“Will you come and celebrate with us, Anna?” Emily asked quietly, moving away from her show-stealing brother.
I studied my parasol as if it held the secrets of the universe and then admitted defeat.
“I can’t, dear one. I must return to our lodgings and check on Mina.”
“Mina!” Henry exclaimed. “Where is the chit?”
“Hush, Henry,” Emily admonished. Then turned to me. “We’ll come with you.”
The unsaid being, should something foul have befallen Mina, I would then not have to face it alone.
But alone is where I have lived for so long now, I am not certain I could accept help if needed. Wilhelmina is my worry. Not sweet Emily’s. And as I had when I chose to leave Auckland and seek my destiny in the theatres of the London School of Medicine for Women, I would face whatever came with dignity.
“Anna?” Emily pressed.
“Enough, Em,” Henry chided softly. “Leave Dr Cassidy well alone. Can you not see, she does not wish our company?”
“If it is your lodgings…” Emily started.
“Emily Tempest!” Henry snapped. “I said enough!”
Emily dutifully bowed her head, pink flushing her cheeks. I blinked; always uncertain how to progress when faced with Henry’s authority. I answer to no one and no man. My father long dead. My age of majority long reached. But although Emily was a mere two years younger than me, she was still very much under the influence of her older brother. Henry Tempest, Esquire. Head of the family.
Somehow she still thrived, though; perhaps their relationship was one that would always elude me.
I’d never thought to be relieved I hadn’t had an older relative to step in when Papa had died. Ours had been a relationship of understanding; encouragement and unconditional love. We’d had our disagreements, of course, as any parent and child is wont to do. But I had never felt controlled by him. Guided, yes. But never controlled.
I cleared my throat. “I must be going.”
“Of course,” Henry offered with a slight bow. Gone the fop and in its place a gentleman of high standing. I reached out and grasped Emily’s fingers. “We’ll do tea,” I suggested.
“Yes,” she said, offering a small smile. “Of course.”
Of course. Of course, we’d do tea; only if I arrived home at our lodgings and found Mina staring vacantly out of the window, none the worse for wear.
One last squeeze of my friend’s fingers and I opened my parasol and strolled off down the street.
When I glanced back some few minutes later, Henry and Emily had vanished from sight, their brougham no doubt ferrying them away on swift and silent feet.
I let out a sigh, immediately regretting it. Fog hung low over the darkened buildings; wispy fingers beckoning. I pulled my shawl tighter about my shoulders, ducked my head and crossed the street. As I hailed a hansom cab, I imagined the disquieting sensation of hot breath against the nape of my neck. I turned my head, but found an empty cobbled path behind me, the only sign of another person on the street that of a newsboy on the corner calling, “Metropole Murderer! Read all about it!”
My eyes scanned the headlines of his broadsheets. MANIA AT THE METROPOLE one read. MANAGER’S LETTER WARNS OF MURDEROUS INTENT. MUSSELS MUSTN’T BE EATEN. I shook my head as I climbed aboard the conveyance, settling into the seat once I’d given the driver our address. The sky darkened, unnaturally so. The smell of burning coal hung low in the air. Murky water splashed up as the wheels rolled over potholes. Someone yelled having received a dumping as we passed.
I glanced out the window; Tottenham Court Road stared back. Then the cab was swinging a left via much maligned Seven Dials. The sound of the horse’s hooves echoed off the leaning walls. Toffs promenaded their ladies, then a corner and whores sold their wares, then a twist in the road and we were in Drury Lane. Grimy windows lit up from gas lamps within looked like the square eyes of a discerning governess. Soot coated walls, clogged drains. Food and offal rotted in corners down dank alleyways. Dirty urchins ran barefoot through the filth. Cutpurses worked in gangs. The sweet scent of hashish wafted through the miasma pooling around the carriage.
And then as though the clouds opened up, we emerged onto the Strand. Temple Bar Gate stood prominently before us. Two uniformed bobbies, their coats long, their hats tall, stood to one side of the ornate arch as if daring the riffraff of Seven Dials to enter this sanctuary.
The hansom pulled to a stop before a plain looking building. One solitary gas lamp illuminating the broad steps up to the double sided door.
I paid the fare and alighted, avoiding a dirty puddle. For a moment, I just stared up at our window, willing Mina’s face to be there.
No light shone from within, and at this hour, with the fog so dense and the sun long gone from the sky, a candle at the very least should have welcomed me home.
But this wasn’t truly our home, and I feared Mina spent more time away from it than was wise. I glanced over to where the bobbies had been standing, but they had seen fit to move on. Temple Bar Gate stood solid and reassuring at the end of the street. Beyond it, only thickening fog. I rubbed my shoulders, then repositioned my parasol in a firmer grip.
I had the sense that someone was watching.
But the weather had turned, and the streets had closed in, and every sane person had taken cover.
One last look up at the vacant and dark window of our rooms, and I pushed the door open to our boarding house.
My heart was in my throat, beating a wild refrain, already aware of what I would discover.
Dreading it as much as I accepted it. This was Mina. And she was off wandering.
In darkest London.
Where It All Began
Anna
Warmth engulfed me as I crossed the threshold. The enticing smell of pork pie wafted on the air from the rear of the building. Candlelight flickered in the sitting room off to the side. I could hear the low voices of several boarders and the tinkling girlish laughter of young Miss Pankhurst behind the partially closed door. I stomped my feet on the mat in the hallway, willing warmth into my frozen limbs, and hung my shawl up on a hook in a closet to the side.
“Hallo then, Miss Cassidy!” Mrs Pugh called out from the door beside the kitchen. “Is that what I think it is in your ‘and?”
I managed a smile and held up the degree. “’Tis indeed.”
“Oh, how wonderful. We ‘ave a doctor in our midst.”
She clapped her hands and then realising they were dusted in flour, wiped them on her apron skirt.
“‘Ave you ‘eard the news?” she asked, moving into the hallway proper. “Murder at the Metropole. A right scare, it is. A nasty cur poisoning the patrons. What a way to go!”
“You’re speaking of the warning letter from the hotel manager?” I enquired, well used to Mrs Pugh’s confused references to the brazen and bizarre often found within the scandal sheets.
“Aye, a right meater, he is,” she said, slipping into her former Whitechapel dialect. “Hiding behind a potion. Mad scientist, they call ‘im. Psychotic physician, no doubt. It’s hard to trust a one of ‘em.”
She realised her egregious mistake immediately and blushed a bright pink, her fingers twisting her apron in agitation.
“Of course, present company exceptin’,” she murmured, eyes averted.
I nodded my head, smiling politely. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems, Mrs Pugh. No one was murdered in the Metropole Hotel, I believe. Merely sent running from a phantom. Besides, the police will have the matter in hand. And,” I added for good measure, “there is no evidence this person is a physician.”
“Don’t sell me a dog, Miss Cassidy. The Met don’t know a ‘alf of what goes on in this city. And who else dabbles in such dark brews but a doctor?”
I pursed my lips and blinked hard. Sometimes Mrs Pugh made it very difficult to remain a lady.
“Be it what it would,” I insisted. “We must place our trust in the establishment.”
“You’re a better woman than me,” she harrumphed. “That three-penny-upright didn’t die by natural causes,” she muttered. “And ain’t no bookseller who done her in, neither.”
A cold shudder ran through me. Mrs Pugh was talking about the murder of a young prostitute struck down by strychnine just before we arrived here. Another had fallen since then, too.
I consoled myself with the knowledge that Mina was no prostitute and wherever she had taken herself off to, it would not be across the river to Lambeth. No, Mina would be more inclined to traverse the crowded floor of the Crystal Palace. Or while away the day at St. Paul's Cathedral. Or stare longingly at a Constable in the National Gallery.
A quick glance at the grandfather clock at the end of the hall settled my heart rate. Even if most of those establishments had closed by now, Mina could still be wending her way home.
I cleared my throat. Before I had a chance to enquire as to Mina’s absence, however, the door to the sitting room sprang open, and young Miss Christabel Pankhurst stumbled out.
“I thought I heard voices,” she said breathlessly. Then offered up a small curtsey on spying me. “Miss Cassidy. What joy! Have you come to attend Mama’s meeting?”
I glanced at the now fully open door and spotted several of Mrs Pankhurst’s suffragettes. The thought of spending the evening conversing on matters of import with such like minded ladies was appealing. But my stomach churned, and perspiration started to bead my brow.
“No, sweeting,” I said to the young lass. “I fear I have a prior engagement.”
“In this weather?” Mrs Pugh exclaimed.
“Indeed,” I said, eyeing the dark skies outside the front window with trepidation. Mina was out in this.
“But supper is nearly ready,” Mrs Pugh complained.
“And I know Mama would love to hear more of your efforts in the Antipodes,” Christabel offered.
“Miss Cassidy is not within, perchance?” I asked the child hopefully. I feared the answer but was ready for it all the same.
“Ah, no. I have not seen her, miss.”
“Nor I,” supplied Mrs Pugh. “She left in a flurry of feathers and ribbons and too much scent, crying off morning tea this morning. She ain’t been back since.”
I’d been ready for the confirmation, but I’d failed to account for the panic that would ensue.
“Right. Of course. She didn’t happen to say where she was heading, did she?” I enquired.
“‘Twas not my business to ask.” I almost scoffed at that; Mrs Pugh had a knack for learning information. Especially if that information pertained to one of her guests.
“Hansom cab or on foot?” I asked, not wishing to waste a moment.
Mrs Pugh narrowed her eyes, but I held her reluctant stare steadily.
“Cab, if you must know,” she said in a huff.
“Toward town?”
“I’m sure I didn’t see.”
“Please, Mrs Pugh. She failed to show for my graduation.”
“You graduated?” Chrystabel shouted. “Oh, how splendid. Mama!” she yelled at the top of her voice as only a twelve-year-old could. “Miss Cassidy is now a doctor!”
Murmurs of congratulations sounded out. I nodded my head and smiled and then turned a pleading look on Mrs Pugh.
“She headed toward the Strand,” she muttered. “I thought perhaps Covent Garden this time. But she weren’t in no mind for costermongers. I feared she had a liaison planned.”
“A liaison?” With whom?
“She smelled all nice-like. And wore this pretty dress. Strange, but. She covered it in her darkest cloak. The one that seen better days that is.”
I scowled at the closet and then crossed the hall and swung the door open. Sure enough, Mina’s travel cloak was missing. Why would she dress in finery and then cover it with such a disagreeable outer garment?
I could cross Crystal Palace off the list. Heavens, I could cross many of her usual haunts off the list, as well. Where would Mina go? The dress may well have been for my graduation. Mina’s idea of appropriate clothing was somewhat different from others. Oh, she was always dressed in the height of fashion. But with a twist of the Continent thrown in for good measure. And not the bourgeoisie part of the Continent at that.
Ribbons and scent were not unusual adornments for Wilhelmina.
But the travel cloak had not been used, as far as I knew, since we’d arrived here.
“Thank you, ladies,” I said, executing a swift curtsey and then making my way up the stairs to our rooms. The hallway was lit by a single candle, not bright enough to pierce the gloom. I lifted it off the side table and made my way to our rooms at the front of the building. Mrs Pugh had placed us in the largest suite. Large enough that we could both stay together; leaving Mina alone at night was not a possibility. Nightmares. We all had them; Mina’s she lived.
I scanned the empty space, looking for clues. My desk was scattered with different study materials, the odd glass phial, my medical case, powders and liquids, a pipette, pliers, pinking irons, a recent scientific journal from the Royal Society, a Bunsen. But no note from Mina.
I placed my degree on top of the clutter and then pulled the latest missive from our admirer out of my reticule, placing it in the desk’s drawer along with the rest. I expected one to arrive tomorrow. They had become frequent enough to predict.
I ran my hand over the flowing writing, the scent of jasmine floating on the air. Sucking in a shallow breath, I closed the door on that mystery and turned my full attention to the most important one of all.
My eyes landed on the book Mina had been reading, a familiar embossed image of a flower stared back. An unpleasant thought entered my head.
Mina had intended to be present at my graduation. She’d dressed for it; that much I could make of her finery. But something had waylaid her. Something requiring subterfuge. Mina was the last person on earth I thought could rely successfully on deceit of any sort. It just wasn't in her nature.
But the cloak would not have been chosen by chance.
Mina was hiding something.
And I feared I knew what.
Exchanging my parasol for one more fitting the streets of London after dark, I exited the room and made my way downstairs. Mrs Pugh was waiting; worry etched upon her tired face.
“You’re going after her,” she said; not a question. “But where will you search first?”
A travel cloak designed to disguise meant only one thing. Mina needed to blend in. And where would a book about flowers lead Wilhelmina?
“Whitechapel, Mrs Pugh,” I said, pulling out my own travel cloak. “Where it all began.”
Curiosity killed the cat, Ben Jonson wrote. I feared it could also kill my cousin.
What The…?
Inspector Kelly
My cane slammed down onto solid ground with an audible thump that could be heard over the raucous noise of Albert Docks. I rolled my shoulders and scowled at the row of hansoms waiting for patronage. A barely-there breeze ruffled my collar; the scent of brine mixed with horse manure and more nefarious things. Fog hung low to the ground further from the river, masking the detritus of a busy port. Its skeletal fingers curved around soot covered corners and wrapped around the mud-soaked boots of able seamen.
I turned back and looked at the Tongariro; Captain Bone in deep conversation with Chief Officer Millward up on the deck. The Captain offered me a tip of his cap in farewell. I nodded my head, and adjusted my cloak, my leg throbbing with remembered agony.
This had been my home for over thirty years.
It had become a hell in the end.
A shudder rolled over my shoulders; my hands fisted the top of my cane, knuckles turning white. A dull ache set up shop in my thigh. She wasn’t here. She couldn’t be. She’d be mad to return to London.
“Temple Bar, is it then, sir?” Blackie asked at my side, watching the movements of dock workers and alighting passengers with a hawk’s eye.
I turned my attention to th
e sergeant. “We’re visiting policemen, Sergeant. We need to announce our presence.”
“A few minutes to ascertain Miss…”
“We’re here to chase down a criminal,” I snapped. “Not dally with old acquaintances.”
“Old acquaintances, you say, sir? I’d not thought Misses Cassidy mere acquaintances.”
I stifled the sigh that wanted out. “Why is it you are here again, Sergeant?”
He’d insisted on accompanying me on this fool’s errand. Taken leave of his position as if it didn’t hang by a thread at all. Aggravating Superintendent Chalmers and endangering his precious standing in Auckland, all on the pretence of solving a mystery.
I rather thought the mystery was me and not the origin of the letter in my pocket.
Blackie knew too much already. I feared what else he’d unearth.
“You need a friend, sir,” he said. “No one should face Whitechapel without an ally.”
“I have friends.”
Blackie snorted.
“And former colleagues.”
Blackie just stared at me.
“I’m sure some of my informants have survived.”
“What, half-rats and beefers?”
“I’ll have you know; I had a good rapport with my informants.”
“Aye, sir. And they had one with your blunt ’n all, too.”
“We are not friends, Sergeant Blackmore,” I said, striding off toward the closest hansom.
“We’re not mere acquaintances, neither,” he muttered behind me.
It had been a long voyage from New Zealand. And now it would be an interminable length of time here in hell.
The hansom rattled over the boards of Gallions Reach and turned toward Whitechapel. I settled in for the long ride, leaning back on the seat and pulling my hat over my face in a clear signal to Blackie that I was tired.
I was nothing of the sort. The passage on the steamer had been arduous. The days had crawled. The conversation had become repetitive. If it hadn’t have been for Sergeant Blackmore’s and Chief Officer Millward’s games of loo, little would have entertained me.
Breathless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 2): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series Page 2