"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," the doctor lamented.
Cox bustled over to the first of two victims and turned a hard eye to us.
"Alice Marsh and Emma Shrivell," he announced. "Those names mean anything to you?"
"Not at all," I replied calmly and stepped closer. A pale face stared up at me in morbid peace. Fine lines appeared around closed eyelids. The same ethereal marks beneath the translucent flesh appeared as if filigree across her cheeks.
That was all the peace the woman had been afforded.
There was a tightness to her facial features, her neck lying at a strange angle. I glanced down her body and noted the curled fingers, the pointed toes. The arch of her foot quite pronounced, even in death.
"Ten to twenty minutes after exposure," the physician said, "the muscles begin to spasm. Trismus, or lockjaw, if you will, sets in. Followed by risus sardonicus, or a rictus type grin. The spasms then spread to every muscle in the body, culminating in convulsions that last until death. The entire ordeal would have been excruciating and an unforgivable form of torture, in my opinion. Pleasure would have been reaped by the one who doctored their drinks."
"Ingested?" I enquired.
"Stomach contents confirm this," the surgeon said.
"Strychnine," I murmured.
"You've had similar deaths?" Cox enquired.
“Yes,” I said.
Blackie shifted forward then. I pierced him with a look, halting his trajectory and any oncoming words.
"How many?" the superintendent asked.
"Six."
Blackmore's huff was loud in the ensuing silence.
"Do you think the murderer one and the same?" Cox asked.
“It's hard to tell. Strychnine is not a calling card," I offered.
"No poison ever is," he agreed, staring at the corpse morosely. "What else can you give me?"
"Nothing you don't already know. There will be more. He enjoys it. He won't stop until made to do so."
"One got away," Cox suddenly said. "Got a glimpse of her potential poisoner."
My head shot up and met the superintendent's steady gaze. Gone was the gin-guzzler. In its place a hard, sharp-eyed gentleman.
"Then you are close. Male?" I forced myself to ask.
"Yes. Nine days ago, in fact. How long did you say you've been here?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Less than forty-eight hours, Superintendent. RMS Tongariro, of late at the Royal Albert Dock."
He didn't look abashed in the slightest.
"And the man you chase?"
"Unknown whereabouts."
"But you suspect London? Lambeth?"
I shook my head, my eyes on the cadaver before us. I grimaced. "Similarities exist, but this is not the act of my assailant."
"You would tell me if you suspected a connection?" the superintendent pressed.
"Of course."
Cox watched me for a long moment and then nodded his head. It was his signal of acquiescing. I felt myself relax.
Saying goodbye to the police surgeon, we made our way to the front of the Cavendish Road Station. No one dared break the silence, but Blackie was brimming with unspoken words.
"Thank you for your time, Superintendent," I said, shaking the man's hand.
"By all means, old chap," he said amenably.
"I wish you luck on your hunt."
"And you," he said, making to turn away.
He stopped mid-motion; sharp eyes stared across the space between us, holding me prisoner. The air hung suspended.
"There was one more thing Parson failed to mention."
"Oh? And what was that?" I asked, dreading the answer.
Cox waited, letting the moment stretch, watching the play of emotions that flitted across my face. Here stood a formidable opponent. I had a brief thought that Lambeth would have proven a challenge Whitechapel had failed to give.
And then I remembered the Ripper.
"Flowers," Superintendent Cox suddenly said. "The bodies are adorned with a single flower."
My heart thundered inside my chest.
"Flowers?" Blackmore enquired, stepping up when I failed to respond. "What type of flower, if I may ask, sir?"
"Of course," Cox said, not moving his assessing gaze off my no doubt pale face. "Deadly Nightshade," he murmured. "Strange that, when strychnine originates from an entirely different species. What make you of that?"
"I'm sure I don't know," Blackmore mumbled. "A flower's a flower is a flower," he added.
Cox narrowed his eyes, then glanced at Sergeant Blackmore. "Should you or your inspector remember a connection to a previous or on-going case, please be inclined to contact me."
"Of course," Blackie said. He turned. I followed. Tethered to the man as though he was my life line.
The door to the station finally shut behind us; I drew in my first real breath.
"Tell me, sir," Blackie said in a low voice. "When are you going to admit it?"
"Admit what?" I demanded.
"This ain't no case."
"Yes, it is," I insisted. It was the unsolved case of my lifetime.
"Poppycock, if you don't mind me sayin'."
"I do," I snapped, attempting to place much-needed distance between myself and Lambeth Station. My cane came down on the pavers in agitated bangs, giving away my emotions.
"Deadly Nightshade, Inspector," Blackie persisted.
I sighed. "Deadly Nightshade," I agreed, feeling grim.
Blackie said nothing, but his face matched my mood.
Dark. Bleak. Unforgiving.
Was this a game? And I the pawn? If so, it was deadly.
But then, all of Eliza May's games had resulted in death in the past. Why not our latest?
Armed And Ready
Anna
I watched as Will Dumble poured a generous helping of gin into a tumbler, then slid the drink across the bar top to me.
"Thank you, but I don't partake," I said, unsure why he had changed his mind so drastically and now entertained my presence in his tavern when moments before he had practically thrown me out of its door.
"Best to keep up appearances," the barkeep said, pouring himself an even more generous portion.
He lifted the glass in salute, waiting for me to do the same with mine. I glanced around the taproom, but for all intents and purposes, no one was paying attention to us. Will, however, kept up the charade. I could only surmise that looks were in fact deceiving.
I reached for the tumbler, receiving a twitch of a smile from Mr Dumble, and raised my glass to his.
"To new friendships," he announced.
"New friendships," I dutifully replied.
The gin tasted bitter; my throat constricted, a cough lodged itself inside. I grimaced and placed the glass back on the bar top, feeling the heat of alcohol burn my oesophagus and settle deep down inside.
A low chuckle and then Will downed his entire glass in one swallow, thumping the tumbler back on the bar's surface.
"Not to everyone's taste, but you'll never find better in all of London."
"Indeed," I replied, my lips still smarting, my breath capable, I was sure, of starting a fire.
"So, Polly sent you," he said, his sharp gaze meeting my eyes.
I could only assume the cracker statement was some sort of code. All very cloak and dagger. All very mysterious. I had a new appreciation for my landlady.
"Yes," I said. "Will you help me?"
"I don't know, luv. What's in it for me?"
"Saving a young girl's life," I tried, knowing full well that men like Will Dumble did nothing for free. Not even preventing the death of an innocent.
"And if I saved every chit who walked the streets of Whitechapel," he confirmed gruffly, "I'd have no time for me own business. Heroism does not pay the bills, lass."
"Dr Cassidy," I said. "My name," I offered. Hoping the surname would illicit a cost-free reaction.
It didn't. Or perhaps Will Dumble was too practised at this sort of thing.
"Les
son one," he said, leaning forward. "And the fact that Polly ain't told you this is a tragedy. Never give your name away freely."
"Did Mina?"
"Who?"
"My cousin."
"There you go again, luv. Too much information. It'll cost ya."
"Cost me what?"
"Ain't for me to say. But there's folks about who'd use your name to harm you. It's a dirty world with dirty rules, and dirty scoundrels abound."
"Not everyone is a jaded as you, Mr Dumble. There are those amongst us, I would argue, who would do the selfless thing."
"And what's that then? Sacrifice themselves for a bit of skirt? Ain't nobody in Whitechapel who'd stand between you and the piper. Best you learn that now or pay the consequences."
"And in Lambeth?"
"Whitechapel. Lambeth. Spitalfields. Seven Dials. They're all just names. It's life you need to beware of. It'll suck you dry and leave a bag o' bones in its wake." He studied me for a long moment, then said, "You ain't from around 'ere, so I'll give you a tip for free. On account of you knowing Polly and all. Man is a hungry beast. He desires. And what he desires is never good, you see. For what in this world is worthy of being coveted, lest the worthy be better defiled?"
"You would have me believe there are no gentlemen in life."
"I would have you open your eyes. Your so called gentlemen, they wants ya for a reason. A nice bit of candy on their arm, a prop for their machinations. Beauty and manners and fine blood lines, they matter naught when he has you beneath him, subject to his whims; losing himself in your sweet smelling cunny."
I raised my eyebrows. If he thought I would be so easily run off, he had another thought coming.
"Be that as it would," I said archly. "Physical desires are but one part of a relationship."
He laughed; the sound loud, bouncing off the high rafters.
"So you say, luv. But I asks you this; Is your gentleman any different? Does he not steal a kiss, cop a feel, lust after you with his eyes?"
My mind immediately turned to Inspector Kelly. To the touch of his lips against mine. To the feel of his big body wrapped around my own. To the way he sometimes looks at me when he thinks himself unobserved.
No. I refused to believe there were no gentlemen left in this world. Andrew Kelly was the epitome of gentlemanly behaviour.
For was it not his honour that stopped him from going further than just a kiss, a touch, a covetous look in his eyes?
I smiled. Will Dumble leant back, and then grinned; mischief making shadows dance in his eyes.
"I've played your game long enough, Mr Dumble," I declared. "Will you help me find my cousin or not?"
He reached over and swiped up the shillings I'd placed on the bar top earlier, making them vanish from sight with slight of hand.
"For Polly," he said and looked toward a door at the back of the tavern. His eyes soon returned to me.
"She ain't come in ‘ere," he offered, my heart sinking. "But that don't mean I ain't heard of a young chit walkin’ the streets and askin’ too many questions. You see," he said, "ain't the bit o' jam what's so surprising. We've got enough of them to cater to our needs." I ground my teeth and took a step closer to the man.
What I thought I could do when Mina was clearly long gone was debatable. But my fingers clutched my parasol tightly as if I could pound this cur into submission, and have him produce my cousin immediately.
He smiled, flashing shark-like teeth. Several were crooked and one was missing, but I didn't fail to register the meaning.
"But questions," he said. "Now there's an interestin’ quandary. Those who ask questions are lumped in with the Met. Those who use young girls to do their bidding are lumped in with the Bailey. And ain't no one who wants to mess with 'em."
"The Bailey?" Did he mean the Old Bailey at Newgate? London's criminal courts?
"Times are a changing, luv," he said, picking up his rag and starting to clean the bar top again. "If you ain't one of us, you're one of them. And if you're one them, then God help ya."
"What did you mean, 'the Bailey'?" I pressed, but Will just kept cleaning the bar top, and when someone approached for a refill, he turned his attentions there.
I was left confused and none the wiser for our conversation. I'd wanted a word, just one word, to give me direction. I had it. But what on earth did Will Dumble mean by Bailey?
I waited a few moments longer, but Will had clearly said all he was going to say. Bribery wouldn't work, and I feared I'd used what good standing I had as Mrs Pugh's lodger.
I had only one choice: To visit the Old Bailey.
But I wasn't oblivious to Will's warnings. Asking questions could land me in trouble.
Like it did Mina?
I tapped my parasol on the bar top as thanks and spun on my heel. I'd take care who I asked. What I asked. But I was damned if I wasn't going to ask questions in order to find Wilhelmina.
Eyes watched me traverse the taproom, no longer glassy or vague but penetrating and obvious.
Whitechapel was a ruse; a mask worn to hide the truth beneath.
I wasn't here to uncover Whitechapel's truths; they could keep them.
Unless they pertained to my cousin.
Storming out of the tavern doors, I lifted my parasol; armed and ready.
And promptly whacked Henry Tempest on the cheek as we collided on Whitechapel Road.
Urging Me Ever Onwards To Mina
Anna
"I say!" Henry exclaimed, lifting his hands in fists as if to fight me. "Watch where you're going, old chap!"
He blinked down at me. Looked over my shoulder to The Blind Beggar's door. And then did a double take, eyes scanning my travel cloak and parasol.
"Dr Cassidy? What the dickens are you doing here?"
I could have asked the same of him but refrained from voicing my curiosity. Sometimes more could be attained by guile and finesse.
"Henry! Oh, thank the heavens!" I remarked, immediately wrapping a hand about his arm and moving close as if seeking shelter and protection.
"There, there," he murmured, patting my hand absently. "Are you lost?"
"Quite," I said, for more reasons than one. The look of confusion on my face would not entirely have been a mask. "Perhaps you'd be so kind as to escort me from here?" I enquired beseechingly.
"Of course, dear lady. Of course. Perhaps refreshments are in order. Yes, yes. I think Claridge's should suffice." He glanced down at my worn travel cloak again and grimaced. "Maybe Dorothy's would be better."
"You'd risk being bachelor breakfast for me?" I asked with a small smile. His eyes darted down to my lips, and he cleared his throat.
"I'd risk anything to get you out of here." I thought perhaps he was speaking the truth. But as to what truth, I couldn't decipher.
He aided me into his brougham, which conveniently appeared out of the ether, and followed me inside. Removing his hat, he shifted uneasily in the seat across from me, his gaze taking in - again - my attire.
"You're as bad as my sister," he quipped. "Always seeking new ways to thrill yourselves. Whitechapel," he scoffed. "Could you not promenade in Hyde Park instead? Perhaps catch a show at the Royal Albert?"
"Where would the fun be in that?" I asked.
"You are up to no good, Dr Cassidy," he said. "I have no doubt. You require a firm hand; I'll wager. A gentleman to keep you entertained and safe from harm."
I would have you open your eyes.
I refused to believe Henry was anything but a gentleman. I pushed Mr Dumble's words from my mind.
"I am quite capable of entertaining myself, Mr Tempest," I offered. "I have done so for many moons now."
"You see, that is your problem, dear lady. You have been without male guidance for far too long."
"I am what I am, sir. And I will not change for any man, be they my jailer or my saviour. This is the nineteenth century, after all. Practically the twentieth. Think what we'll be like when we have the right to vote."
Henry
harrumphed. "A fine fettle you'd make of it, I'm sure. I live in wonder of my sister."
I smiled. I had not expected such high praise from Henry Tempest. Perhaps there was hope for the man yet.
"However," he added. "One must take care, dear doctor. The streets of Whitechapel are not for ladies. And that tavern," he said, shuddering, "why ever did you go in there?"
I met his eyes. He looked away first. Were we to pretend he hadn't been in there, as well?
"I was looking for Mina," I said, thinking it best to have something of the truth in my answer.
Perhaps then, I could gain some honesty for my efforts.
"Wilhelmina? In Whitechapel? No! No," he said, shaking his head. "I'll not hear of it."
"And yet I was just there."
"Yes, but you, Doctor, are incorrigible. Miss Cassidy is not."
I begged to differ.
"What a splendid world you live in, Henry," I murmured. "You would have us all at home, sequestered with our embroidery. How did Emily persuade you to allow her attendance at college?"
He grimaced. "She wore me down if you must know. Exactly how I imagine you will wear your husband down. I can see it now, the poor lad. Besotted with your beauty, enamoured with your quick wit, a slave to your desires."
Man is a hungry beast. He desires.
Don't we all, Mr Dumble. Don't we all.
"Is a lady not to have desires?" I asked, taking a leaf from Will Dumble's book of enquiry.
"Good Lord, Anna. Have you no shame? To talk as such to a gentleman?" He looked at me askance, but I saw the interest in his eyes.
Perhaps Mr Dumble had not been too far from the truth, then.
I smiled and glanced out the window.
"Wilhelmina is missing," I said to the foggy shroud.
"My dear, Dr Cassidy. I had no idea. The graduation?"
I nodded my head. "Perhaps since before then. I have traced her to Whitechapel."
I would seek help wherever I could find it, and Henry Tempest was not the fop he so often appeared. He'd had business at The Blind Beggar. I couldn't say what sort of business, but to be there at all made me realise there was more to Henry Tempest, Esquire.
"I am so sorry, Anna," he said quietly. The words sounded like a death knell in my head.
Breathless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 2): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series Page 6