two hundred dollars. I want the money.”

  “Two hundred dollars?”

  Karnik’s frown deepened and he seemed to be studying Picinisco’s face for evidence of his veracity or lack thereof. After a moment, during which Picinisco did not so much as breathe, Karnik lowered his dagger. “I am not altogether certain I believe you yet, Sahib, although your story is so absurd that only a fool would invent it.”

  Picinisco sucked in a deep breath and almost dared renew hope for his future. “It’s the truth, nonetheless,” he whispered.

  Karnik shrugged. “Ah, well, then. I have no interest in her dog.”

  “You—you don’t?”

  Standing, Karnik tucked his dagger back into its mysterious hidden home. “No. My desires as regards Miss Grantham are infinitely more lofty than mere money.”

  More lofty than money? Picinisco had never heard of such a thing. Cautiously, he pushed himself to his feet, eyeing Karnik the whole time. “What are they then, if I might ask, sir?”

  Karnik pinned him with a dark, brooding look. “The Eye, my good fellow. The Delhi Hahm-Ahn-Der Eye, stolen from the Great Goddess at the Temple of Hahm by a worthless English infidel and sold, years later, to an equally worthless American infidel.”

  After a moment, during which he waited for Karnik to expand on his story and was disappointed, Picinisco said, “Oh.”

  “And,” Karnik said, his expression brightening, “I think it would be a good thing were we to combine our resources, my dear good fellow. Two, after all, can more expeditiously execute a plan than one.”

  Recalling the dagger, Picinisco uttered an eager, “Yes!”

  # # #

  “Pinkeywinkle!” Jed’s fist hit the table, making his steak bounce on its plate, Tacita jump in her chair, and Rosamunda yip shrilly.

  Her hand pressed to her thundering heart, Tacita squeaked, “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s who that fellow is. It’s Pinkeywinkle!”

  Wondering if Jed had gone ‘round the bend and hoping he hadn’t because she not only still needed him but had grown immensely fond of him as well, Tacita leaned forward and said cautiously, “I—I—who? What fellow?”

  “That fellow with the little mustache. He’s that drummer fellow who stole your dog, Miss Grantham. I knew I recognized him!”

  Tacita sat up straight again, frowning. “Nonsense. Mr. Picinisco had an enormous beard, Mr. Hardcastle. Surely you remember that.”

  Tacita petted Rosamunda. Rosamunda nipped her finger. Tacita drew her finger away instantly and glowered down at her dog. “Whatever is the matter with you, Rosamunda? I can’t believe you did that!” Rosamunda glowered back.

  Jed ignored them both. “Don’t you see, ma’am? He shaved his beard off. That’s why he’s trying to keep his face covered, is ‘cause if he didn’t, we’d be able to see the lower part of his face isn’t as brown from bein’ out in the sun as the rest of it.”

  Forgetting her dog’s unusual behavior, Tacita peered at Jed in thought. “Do you really think so?”

  “I do, ma’am. I think that’s why Rosie tried to attack him, too.”

  “Rosamunda,” Tacita said absently.

&n
bsp; Rosamunda growled.

  Tacita furrowed her brow and thought harder. “It seems quite unlikely to me,” she said after a moment, hoping Jed wouldn’t take her words amiss.

  “Maybe,” he said. “I think I’m right.”

  She thought he was wrong, although she decided not to belabor the point. She knew Jed never seemed to want to give up an argument, no matter how right she was. In order to placate him without giving up her position on the matter, she said, “Well, why don’t we observe him more closely the next time we see him. If you still believe that man with the silly mustache is Mr. Picinisco, then I think we should have him arrested.”

  “For what?”

  “Why, for stealing my dog, of course!”

  “Haven’t we already covered that ground, ma’am?” Jed rolled his eyes and took a sip of coffee. Tacita glared at him. Rosamunda growled again.

  Jed figured not much had changed in his life.

  Chapter 11

  An hour or so later, Tacita gasped in horror.

  “Told you so,” Jed murmured softly.

  Rosamunda snarled.

  They stood in the door of Tacita’s stateroom, Jed holding his hat in his hand. He felt a certain amount of satisfaction, even though he wasn’t happy to see her room all torn up and her things scattered about. He didn’t like her reaction to finding them thus, either. In fact, it made him want to slay the perpetrator. After he’d comforted her in dubious ways, all of which flickered through his brain in the space of a very few seconds.

  “Oh, dear. Oh, my goodness. Oh, heavens.” Staring about with dismay, Tacita hugged Rosamunda close. Jed wished she were hugging him.

  “I guess you were right, Mr. Hardcastle.” She sounded very sad.

  Rosamunda uttered a sound that was something between a growl and a purr, and Jed got the strangest impression she was muttering her version of “Told you so.” He shook his head to dislodge the ridiculous thought.

  “I ‘spect I was, ma’am. I think that fellow is Mr. Piskeywhickle, and I think he’s still after you. Or your dog.”