Venomous Secrets

by Anne Renwick

  On the whole, her appearance in the mirror brought pirates to mind. A gleaming saber strapped to her side was all that was missing. Alas, the wide leather belt fastened about her waist was largely decorative, save for the skirt hikes that lifted her hem to expose what some might consider an indelicate amount of ankle.

  Fingerless gloves concealed the bandage at her wrist, and a matching hat with an arcing feather completed the ensemble.

  “Fancy for a visit to a coroner.” Janet clucked her tongue. “One might expect you plan to stumble upon a certain gentleman.”

  She grinned. “One can only hope.” Locating Mr. Tagert out and about in the wild, so to speak, would open a world of opportunities.

  “Hurry back,” Janet urged, opening the servant’s door, one that blended seamlessly into the wallpaper.

  Cait hurried down the stairs and burst into the kitchen. All about, steambots whirled and chugged, performing their evening duties while Cook bent over the sink, washing up. A job best performed by human hands lest the mechanical kitchen help find their joints frozen by rust.

  “Miss!” The messenger boy leapt to his feet and held out a grubby slip of paper. “He’s only just on his way to the coroner’s now. Got the address from a man in the mews.”

  “Coroner Baxton,” she read aloud. “A lawyer with his firm on Cannon Street near St. Paul’s. A respectable address. Good work.” She slipped the boy a coin and pushed a plate of biscuits in his direction with a knowing smile. “Carry on.”

  The crank hack delivered her to the solicitor’s door in a building situated between those of a bookseller and a bootmaker. The district hummed with wholesalers and tradesmen of all kinds, men and women who took little notice of her as they hurried along the pavement.

  A bell above the door jingled as she entered.

  “May I help you, miss?” A young man in a mud-brown suit rose from his seat. A perfectly polite greeting, but an unconcealed glance at a wall clock made it clear her presence was an imposition. “We’re about to close, but I’m happy to schedule an appointment.”

  From a back room, she heard voices—if not exact words—one of which belonged to Mr. Tagert.

  Success! Like a glass of champagne, excitement bubbled and went straight to her head.

  The lie leapt from her lips. “No need. I’d meant to be here earlier, to prevent my husband, Mr. Tagert, from working himself into a flap.” Wives rolled their eyes, right? “I’ll join them. See if I can soothe his ruffled feathers and steer this meeting to a swift conclusion.”

  Conflicted, he cleared his throat. “Errhmm—”

  Lest the secretary choose duty, Cait darted down the hallway before he could formulate an intelligible response. Then stopped short.

  A door ajar. How very convenient.

  No stranger to male dismissal or how a female’s presence might smother a candid conversation, she stood back to the wall, listening to the unfiltered exchange. During the few minutes Mr. Tagert had preceded her own entry, her not-a-husband had managed to inflame Mr. Baxton’s ire.

  “I must insist,” he said, interrupting the coroner’s tirade.

  “No reason exists for the Queen’s agents to interfere,” the coroner barked. “None. No foreign nationals are involved and the victims are of no political or social consequence.”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss the details that draw this investigation into our sphere.” Mr. Tagert’s voice was calm, steady and unyielding. “Suffice it to say that, in the past twenty-four hours, new information has surfaced. You may, of course, continue your own investigation into these murders. In fact, we encourage it. Nonetheless, you must relay any information uncovered directly to me.”

  “Yet I am not to be afforded the same consideration?” Mr. Baxton retorted, apparently itching for a fight. “The Metropolitan Police are doing all they can with the conflicting reports of those who, unconvincingly, claim to have seen this vampire. We suffer nothing but public ridicule and unreasonable demands that we immediately apprehend the perpetrator.”

  Mr. Tagert invoked the one name that would make any London coroner shake in his shoes. “You are, of course, welcome to lodge a complaint with the Duke of Avesbury.”

  “Now, now.” The coroner’s voice took on an altogether different tone. Cait imagined his hands lifting, palms out. “There’s no reason to involve the duke himself.”

  “I’m glad we agree.” Disdain dripped from Mr. Tagert’s tongue. “Tell me, what facts have you collected regarding the attacks of this eponymous London Vampire? Begin with autopsy results.”

  “None were necessary. Damage to all four bodies was superficial.”

  “Four victims?” Mr. Tagert snapped, as if the coroner’s failure to immediately inform him of an additional victim was a personal affront. “Not three, as reported by the press? Or do you include this morning’s victim in that count?”

  “I do not,” Mr. Baxton groused. “All were male. By the time my men and I arrived to view the female, your agents had taken charge. We were waved off.”

  “Perhaps you had best start at the beginning,” Mr. Tagert growled. Not a request, but an order. “With all the newspaper men milling about, reveling in sensationalism, accuracy is in short supply. I will need, of course, copies of all official documents related to all four incidents. For now, if you will provide a brief, oral summary that I may begin my own inquiries.”

  Perfect. Cait edged a bit closer, not wanting to miss a word.

  “Very well,” Mr. Baxton said. “Each victim sustained two punctures to the neck. Swollen and red tissue surrounded the bite marks. Certainly, a trail of blood oozed from the wounds, but they were not—as the press would have their readers believe—drained dry, leaving behind naught but desiccated husks of men.” The man forced a humorless laugh. “Yet something about the bite killed them and quickly, though our laboratory technicians have found no trace of any poison. Finally, ribald speculation aside, we have no evidence as to why the murderer chose to remove certain,” he cleared his throat, “organs.”

  “Organs?” Irritation threaded through Mr. Tagert’s voice.

  Did Mr. Baxton refer to the pituitary? Was such a term applicable to an organ?

  “No one—er—interfered with the woman discovered this morning?”

  “No. Do enlighten me as to which body parts were removed.”

  “Yes, of course. Though discovered fully clothed, all the victims were found to have been gelded. Brutally so.”

  Cait’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes threatened to pop from their sockets. Castrated!

  Mr. Baxton continued. “The one man who survived claims to have no recollection of the attack. I expect his lips have been sealed by the humiliation of waking to find his testicles removed in their entirety.”

  Exasperated, Mr. Tagert focused in on this particularly relevant point. “There’s a survivor?”

  “Indeed. An empty shell of a man now. He’ll refuse to speak to you,” the coroner warned.

  “Ma’am,” the secretary murmured at her side, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “Is something amiss?”

  Kraken. Intent upon what they were discussing, Cait had failed to keep an eye out for him whilst eavesdropping. She pressed a finger to her lips and flapped a hand at him, indicating that she wished to be left alone, that he should return to his desk. It might work. After all, he’d been remiss in not announcing her presence.

  “Nonetheless, I’ll need his name,” Mr. Tagert said. “His address.”

  Mr. Baxton hesitated, realizing that the final tidbit of privileged information was about to be ripped from his hands. But there was no arguing with a Queen’s agent. Without grace, he capitulated. “William Acker. Proprietor of The Hissing Cockatrice, a pub in Covent Garden on Rose Street.”

  “Have you managed to find any leads?” Mr. Tagert’s voice rose. “Uncover any connections?”

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot allow this,” the secretary hissed, cupping her elbow and exerting a gentle pressu
re to draw her away. “Please come with me.”

  She resisted. “In a moment,” she breathed, keen to hear Mr. Baxton’s response.

  “None.” The coroner’s admission grated over his vocal cords. “Save one possibility. All have fathered multiple children. A publican who is father of five, a shopkeeper with six daughters, a robust dock worker leaving behind a family of seven, and a banker, a known philanderer who supports, in total, twelve offspring—four of whom are legitimate.”

  Goodness, but that was a lot of children. At a head count of four, her own family often felt too large and confusing.

  “Our best guess,” the coroner finished, “is that the murderer seeks to make a statement about irresponsible reproduction and/or a need for the reduction of population growth in our burgeoning cities.”

  Without releasing her elbow, the secretary glared at her and pulled open the door, exposing her presence. “Mr. Baxton,” he intoned. “Mrs. Tagert has arrived to join her husband.”

  Coal gas and corpse candles.

  “I don’t—” Mr. Tagert caught sight of his not-a-wife. His mouth snapped shut. A hard-edged gleam sliced across his eyes. Then he smiled.

  Over the years, Cait had been the recipient of a wide variety of smiles. From polite and indifferent to indecent and speculative. This one was the first that promised a retaliation of dark, unspeakable things.

  Warmth washed over her, settling low in her stomach.

  Another woman would have quaked in her boots, fearful of the repercussions. Cait, forged in fire, tossed back her own grin, daring him to do his worst.

  Aether, she hoped he would.

  This, her body insisted, was a man worth having. Worth keeping.

  Could it be done?

  She looked forward to the attempt.

  Chapter Five

  Of course Black’s sister was a problem.

  She’d shed her earlier morgue-drab attire and stood before him transformed. Luminous copper skirts—hiked to display a flutter of petticoat ruffles about leather-clad ankles—shifted and changed color in the faint gaslight while the soft, velvet nap of her bodice absorbed all. Including his attention.

  A beautiful, interfering handful who knew all there was to know about venom. Add to that a poison ring that he very much doubted was empty, and she was downright deadly.

  So very cavalier around most women, Black would burst an artery if he learned his sister had claimed to be the wife of an aristocratic gentleman in a prominent lawyer’s office. But the duke’s right-hand man was deluding himself if he’d expected her to follow orders, to not forcibly insert herself into this investigation. Anyone who met her could tell she had a rebellious streak a mile wide.

  He was in so much trouble.

  Jack had kept an eye out all day, waiting for her to materialize beside him. He’d expected her hours ago. Tempting as it might be to invite her to join him, to go against direct orders meant he’d risk losing the case.

  Not that Black would learn about his sister’s attempt from him.

  And she knew it.

  In a move calculated to provoke, her hands went to her hips and a smile curved the edges of her soft lips.

  Soft?

  He gave himself a mental shake. He had no way of knowing that. And finding out would end with Black burying his body in a location that wouldn’t be found for over a hundred years.

  Neither, however, could he deny her present claim on his person. Not if he wanted to remove her without incident from the coroner’s office.

  He’d play along.

  If only for the moment.

  “Ah, Mrs. Tagert.” An odd sensation, to hear himself speak such words aloud. He drew out his pocket watch. “It does appear I’m running late. My apologies.” He nodded to the coroner. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Baxton. I’ll be in touch.” With that, he donned his top hat and strode from the coroner’s office, snatching up his not-wife’s hand to anchor it to his arm. The mannerly method of dragging about a headstrong woman, assuming a minimum of cooperation on her part. At least she hadn’t heard—

  No. Scratch that.

  From the guilty look on the secretary’s face, she’d heard plenty.

  Dammit.

  The building’s front door slammed behind them. The last of the evening’s light had fled, and the streetlamps cast bright pools onto the pavement with dim edges that merged at intervals to create dark and dangerous recesses against unlit doorways.

  He kept his hand pressed firmly upon hers. An unescorted and untrained lady would be at the mercy of the perils of such shadows. Not that it was a chore to have Miss McCullough at his side, bumping against his frame, all soft curves and swooshing satin. Impossible not to admire a woman brave enough to ignore Black’s direct orders.

  For that alone, she’d won his regard—and Black his sympathies for the impossibility of managing such a sister who thought nothing of traipsing about London in the evening unescorted.

  How had she found him? He’d not detected anyone—

  “The boy?” he mused aloud. “A new addition to the mews…”

  She smiled. “I find it worrisome that it took you so many hours to finally question Mr. Baxton in person.”

  “Various family members required my attention.” More accurately, he’d been delayed by futile attempts to question the various members of his family.

  “A most fanciful account.” His brother had dismissed the oddness surrounding Lord Saltwell’s death as one would a child’s fantasy, choosing instead to rant about the blow such a public death dealt his wedding plans, to complain about Jack’s insistence that the dead man’s body be transported to the Lister Institute. A viewpoint his mother shared, judging by her decision to blur the sharp edges of the nightmare with a few drops of laudanum.

  Not a single mention of his friend Carruthers’ loss had been made. The dead Lord Saltwell, it would appear, was beneath contempt.

  That alone raised questions.

  “Next stop, The Hissing Cockatrice.” Miss McCullough’s pronouncement yanked him back to his current predicament. She walked at a fast clip along the street, lifting her free hand to hail a cab.

  Presumptuous of her.

  “I’ve heard tell that some pubs pickle their mascots after they die,” she chattered on, “keeping them in vats of alcohol upon shelves. A Cockatrice. How do you arrange for a most impressive hoax? Foot of an ostrich. Tail of a python. Wing of condor. Which leaves the question of a head. Roosters do have a rather distinctive wattle.”

  He drew her to a halt and lifted an eyebrow.

  She tossed him a smile. “Agreed.” Mischief glittered in her eyes. “Body parts in three jars, then, and a clever story about how the head was stolen one dark and stormy night.”

  Amused, he snorted. A shame, really. She would make the perfect accomplice, a bubbly foil to his gruff demeanor. Amidst merrymakers abandoning the theaters mid-performance, they might pretend to indulge in each other’s charms whilst listening for gossip about the London Vampire. “It won’t work, Miss McCullough.” A statement made to himself as much as her.

  Her lower lip protruded in a pout. “I thought it was rather clever.”

  “Your over bright chatter,” he clarified, dropping his arm and setting her free. “You were given very specific instructions not to pursue this case external to Lister Institute. Then arrived, unchaperoned, at the public offices of a prominent lawyer claiming to be my wife. That alone will cause you grief. Even if I overlook all that, there is no chance that Mr. Acker will ever speak about his… injuries in the presence of a woman.”

  She huffed. “One doesn’t have to be married to know how testicles function.”

  Heat gathered beneath his collar. Book learning or personal experience, he did not wish to know. Did he? For he caught himself looking at the lace that covered her hands and thinking about how they might feel upon his—

  Absolutely inappropriate. He needed to send her safely away. Home. And away from him.

  A crank
hack rattled to a stop. Jack pulled open the door and held out a hand to assist her ascent. “Your address?”

  Miss McCullough laughed. “That you might come calling tomorrow? Let’s not pretend, Mr. Tagert, that I’m not going to redirect this conveyance directly to Covent Garden.” She patted the seat beside her. “You might as well join me, dearest.”

  He gave her a quelling look, but climbed inside to sit across from her. “I’ll see you home.”

  She sighed. “It won’t work, this attempt to shepherd me about.” She gave him a pitying look. “I know the address, and I will attempt to speak with the victim. If not tonight, tomorrow, or the next day. You’d have to stay glued to my side to stop me. As we’re not actually married, I’m not certain how you could accomplish such a feat.”

  “I could summon your brother.” A comment made to study her reaction.

  Amusement danced in her eyes. “But you won’t. Most agents would kill for a chance to work with my brother, but you don’t want him involved. Distaste is written all over your face.” She leaned forward. “What did he do to irritate you so?”

  “Irrelevant.”

  The fine arch of an uplifted eyebrow expressed doubt. “Hence your sullen response.”

  She was right. But Jack wasn’t about to dip into the tangle of his emotions to detail how he’d begged Black not to allow Angela into the societal liaison program. Unfair, perhaps, to hold such a grudge when his sister had been adamant about serving the Queen. What was a few years married to Icelandic royalty, Angela had argued, when afterward she would be a young, wealthy widow of considerable status?

  A valid defense.

  Until the North Sea wedding disaster had marooned her on the Faroe Islands with a husband of questionable morals.