My eyes met his. I saw the truth of it there; he had no hope for Mina's survival.
"What know you of the Bailey?" I asked, refusing to countenance such dire thoughts.
"The Old Bailey?"
I presumed so. I nodded my head.
"London's criminal courts. Seek you knowledge from within, then?" He stared off into the distance and nodded his head. "Perhaps you are right. One might know of disappearing ladies in such a place. But Newgate is a treacherous ground, dear Anna. I should like to accompany you, if I may."
Somehow I thought we might have crossed a certain line in our acquaintance. Dropping formality was always so disconcerting.
Aside from when Andrew said my given name, of course. Then it was scintillating.
"I thank you, sir," I said demurely, attempting to put us back on course again.
"No need. It is not often I have such charming company. Charming," he added with a wink, "and incorrigible. Wait until Emily hears of this! She'll think me roguish. Helping a damsel in distress. I say! I shall be the talk of the town by the time we are through."
And what of Mina? Was this all a game?
I smiled wanly and stared out of the window at the passing scenery, as Henry gave his driver the new directions. He turned back around eventually, removing his coat and making himself more comfortable.
"This is a far better diversion than I had planned for this afternoon."
"It is?" I asked. What exactly had he planned that required a trip to Whitechapel?
"Oh, yes. My uncle has had some trouble up North, you see. I have been tasked with checking his records, ensuring the trouble has not spread to his holdings in London. All very dull stuff."
"Trouble?"
He leant forward conspiratorially. "Strike, my dear lady. Workermen's strike. A nasty thing. But never fear," he said leaning back with an insouciant grin. "I shan't bore you. For we're off on an adventure, you and I." He rubbed his hands together, entirely too gleeful for my liking. "I shall be Sherlock Holmes," he announced, speaking of that popular literary character. "And you shall be my Dr Watson."
I rather thought myself Sherlock Holmes. Or perhaps a combination of the two.
Mr Arthur Conan Doyle had nothing on Anna Cassidy, I mused. I allowed my imagination to run wild as the streets of London swept past my view. Urging me ever onwards to Mina.
I Am Home
Inspector Kelly
Sammy Swift Fingers danced from foot to foot, his eyes constantly assessing the alleyway we were in.
"Times have changed, guv'nor," he said. A common enough theme of late. "'Tis not desirable to parley with the Met."
"I'm no longer a member of the Metropolitan Police Force, Sammy," I pointed out. "Merely an old acquaintance."
"One and the same, if you asks me." He pulled back further into the shadows.
Aware of my surroundings and cognisant of the fact that only one person presently watched us - that being Sergeant Blackmore - I moved to block Sammy from the street.
"How's the wife?" I asked, conversationally.
"Got the pox," he shot back, chewing a thumbnail.
This was not the man I had used on several occasions in the past for sly word of Whitechapel mood out on the street. I resisted the urge to glance over my shoulder; Blackie had my back, and these were my old streets.
"Who runs the Strutton Ground Boys nowadays?" I asked.
Sammy snorted; snot hanging loosely from one nostril. He rubbed at it with his grubby sleeve.
"Ain't no Struttons left on the streets, guv. The Blind Beggars seen to that."
"The Blind Beggars?" They were news to me. Not at all surprising, given my absence from Whitechapel. "When did they emerge?"
"'Round 'bout a year ago. P'haps sooner."
"And they are the top of the heap?"
"Aye, and not to be trifled with, ‘n all. Nasty buggers." He spat on the ground, the globule yellow with infection. "Sooner slash ya, than talk to ya. That's not until they've fleeced your pockets, of course.”
"Petty thieves?"
"And the rest, guv. Ain't the Whitechapel you left, see?"
"Murder?"
"You're the copper. You tell me. On second thoughts, guv. Don't. Better off not knowin’ some things."
I nodded. Self-preservation at its best. No honour among thieves.
"What say you of missing women?" I asked.
"I says nothin'. That's what I says."
I fished out four shillings and dropped them in his outstretched fingers. It was more than an informant expected to receive, and it might well have tipped my hand; finding Mina was paramount. But I had a feeling Sammy needed the blunt. His clothes were more ragged than memory served me.
"Not just women, guv. Young kids. Orphans and the like. No one misses them, do they?"
"No, I should think not. And the women?"
"Can't says I 'eard of any in partic'lar. But I've been keepin' me nose clean."
Hence the ragged state of his clothes. For Sammy Swift Fingers, the most notorious pickpocket to run Petticoat Lane Market, to cease his activities, things must be dire indeed.
"And where do these orphaned children go, Sammy?" I asked.
"Where all evil goes if it ain't strong enough for London's streets."
I stared at the man.
"The Old Bailey, guv. They go to Newgate and hang for all I knows. Maybe they serve another purpose. Maybe they don't. I asks no questions. I get no knife in the gut, see? My philos'phy."
"And a good one, I'd wager."
"Aye." He flicked another nervous glance around the dark alley we were hidden in. Thankfully not spotting Blackmore, nor anyone else, for that matter, either.
"Are they all male, these missing children?” I pressed.
"Mostly."
"But female children are taken, too?"
Sammy nodded his head abruptly.
I couldn't fathom why the courts would waste their time on children when there were more nefarious criminals on our streets. Children were so often the forgotten, the lost. Neither thought of nor missed when not seen.
But for those at Newgate to clean up the streets, perhaps there was a new agenda afoot I had not been made aware of. If the children were rehabilitated outside of London's borders, that had to be a good thing.
"Fewer pickpockets," I commented, watching Sammy for a reaction and receiving none. "Easier pickings," I added. He shifted, but not from my poor prodding.
"Is it the Blind Beggars you fear, Sammy?"
"You should and all, guv."
"Who runs them?”
"No one knows. They hunt in packs. Fingers in all pies. Even I got the sense not to touch some things. But them?" Another head shake. "They're above the law, see?"
"No one is above the law, Sammy."
"There was this one time," he started; Sammy had always been a talker. When he was nervous, he talked more. Usually, that had required an underhand move from my Sergeant. But Blackmore was hidden and I'd not threatened, even obliquely. Sammy's nervousness was not because of me.
He opened his mouth to say more and then choked out a sound. His hand flew up to his throat, his eyes bulging.
"Sammy!" I said, reaching forward and catching him as he crumbled.
His lips twisted, his brows furrowed, foam frothed at his mouth.
And then his entire frame started to shudder; rapidly. His body contorting this way and that.
"Blackmore!" I shouted. "Blow your whistle!"
Blackie obliged, but by the time he reached my side, I'd found the culprit. A feathered dart, of eastern origins at a guess, protruding out of the side of Sammy's rigid neck.
"Don't touch that, sir!" Blackie ordered, as my hand hovered over the weapon. "I'd hazard a guess; it's dipped in strychnine."
I stared in horror at the convulsing form of Sammy Swift Fingers and then pushed to my feet.
"Stay with him, Sergeant. See that he gets help."
"And you, sir?"
"I know
these streets."
"But, sir!" I heard Blackmore shout. Any further words, however, were lost to the sound of my boots splashing through the mud and muck of an East End street. My cane slammed down on each alternate step, adding a hitched beat, announcing to any who cared that I had an injury.
Easy prey, though, I would never be.
The dart had come from the west. Blackie had been hiding downwind to the east. I'd stood in front of Sammy, blocking him for all intents and purposes from view, and yet somehow the attacker had managed a direct line of sight, landing the dart with ease.
What had Sammy been about to say? Was it regarding the Lambeth Poisoner?
But we were in Spitalfields. And as far as I knew, the poisoner had only struck women of ill repute on the other side of the Thames. Not here on my streets.
But then, he'd also manufactured disorder at the Metropole Hotel in Soho. Was he escalating, as Anna would say? Diversifying?
I was about to find out, as I caught sight of a dark cloak swiftly disappearing around the edge of a grocer's store up ahead. My footsteps took me thundering after the sneak, my breaths laboured.
My thigh screaming.
Several long twists and turns later, I came up short outside an old dilapidated building; one which brought back too many memories. Memories of blonde hair and bright eyes and curved lips shaped into a taunting smile. Which all disappeared in the unforgiving orange glow of fierce flames behind my closed eyelids.
I sucked in a ragged breath and looked upon the ghosts of my life.
Evidence of the blaze that had taken place on the building’s upper floors still existed; so many years afterwards. The owner unprepared to mend what had surely been broken beyond repair that fateful day. Shattered windows stood testament to the fire that had raged. To the heartache that had followed. Dark eyes looking out on a forgotten street.
I hadn't forgotten.
I panted for breath, my hand fisting above my thigh, sweat making my skin feel clammy. My vision wavered.
He'd brought me here. Lured me. To this exact spot.
I swallowed thickly.
Pushing past failures aside, I walked up the steps and through the broken door determinedly.
Eliza, I thought bitterly. I am home. Is this where she wanted me?
What A Pickle
Anna
"I say!" I exclaimed, sitting up straighter on the bench seat. "That's Inspector Kelly!"
"Who, my dear?" Henry asked as he lounged on the seat opposite me, looking like the rogue he so wanted to be.
"I know him," I said as if that explained everything. "Stop the carriage!"
"Stop the carriage? Good grief, Anna. We're still on the outskirts of Whitechapel. Give it a few more minutes, and we'll have made it past Fenchurch Street, at least. There's a good girl."
I thrust my parasol at the ceiling of the brougham and made as much noise as I could muster.
The carriage pulled to the side of the road, and I was out of the door before the horses had stopped moving.
"Anna!" Henry called after me, but I made like the wind, parting the fog and the few pedestrians before me, as I lifted my skirts and thundered off after Inspector Kelly.
If he was on the hunt for Wilhelmina, it made sense that he was chasing after someone who had seen or, God forbid, harmed my cousin. I would not have him chase down a suspect alone.
"Anna! Dr Cassidy!" Henry continued to yell over my shoulder; letting me know he was indeed following down these dark streets.
I didn’t stop. Determination gripped me. I had to catch Kelly!
The roadways became narrower, the traffic non-existent. The sound of my footsteps echoed off tall buildings. I could hear Andrew's cane as it came down on every other footfall ahead of me. The hitch it gave his gait, the sound magnified in such close quarters. I could no longer see him, though, the mist had thickened since we'd entered this part of the city.
And then several steps later all was silent.
I slowed to a walk, not daring to call out to him. If I announced my pursuit, I would also announce my presence to the person he followed. I sucked in lungfuls of air, trying to silence my breathing. I hadn't realised how far from Fenchurch Street we had come.
Had Henry followed or given me up for a lost cause?
I glanced over my shoulder, but couldn't see him, either. Perhaps he'd returned for the carriage and would appear out of the fog in due course. For now, I needed to locate the inspector.
I took tentative steps, straining my ears for a sound, wishing the fog would thin. Then thinking better of it. At least with the fog so thick, I couldn't be seen. But then, neither could Andrew and who he'd been following.
Reaching down, I released the knife from my parasol's handle; the long, thin blade more a rapier than a machete. I hefted it in my hand, settling the familiar weight of it, ensuring it remained balanced as my father had taught me. Then took another tentative step forward.
A sound to the side caught my attention; I stopped walking, turning my face towards it. The scrape of a boot, the snick of a cane. There!
I walked across the street, emerging from the mist as a tall residence took shape, looming darkly over me. I stared up into haunted windows, their glass long broken, evidence of scorched wood wrapping around their frames like charred fingers.
I stood stock still for a long moment, letting my mind comprehend what I was seeing. A burned out house, mould growing beneath the sills, the front garden overgrown, weeds choking what would have once been an abundance of flowers. The front door was broken, dirt had accumulated on the stoop. A once white fence stood like broken teeth across the footpath.
Chills of foreboding washed down my spine.
Then a noise sounded within. Not loud. Not a shout. But it sent shivers down my spine, all the same.
Ridiculous, I thought, pushing my legs into motion. I was sure Andrew was in there somewhere, and I would not be a coward and abandon him to his fate.
What a strange thought, I mused. Andrew Kelly was not one to run blindly into danger. He'd have Sergeant Blackmore nearby as backup. He hardly needed a surgeon.
At least, one could hope not.
Besides, Henry would appear in a moment, and the sound of his carriage would scare off whoever Andrew had chased inside.
I ensured my footsteps were silent, though, as I entered the forlorn dwelling. But the floorboards had seen better days. London's inclement weather having breached the threshold and left its calling card in the form of rotted wood. I stepped over a hole in the floor and peered into rat infested corners. The scuttling of tiny feet confirmed my suspicions.
But no other sound emerged from within. I made my way to the rear of the building, taking in the faded patches on the moth-eaten walls where artwork or photographs may have at one time laid. The sitting room was bare. The kitchen cupboards hanging open. A wood fired stove was full of dark ashes; no doubt a squatter or two having made this abandoned home their base of operations.
I returned to the base of the stairs feeling disproportionately uncomfortable; I had the sense I was witnessing someone's past, and it seemed tragic.
I shook my head, taking one last look towards the front door for Henry, but coming up blank, and then made my way up the crooked stairs, one by one. My heart was in my throat with every footfall, so sure my boot would go through the rotten floorboards at any second. I dared not hold onto the bannister, as it looked in even worse repair than the treads beneath my soles did.
The landing had fared the worst from the fire, it seemed. A beam had fallen. I grimaced at the need to climb over it but checking to the sides; there was no way to avoid the effort. I gazed up at a cloud-choked sky through a hole in the ceiling; no sun to direct me. The darkness within the house seeping under my cloak and making me shiver.
Enough of this! I thought and hiked up my skirts. Then used a gloved hand to aid my climb over the beam, slipping down the far side and hearing material rip. I could only hope it was my cloak and not my d
ress; Mina would not approve.
It was the thought of my cousin that had me proceeding when silence was all that greeted me. Silence, the odd scuffle of rodent feet, and the creak of abused woodwork.
I strained my ears but heard nothing. Checking first one room, and then the other; all abandoned.
This was a sorry state of affairs, such a once proud house brought down by fire. Was it arson? Or an accident? Or something more nefarious?
None of it matter; all events of the past. For I had heard the inspector.
"It isn't like that," he said, his familiar tones sounding muffled. "You wouldn't understand."
I couldn't hear the other participant in the conversation. So, I crouched, moving slowly, lest I announce my presence, attempting to get near enough to discern their words. My parasol shook in my left hand; the blade shone dully in what little illumination there was in my right. My breaths came in small huffs, fogging the air before me.
My foot scraped along the debris strewn floorboards.
"No!" I heard Andrew say. It had been forceful but sounded not nearly loud enough.
And then I was through the door, brandishing my weapon rashly, and daring whoever had made Andrew sound so weak to step forward.
"Show yourself!" I demanded, my eyes trying vainly to see in the dark. "Step forward!" I growled, ears straining.
"Anna," Andrew murmured from my side. I walked sideways, my eyes on the rest of the blackened room, my parasol hand reaching out for the inspector.
I found him, bound to a chair, his breaths shallow, his head lolling. Bile coated my tongue. I swung to face the room, dropping my parasol, and raising my blade in two shaking hands.
A delicate laugh sounded out; so carefree and light, when all that existed in this accursed room was darkness. Then the curtains shifted, and a weak fog-shrouded moon shone through, outlining a cloaked figure as it jumped through the window. I ran across the empty space and peered out, but all I could see was shadows.
"Don't," Andrew mumbled. "Too late," he added.
Breathless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 2): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series Page 7