Change was not such an easy thing for a society to accept.
My eyes flicked across the square to a pile of discarded sandwich boards. Even in the dim light of the gas lamps I could discern partial phrases.
Votes for women!
Are women citizens? If not why not?
A fearless indomitable womanhood - A fearless indomitable race.
“Not yet,” I murmured, my eyes scanning the now deserted street. Too much agitation was an explosion in the making. Like a build up of coal gas in a mine, you couldn’t see it, you couldn’t touch it, but, by God, you knew it was coming.
Something was coming.
Shadows lurked in the corners as my eyes adjusted to the various levels of evening light. The sounds of the odd ship at the wharves gently floated on the breeze. Sea salt air mixed with more nefarious scents. Singing and carousing from public houses farther up Queen Street fought for purchase over the more base celebrations nearer the dockyard in Mechanics Bay.
“Quite a central area,” I commented. “The foot traffic could have encompassed any number of people, from any walk of life.”
“True, sir,” Blackie agreed. “You’ve got the bankers and commercial outlets farther up the street. There’s fishermen and tourists, shoppers and the Suffragettes.”
Yes, the Suffragettes.
“Any number of ‘em could have witnessed something and scarpered from the scene,” he concluded.
“But who would have seen in that alleyway? And not been observed by the murderer?”
Blackmore turned slowly and looked first at the entranceway to the alley, where Margaret Thorley’s body was just now being removed. And swung back around to stare at the stage. Still erected, but never used. I wondered if the deputy mayor planned to reschedule his speech. Elections were only a few short weeks away.
Hence the Suffragettes.
“There is something, sir,” Blackie said softly.
I turned to look at him; this man I trusted above all others.
“Out with it then,” I encouraged.
“Mechanics Bay,” he said with mounting frustration. “We have to scour the dockyard, sir.”
Five
How Strange
Anna
The night had been a long and arduous one. And yet sleep was not an option. I paced the surgery, the fire crackling in the hearth the only accompaniment to the click of my heels upon wood.
Wilhelmina had retired hours ago; exhausted, bereft, frightened.
I so wanted to soothe her fears, but knew I could not.
Margaret Thorley was dead, and despite my skills and the presence of so many on Queen Street at that time, she had been savagely attacked. The thought of that woman fending off such blows, terrified for her life, and not succeeding, was almost too much to bear.
I glanced across the room to my preparation table, eyeing the bottle of Laudanum. I had hoped to have avoided its necessity last night, but Mina had been inconsolable.
I slumped down in a chair I kept beside the fire; a good position to read late into the night. Journals and medical texts lay on the side table, a letter from the London School Of Medicine For Women sat next to them, a candle leaned crookedly in amongst a pile of melted wax. I didn’t light it. I couldn’t concentrate long enough to read.
How had this happened? Why had it happened at all?
The Ripper is here.
I don’t believe in fairy tales, but equally I do not maintain that the devil exists. There are bad people and good people. There are some capable of unimaginable evil, and those who would choose to do right. I’d like to think I fit somewhere on the better half of that spectrum.
Margaret met someone on the opposite end tonight.
I had faith that Inspector Kelly would follow the clues; would attempt to solve this crime. Drummond was sufficient in expertise to perform an adequate post-mortem, despite his penchant for gin. And Sergeant Blackmore was a most dedicated policeman. He would not let this lie; just as his superior would not either.
But still I could not sleep.
My father, had he been alive, would have been at the police station, performing the examination of Margaret’s body. He may have insisted I remain distanced, both emotionally and physically. But I’d like to think he would have acted as the scientist he was and allowed me entrance to the surgery itself.
Be it what it would, I’d have been in his office at the station, reading articles and case studies, wiling away the hours within feet of the action.
I missed it. But more importantly, I needed it. Inaction was ever my downfall.
My skirts rustled as I abruptly stood up again, my shoes making a loud tick-tick sound as I crossed the room.
It was no use, I had do something. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Dawn was mere minutes away. There was no good time for what I was contemplating doing, but daylight at least gave the illusion of safety. I pulled my coat from the hall cupboard, checked my pockets for all the necessary tools, and satisfied with my arsenal, gripped my parasol in my gloved hands, and strode out of my home.
I paused on the sidewalk, deciding whether to saddle a horse or not. The dockyard was a good distance away, but if I was lucky, a hansom cabriolet might be available on Wellesley Street. And the thought of taking a mount where I was going seemed ill advised. I wasn’t thinking of escape. My mind was on disappearing.
Luck had me securing a hired conveyance within yards of my home, although not the more modern hansom I’d been hoping for. The shabbily dressed driver was nevertheless unimpressed with my choice of destination. But within minutes, the sun cresting the horizon, dousing Rangitoto Island in rich red flames, I was alighting at the edge of Mechanics Bay.
“Are you sure, you want off here, miss?” the driver asked, his hands fisting tightly on his reins.
“Very,” I replied, pulling my coat closer and taking a step away.
“I know this area,” the driver persisted. “And it’s not fit for the likes of you.”
“I appreciate your concern, sir, but I must find a child.”
He scratched at his beard, eyes narrowed in concentration.
“Lots of orphans hang ‘round here. Seen ‘em a time or two.”
At least I was in the right place, then.
I was about to ask for directions, when the driver added, “Seen what them gangs they belong to carry, as well.”
“Carry?”
“Knives, miss.” Of course. And yet that ragamuffin had been in shock. “Best you think twice on this venture,” the driver added.
I sucked in a breath and straightened my back.
“Your warning has been heeded,” I announced. “Thank you.”
He gave a shrug of his shoulders and a grunt towards the horse, and then the hackney sped away. As if the driver wanted nothing more than to vacate the place. I glanced around, noting the closed warehouses, grime filled windows, and the scent of flour on the still damp air. A recent delivery, no doubt.
Noises could be heard farther into the dockyard area itself. Boats shifting. Wood creaking. The harsh clash of broken glass.
I jumped slightly. Then cursed myself internally. Gripping my parasol tighter, I strode off toward the thick of it.
Urine. Salt. Rotten fish. The tang of alcohol and something sweeter. Cloying, then swiftly disappearing as the burnt smell of tarred ropes met my nose. My boots splashed through murky puddles, the hem of my skirt unavoidably dragging through muck and dirt. The chill of the early morning air seeped through my cloak, making me feel too restricted in my layers of petticoats and too tight corset.
I rounded a corner, having not met a soul for several minutes, and came face to face with two young men.
“Hey, Johnny. Look at this!” the one still standing exclaimed.
Johnny, for his part, was a little under the weather.
“Gentlemen,” I said in way of greeting. Neither offered me their hat.
“Hear that, John? She likes us for gentlemen.”
; I smiled pleasantly, having dealt with the likes of these men a time or two. My services are not so much in demand that I can turn down the needy. Regardless of their place on society’s map.
“I’m looking for a young lad,” I announced. “Perhaps you can help me.”
“We’re both young ‘n strapping, missus.” The one still standing slapped his chest, straightening his shoulders in a show of prowess.
The one on the ground blinked up owlishly, his pupils almost non-existent.
It wasn’t alcohol that tampered with these men, but something far more insidious.
I crouched down, bringing my body and face closer to the poor sod on the ground, and inhaled deeply. That cloying, sweet smell, mixed with smoke invaded my nostrils.
“Good night, was it?” I enquired.
“Looks like it might be gettin’ better,” the man still standing said, as he moved courageously away from his prop against the dirty brick wall he’d been leaning against, and started to herd me.
I kept my face tilted towards the man on the ground, but left his staggering friend in my periphery.
“You need to drink water,” I advised. “Lots of it. Preferably with a pinch of permanganate of potassium thrown in.”
“What?”
“Potash, gentlemen. It will help with the opium.”
“Who says we need help?” The man’s tone had changed. His movements now all but stilled. Without a wall to lean against or momentum to keep him going he began to sway.
I stood up from my crouch, dismissing the man on the ground, and rounded to face the speaker.
“No one says you need anything,” I said carefully. “But the tincture will aid in your recovery. When you’re ready,” I quickly added, as his face began to cloud and his fists clenched at his sides.
I suddenly realised the enormous potential for mishap. Not that I wasn’t capable of handling these two men in their current opiate clouded state. But the longer this altercation took, the more chance the child would have roused for his day. Losing him from Mechanics Bay was not an option. Auckland was a sprawling city, there were many places for him to hide.
And I was sure he was here. So I needed to act quickly.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a card, then held it out for the still swaying man.
“My surgery is in the city,” I said. “Should you require a measure of potash, or any other medical need for that matter, you can find me there.”
He stared at the card, dumbfounded, at a guess. His next words confirmed as much.
“Are you mad? Giving me your address?” His eyes came up and searched my face, then with hazy vision assessed my state of dress and person.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“I ain’t telling you my name, missus.”
“Mine is Anna.” I stretched out my hand for him to take. “Dr Anna Cassidy.”
“Doctor,” he said softly. “Whatcha doing here?”
I didn’t remind him that we’d already had this conversation. His moment of clarity could well have been short lived.
“I’m looking for a young child; a boy. Seven or eight years old; nimble, wily, spends time in and around Queen Street, but resides here.”
“There’s many,” the man said, not reaching for my hand to shake, but taking the card and fingering it. He stared at it for a long time, and then looked down at his fallen companion.
They looked alike, I realised. Brothers, I should think. Hard up for work. A little desperate. I knew what desperate men could do. I’d seen the results first hand. I’d dissected them.
I also knew what compassion and non-judgement can sometimes achieve. I was betting a lot on the latter.
“You need to leave, Doc,” the man said, still fingering the card and staring down at his brother. “This ain’t no place for a lady.”
“I can’t,” I offered. “Lives may depend on me finding this boy.”
“What’s he done, then?”
“Nothing,” I rushed to assure. It would do no good for these men to locate the child and persecute him for crimes he hadn’t committed. “But he may known something of someone who has done wrong. A grave wrong. The worst.”
Bloodshot eyes flicked up to my face, sweat beading along his brow now. He was working hard to stay upright. Harder still to follow the conversation. Opium may well be the means of delivery for so many, but I knew its tentacles had claws. And once trapped within them, escape was often futile.
“You can’t stay here,” he pleaded. “There’s no help for you, should you need it. Not here, miss.”
I took a gamble; stepping forward and wrapping my fingers around the man’s hand, looking up into shadows of madness, reflected in deep pools of brown.
“If I leave, there may be more in need of help,” I said urgently. “If I stay, I may prevent it.”
He would kill again. I was sure of it. Margaret had no enemies. She did not deserve this fate. Was she a crime of convenience? Or was it more? There had to be more. I couldn’t countenance that her death had been for naught.
The man looked down at his fallen brother, then quickly glanced around the narrow street we were on. He pocketed the card, and then gripped my hand more firmly.
“Johnny,” he said, already leading me away. “You stay ‘ere. I won’t be long.”
I tripped after him, realising he was larger than I had at first thought. His stride matched two of mine. Against the wall, he had not seemed so fearsome. Out in the open, moving as swiftly and silently as he was, told another story entirely.
Survival on the streets could make warriors of some.
I glanced up at him, from the corner of my eye. Taking in the hard set of his jaw, the shifting way his gaze moved from shadowed corner to shadowed corner. His head tipped to the side, listening, and then he came to an abrupt stop. One finger of his free hand slowly moved to cover his mouth.
“Shhh,” he whispered. I hadn’t made a sound, but I didn’t pass comment.
My ears rang as I tried to make sense of little noises. A thumping could be heard - or was it felt? - from farther away. I glanced down into a puddle off to the side and watched the ripples move outwards in a rhythmic manner. Matching the strange drumbeat I seemed to feel as much as hear.
What was that? A boat in the dockyard?
The man pulled me back into the shadows, but no one appeared to be approaching. He panted for his next breath, running a grubby sleeve across his brow to catch the sweat. His skin looked sallow, the rising sun, hidden behind high buildings, painting him a jaundiced hue. His lids lowered, his body slumped. He couldn’t go much farther.
“It’s just over there, Doc,” he whispered, nodding towards the other side of a small opening, now doused in early morning sunshine. “They’ll be winding up soon. Dock workers are due to start just after seven.”
I pulled a watch from my pocket and checked the time. It was indeed minutes shy of six-thirty.
“Are the children in there?” I whispered back, trying to discern movement behind a warehouse window.
“They come ‘n go,” he said, sliding down the wall of a building. “Good spot to pilfer.”
Cutpurses. No doubt the child’s reason for being under the stage.
“They steal from the dock workers?”
The man laughed tiredly. His head lolling to the side, his eyelids now fully closed.
“Ain’t no dock workers in there, missus. Just the lost souls.”
I looked on as he passed out, his breathing shallow, but steady. As full unconsciousness claimed him, I helped him down onto his side, ensuring his airway was clear should he feel the need to vomit. For a moment, I just crouched there. Watching a stranger succumb to narcosis.
It hadn’t always been a stranger I had crouched above.
I let a long breath of air out, running my hands down the length of my skirt. They felt damp even within the confines of their gloves. I stood up and looked across the courtyard. The thumping beat had stopped. Voices could be he
ard in hushed whispers from some distance away. Light had begun to shine out of windows in neighbouring warehouses. The wheels of a carriage or cart clattered over a roadway. Within minutes the sinister air of Mechanics Bay had been replaced with the harsh reality of a working port.
Too late. The boy would have long gone. I knew this, but still I reached down and picked up my parasol, then ventured out of the shadows and into the day. The sun was weak, but brightening. The grime I’d looked upon by waning moonlight was now fully visible and layered in shades of grey.
I crossed the small square we’d come upon, and pushed up onto the tip of my toes, peering into the warehouse the opium addict had indicated. Nothing was discernible through the soot on the glass, but a door opened along the wall some few feet away. Several locks releasing, the groan of a heavy bar being lifted.
I froze.
A tall man walked out, dressed dandily. Crisp linen shirt, extravagant cravat at his neck, brightly coloured, square-cut waistcoat beneath his quilted outer pea jacket. He wore a stylish top hat and carried a cane in kid glove covered hands. He spotted me before I could make myself move. One hand on the windowsill, balancing myself whilst up on the toes of my shoes. The other clutching my parasol.
“Can I help you, madam?” he asked, lifting his hat in greeting.
I knew him and, for the life of me, I could not fathom why he would be here.
“Mr Entrican,” I replied, finally finding the wherewithal to move away from the window.
“Do I know you?” he asked, a pleasant smile gracing his features as his eyes trailed the length of my dress.
I forced myself not to fidget.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” I managed, my mind racing, trying to find meaning where there was not.
I’d hazard a guess that the warehouse was an opium den during the night hours. The orphaned boy running pockets for his gang, just as my helpful addict had suggested. Opium was common enough, even considered de rigueur within the fashionable set. My personal dislike of the drug not withstanding, the deputy mayor had every right to partake.
Fearless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 1): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series Page 4