Fearless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 1): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series

by Nicola Claire

  “And what would that be, Inspector?” I asked, holding my breath.

  “Scarlet,” he murmured. “Red.” For the blood?

  I stared down at my gloves; Margaret’s life so carelessly lost upon them. It wasn’t my hand that had wielded the knife, but it might as well have been. She’d only joined the Suffragettes at my behest. Only been at that stage because of her involvement in a movement I backed with all my heart.

  What had I done?

  “I only wish,” Kelly continued, but his words were hard to hear. A hum had started up inside my ears; a persistent accompaniment to my pounding heartbeat. “That it was crimson silk or burgundy taffeta.” Not blood.

  Not Margaret’s blood.

  I let a slow breath of air out, lifting my head and gazing unseeing for a moment to the side of the road. Traffic was more sparse here, the neighbourhood one of homes not businesses. We travelled up Franklin Street in silence, my father’s house a beacon in the dark.

  “It is a difficult thing to avoid,” I finally said, as Kelly pulled the buggy up outside my refuge and home. “My profession is doused in it.”

  Kelly lowered the reins and turned slightly in his seat to look at me. His expression one I had long ago committed to memory.

  “If you would only allow…” he began, but I raised a hand, a blood covered hand, to stop him.

  “This is my life, Inspector. Mine. I will not have a man tell me how to live it.”

  “I am not just any man,” he argued, tearing at my heart and making breathing difficult.

  “You are one of many,” I replied and proceeded to alight the vehicle.

  Kelly rushed to aid me, but his injury did not allow for quick movements. I was on the footpath before he’d skirted the horses, his expression now one I chose to forget on occasion.

  “You vex me sometimes, Anna,” he murmured, offering me his free arm.

  I stared at it. He made a disgruntled sound.

  “Your cousin watches from the window,” he ground out.

  I took his arm and looked for Wilhelmina through the curtains. She hid her observation well.

  “No doubt wondering why you continue to try to refine me,” I replied. “Mina has long since given up her attempts.”

  “Wilhelmina is too sweet natured to discipline you. I am not.”

  I smiled. Beguiled at his vexation. Kelly could be many things. Upright, moral in his convictions. Angered to extremes. But somehow this irritation he expressed at my behaviour was curtailed. Bringing to mind a big, cuddly bear rather than an ogre.

  “I amuse you?” he enquired politely.

  “You entertain,” I whispered as the front door opened and my cousin all but threw herself in our direction.

  “You’re home!” she cried, tears brimming her eyes, pink flushing her cheeks as she stole a look at the inspector.

  “Miss Cassidy,” he greeted, offering a small bow, but not relinquishing his hold on my arm. “I return your cousin for your safe keeping.”

  “Am I to be a prisoner here?” I asked, brushing past a fussing Wilhelmina with a consoling pat on her fluttering hands.

  “You’re covered in blood,” she announced, in tones of disbelief and frustration.

  Kelly answered before I could allay her fears.

  “Rather here than the station’s cells.”

  “Ah,” I remarked, moving through the foyer to my surgery. I kept a fire burning in the hearth for moments such as these. I crossed the wooden floor, boots tapping, the sound of my audience in tow at my back, and proceeded to remove the offending articles, one sticky finger at a time.

  “Whose blood is that?” Wilhelmina enquired, her voice small in the high ceilinged room, but layered with conviction.

  Kelly remained silent, allowing me to field this alone.

  I removed the last finger from my soiled gloves and tossed them into the flames of the fire. For a moment I couldn’t look anywhere but at the glow. Heat suffused my body, but I felt so very cold. A shiver ran down my spine, causing me to let an angered sigh out.

  I am not afraid of blood. Kelly is correct in his summation: I wear it well.

  But this blood. Margaret’s blood. It was different. It wasn’t simply a colour. It wasn’t merely the life force of a human being. It was hers. Hers alone. At least, I assumed it was. Could the blood of her attacker have been mixed in with the scarlet that coated my gloves?

  A pointless observation, one that brought me back to the room with sudden clarity.

  “Mina,” I said, turning to face my cousin. “Would you please bring us some tea, I need to speak to the inspector before he departs.”

  Her eyes darted from my face to Kelly’s. His eyes were trained on me.

  I didn’t see my cousin leave the room, but moments later the inspector and I were alone again.

  “What is it you wish to tell me?” he asked, not moving from his position near the door. As though escape was on his mind, even if he didn’t realise it. “Or is this just a delay tactic?” he enquired. “Avoidance of a much graver conversation.”

  “I will tell Wilhelmina, but not while you are here.” I’d spare my cousin that indignity. She did not handle distress well.

  He took a step farther into the room, then chose to cross to the fire, where I stood with my back to it. He looked down at the remains of my gloves, his hat in his hand, his cane hanging off his arm. He’d walked the short distance unaided. I wondered if he realised, or if he’d been exercising his leg and improving.

  I didn’t ask. He wouldn’t have answered.

  “The murderer,” I started, and he let out a beleaguered sigh.

  “There should at least be something good exchanged for those gauntlets,” he remarked, eyes on the burning gloves and not my face.

  Perhaps he knew I would not have appeared amused.

  “The murderer,” I repeated carefully, “was large, taller than the victim.” He did stare at me then. A searching look, as though he puzzled over my choice of words.

  It wasn’t that I was attempting to forget Margaret’s role in this horrific deed. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. But I’d been taught to distance myself from the bodies. Any body that found its way onto my slab.

  I glanced across the room to my post-mortem table. Wiped clean, sterilised, scoured, but stained in the atrocities that had been examined upon it.

  “He is strong,” I continued, moving to the sink and turning the tap. I began to soap my hands up, scrubbing harshly with the bristles of a brush. “Immensely so.” I dried off, forcing myself to stop when it was obvious I was clean.

  Obvious to my eyes but not necessarily to my mind, that is.

  I turned and faced the inspector, my hands neatly folded in front of me. His eyes on mine, but seeing everything.

  “He held her aloft, while he stabbed her,” I announced, perhaps a little bluntly. But it served its purpose.

  Kelly’s attention was on my words now, not me.

  “How can you be sure?” he asked.

  “Bruising around her neck, scuff marks on her shoes and the alleyway floor. She fought him, while hanging from his grip. If Drummond checks, I’m certain the flow of blood on her clothing will indicate she was upright.”

  “But hanging?” Kelly remarked. “The strength required…” he trailed off as he thought.

  “Her shoes were covered in blood also,” I added. “Blood from wounds that should not have reached her toes.”

  His head came up from where he’d been staring blindly at the floor. Dark blue gazed back at me. Held me prisoner.

  “You are miraculous, you know?” he whispered. “One minute in her presence and so much ascertained.”

  “My father trained me well,” I whispered back.

  Kelly shook his head slowly. “You are far superior in skill than your father’s talents, Anna.”

  Silence, but for the shifting of the house as the sun began to set.

  I swallowed past a dry throat and moved across the room, away from him. Away fr
om the temptation. From the embarrassment when he didn’t return my favour.

  “I will have him check,” Kelly announced, as footsteps could be heard out in the hallway. “And we will find whoever did this,” he promised, as Wilhelmina entered the room, minus tea and biscuits.

  “I have set a tray up in the drawing room,” she declared. My efforts in convincing her to partake of sustenance whilst in the surgery were for naught.

  “I’m afraid I cannot stay,” Inspector Kelly replied. “But thank you.”

  Mina didn’t look surprised. Kelly never stayed. It was an ongoing battle she fought; trapping him in our home in an attempt to trap him into something far more consequential with me.

  I sympathised with her efforts, but I held no false hope otherwise.

  “Ladies,” the inspector offered, bowing slightly and heading toward the door.

  We trailed behind him, to see him from the building, standing dutifully on the porch as he gathered the reins and climbed up into his curricle. His eyes met mine, a long pause followed.

  Then Inspector Kelly said, in deep tones of determination, “Stay home, Miss Cassidy. The night is growing darker.”

  I blinked, gave a small shake of my head, and offered him my back instead of an answer.

  “That was rude,” Mina chastised as she finally joined me in the front room. I sat down without dignity, and began to pour the tea.

  “He was being impertinent,” I replied.

  “The inspector? Impertinent? Truly, Anna, you do see things rather differently than the rest of us.”

  “‘Tis a curse,” I agreed, and then settled back into my chair with a sad sigh.

  Mina paced to the curtains and peered outside, as if she could still see the inspector. She fidgeted with the tassells on the binds that held them back. Nervousness making her agitated. If she’d had whiskers, her nose would have been twitching.

  I watched her for a moment, dreading what would come next. I tried to shield Wilhelmina from the worst of what happened in the world. She never assisted me with a post-mortem, only aided when the patients were still alive. And even then, her efforts were sometimes too much to bear.

  She was like a sister to me, more than just a distantly related cousin. I would do anything to keep her safe. To keep her happy. To keep her sane. But Mina would fade away without a challenge. Would mould herself into anything at all that a husband should require.

  I don’t judge. I try not to give too many opinions, unless they relate to a medical issue; an area of my expertise. But I could not stand by and watch sweet Wilhelmina disappear behind the guise of marriage. There would be someone worthy of her love, I was sure. Someone out there capable of protecting with encouragement. Supporting without expectation. Someone who would not outshine her light.

  Mina was everything good in this world, even if she fainted at the sight of blood.

  I would not let her down, but my commitment required harsh methods. I pushed her beyond her boundaries, and in return Mina, the Mina I knew and loved, shone bright.

  I could not bear to see that light get extinguished.

  She turned away from the window eventually, and crossed to the hearth, staring into the fire. She knew. Not the details, never the details, but she knew what was coming. It broke my heart.

  “Sit, cousin,” I said gently.

  But even soft words could not protect her from this blow.

  I sucked in a breath, ready to be whatever she needed, and said, “I have grave news to impart.”

  Four

  Out With It Then

  Inspector Kelly

  Drummond had arrived. His tardiness was unforgivable, but then, I would not have seen Anna.

  My cane echoed in the confines of the alleyway; a reminder of events best left forgotten. But serving a valuable purpose, nonetheless. I pushed Miss Cassidy to the back of my mind.

  Blackie looked up from where he’d been watching the good doctor, offering a salute and returning his attention to the kneeling man. The victim, Margaret Thorley, lay forlornly in amongst the filth and detritus of a wharf side hiding hole. The light from various lanterns painting her complexion a ghostly grey.

  “Witnesses?” I asked, involuntarily comparing the roughness of Drummond’s movements to the practised sleek motions of Anna.

  “None have come forward, sir,” Blackmore offered. “I’ve got Constable Mackey doing the rounds outside.”

  “And here?” I enquired. “Cause of death?”

  “Obvious, I’d say,” Drummond declared gruffly. “The wound to the carotid did it.”

  “And the strangulation?” I queried. “Contributing factor or not?”

  Drummond sat back on his haunches, blood coating his shirt sleeves, his drooping moustache framing dour lips. His hands shook ever so slightly.

  “You noticed that, then?” he pressed. The question had multiple hidden meanings.

  “Bruising around the neck,” I offered, holding the man’s stare with an equally hard one in return.

  “Loss of blood trumps loss of breath,” he said succinctly.

  “She bled out, then,” Blackie offered. A failed attempt to heat the chill that had invaded the small space.

  “Quite,” Drummond conceded, returning his attention to the lass.

  “She also fought back,” I commented, searching the ground for the scuff marks Anna had indicated. I found them, right where the doctor was kneeling. “Did you get a good look at this scene, Blackmore?” I enquired.

  He knew what I meant. I didn’t have to say it. His eyes met mine and he shook his head, guilt and frustration marring his crooked features.

  “The lanterns arrived with the doctor,” he said. It wasn’t an excuse, but he was using it.

  I let him. I’d left the scene for personal reasons; reasons that should not exist at all.

  I shouldn’t let them.

  We’d both made mistakes.

  “What else can you tell me that I don’t already know?” I demanded of Drummond.

  He offered a glance in my direction, unimpressed, but answered all the same.

  “It happened quickly,” he announced as he pushed to his feet unsteadily. One could attribute his imbalanced state to the close confines of the alleyway. But we all knew differently.

  If he wasn’t in such good standing with the superintendent, he would have been tossed over long ago.

  “No time afforded to sully the lady,” he added.

  “You think it his intention?” Blackmore asked immediately.

  “Why else her? Why such a young chit? It’s what the Ripper would have done.”

  “Leave speculation as to the murderer’s identity to us, Doctor,” I ordered. “What of the speed of the attack? How can you be sure?”

  “Frenzied,” Drummond explained. “No thought in placement. The carotid puncture was just demmed lucky.”

  “A passionate affair?” I wondered aloud.

  “That or loss of faculties,” the doctor surmised.

  “So, we’re looking for a big, strong oaf who has lost his marbles.” Trust Balckie to sum it all up so eloquently.

  “Someone powerful enough to lift Miss Thorley up with one hand, while he stabbed her frantically with the other,” I concluded.

  “Who said anything about holding her aloft?” Drummond argued. “The strength required would be incomprehensible.”

  “The direction of flow to the blood on her clothes,” I offered.

  “What direction of flow?” the doctor queried, and then abruptly stilled. “Damnation, man! Was she here? On my scene? Already?”

  “Check the flow’s direction, Doctor,” I instructed.

  He grumbled incoherently as he crouched down to determine the answer.

  “You know,” he said more clearly, as he lifted cloth and shone the lantern light upon it. “She is a menace, that woman.”

  I forced myself not to reply. But Blackmore’s eyes bore into the side of my skull; the pressure of his disagreeable gaze almost enough to o
pen my mouth for me.

  “Well I never,” Drummond suddenly declared. “The blood does appear to have fallen towards her feet.”

  We all looked at the supine woman.

  “What position had she been found in?” he asked. “Sitting, propped up, perchance?”

  I straightened my back, tapped my cane on the ground just once, and turned around. My answer was delivered over my shoulder; I did not bother to look back.

  “On her side, Doctor. Head at the same level as her toes.”

  Blackie followed me from the alley, nodding permission to the constables holding the stretcher to enter.

  “That is, of course, sir,” he said, coming abreast of me. “If Miss Cassidy didn’t move the body before we arrived.”

  “She wouldn’t have,’ I said with absolute conviction. “Contamination of the crime scene is her pet bugbear.”

  “And yet you cuffed her for doing so earlier,” the sergeant commented under his breath.

  I turned on him sharply. Making him pull himself to full height; meeting my challenge face on.

  “I had her cuffed, as you put it,” I bit out between gritted teeth, “for attempting to pull the wool over my eyes.”

  “Right, sir,” the insolent sod replied.

  “Right,” I reiterated.

  He just offered a short nod of his head. His face stoic, devoid of humour. His eyes anything but.

  “We have a murderer to find,” I said quietly. The words, though, carried. Blackmore straightened and looked suitably chagrined.

  “Where to, sir?”

  I looked around the small square, my eyes landing on the stage.

  “Did the deputy mayor make an appearance?” I asked.

  Blackmore pulled his ever present notebook out and flicked through his earlier scratchings.

  “He was not one of those questioned upon our arrival.”

  “That’s not to say he wasn’t here and then left,” I countered.

  “Indeed, sir. Do we make a visit?”

  I contemplated the repercussions of such a move. I wasn’t opposed to questioning the man, but so soon after the event would send a message to the council cronies that we could do to avoid for now. Recent native unrest in Northland had left the nation on tenterhooks. The push for temperance and prohibition was only clouding the issue. And the maritime strikes of 1890 were still so very fresh in everyone’s minds. The Police Force had borne the brunt and the mayor’s office had ensured it stayed that way.