“Why cover your tracks but place yourself so close to a police inspector?” Anna enquired.
“He is toying with us,” I surmised.
“Or part of him does indeed wish to be caught. Stopped.”
I turned to look at her. I did not believe she was that trusting of human nature. Anna had seen her share of the depravity that exists. Her assessment was purely from a psychological standpoint. Her innate ability to understand mankind.
“The escalation of the crime is concerning,” she said. “Mary Bennett is not so strapping as to offer much resistance. But carrying her body in the darkness of pre-dawn, and placing it in such a difficult to access position, would require strength of a degree.”
“I could manage such a feat.” The unsaid being, even with my disability. Miss Bennett was a mouse of a woman. Small framed, but fully clothed. It would be difficult, but I could accomplish such a deed.
Anna looked over at me, assessing my size and build impartially. She was completely the physician now. Trained as she was by her father and not a university.
“He took care with this one,” she declared. “The slicing of the cheeks, diagonally from the corner of the mouth, matches on both sides. A mirror image. The knife would have been small, but sharp. The slices made with one hand while the other held the skin flat; to avoid puckers or blemishes in the incision.
“Her thigh is also sliced,” she added. “Deeply, but only on one side. This wound was done while the victim was still alive, perhaps while they grappled. It would have bled profusely. Her clothing, although saturated with blood, has not stained the ground beneath it. However, the murderer would not have missed that fate.”
She looked back at the alley, thoughts and extrapolations flashing in her bright eyes.
“He sliced her thigh while she fought; while she was conscious enough to retaliate,” she said in summation. “She would have bled out quickly.”
“Is that the cause of death?” I enquired. It sounded almost accidental. The rest a post-script, delivered when emotions were not running so high.
“I cannot determine that here, but Drummond will at his surgery. He might also determine if the knife used on the thigh is the same as that used on the face. I would hazard a guess it is not.”
“Guesses don’t catch criminals.”
“No, Inspector, they do not. You need to have this body removed to the surgery and a complete post-mortem examination done within the hour. Rigor mortis will hinder certain discoveries.”
I was sure that last was Anna’s way of showing her pique.
“The stomach,” I said, returning her to her findings; as rudimentary as they had to be. “A departure from the original crime which could prove troublesome to link.”
“You may have two killers on the loose,” she agreed, lifting her face to the approaching sound of cart wheels.
I looked over toward Custom House Street, picking out Blackmore and Constable Mackey at the front of the vehicle. I wasn’t sure what had befallen them when Blackie had confronted the constable; my assumption was the superintendent being within earshot. I sighed. Blackie would suffer enough guilt for the both of them. Well aware of the need for discretion.
“Of course,” Anna continued, still musing, offering a distracted wave in return to Blackmore’s greeting. “He could have just heard the cries at the first murder scene.”
“Cries?” I enquired as the cart came to a stop several feet away. Blackmore and Mackey alighting, the latter hanging back uncertainly.
“‘The Ripper is here,’” Anna explained, making Constable Mackey cross himself and Sergeant Blackmore suck in a sharp breath of air, puffing his chest out in a defensive manoeuvre I’d seen him effect a time or two before now.
“Was that a cry at the first scene?” I enquired.
“Repeatedly,” Anna offered.
“Then it is worse than I feared,” I said.
“It is that, sir,” Blackie offered. “The reporters are picketing the Station.”
I opened my mouth to extol my disapproval, but remembered at the last moment that a lady was here.
“Well, that does make the necessity to keep this one as quiet as possible more imperative,” I remarked instead.
Anna ignored my statement, continuing with her assessment of the scene. “If he heard the cries and is emulating the Ripper,” she said, “then we can assume he was present for some time at the first murder scene.”
I looked down at the petite woman beside me, once again dumbfounded at her astute observational skills. A tenuous link, but a profound one.
“He hung around, then, the bludger,” Blackie announced.
“Long enough to be affected by the crowd’s upset,” Anna remarked.
“So who, exactly, was there?” I asked.
We’d been over this. The street had been crowded; the Suffragettes offering a draw for many that morning. And the protest rally, mixed in with the election speech, meant all manner of walks of life were milling upon Queen Street.
“The person you’re looking for is tall and strong,” Anna suggested.
“Big like a shadow and lost all his marbles,” Blackie offered.
“Carries himself like pugilist,” I clarified.
“And knows how to wield a knife.” Anna again. She looked back into the depths of the alley, her face a mask of frustration and desire. She wanted at that body. She wanted to discover its secrets. Being denied was eating her insides.
“Drummond will be here soon,” I said quietly. “Constable, cordon off the street at Custom House end. Don’t let anyone through here who hasn’t been invited.”
“Yes, sir,” Mackey replied, tipping his hat at Anna and hurrying off to the end of the street.
“Sergeant, take my curricle and return Miss Cassidy to her home, if you would.”
“Of course, sir.” He walked off some distance allowing me a last moment of privacy with Anna.
“And you?” she asked, returning her soiled glove to her bare hand and then reaching down to her parasol where it leaned against a wall. She’d attempted to wipe the evidence clean, but blood smeared her fingertips and palm, coating her clothes in a dark crimson. She was a sight, my Anna. My scarlet Suffragette. Delightfully regardless of propriety.
And not mine. A fact I must not forget.
“I will canvas the immediate area,” I replied. “Police work, Miss Cassidy. The case will require more than just the physical assessment of the crime.”
It was a harsh way to remind her, that although her talents and skills were formidable, they were not the entirety of what would be required to solve these murders. I needed to do my work now. And she needed to go home.
“And we are back to Miss Cassidy again,” she said without rancour.
To me, she would always be Anna. But perhaps that was the problem.
I twisted my cane in my hand and then tapped it on the ground as a reminder. To her. To me. To the whole damned world. Some things were not meant to be.
And some things would be lost to us for eternity.
“Very good, Inspector,” she offered, her shoulders back, her parasol open and offering suitable cover. She looked a picture.
If one failed to note the blood.
She walked a few feet away, my eyes seemingly drawn to her form irrevocably. I wanted her to turn back. She didn’t.
But she did whisper over her shoulder, “Find him. Please find him, Inspector.”
And for once, I wished she’d call me something other. For once, I wished to her I was simply Andrew. Her Andrew.
Like she was simply my Anna… In every way but reality.
Nine
To Equality!
Anna
I entered the hall at precisely two-thirty. Anger still wrapping itself securely about my frame. My movements were stiff, my back straight. My eyes glinting with suppressed ire.
Sergeant Blackmore had been quiet on the ride to my home, thankfully; aware I was raging inside and respecting my need for
silence. But sleep had still not come easily this morning, after he’d returned me to Franklin Street with such studious care. Anger is not so easy to quieten.
To be so close to participating on a case and have it stolen from within my grasp was unconscionable. I could hardly blame Inspector Kelly. But then, it was easy to turn my irritation towards the man.
Chalmers I could never accost, but the inspector? That was an entirely other thing.
Still, crossing paths with him was unlikely to occur here. At a Suffragette meeting.
I looked about the room at the twenty or so women who had faithfully attended. Mrs Ethel Poynton stood centre stage at the front of two rows of neatly lined chairs, holding court as only she seemed capable. Wilhelmina offered a brief squeeze of my hand and then made a beeline for her friend, Helen Nelson, leaving me to my own devices.
I hadn’t told her. I hadn’t told anyone, not even Ethel Poynton. Inspector Kelly wanted the second murder to remain out of the papers. Announcing to the women present, that another Suffragette had been brutally slaughtered, wouldn’t affect that outcome. He was right, panic would ensue.
But they needed to be cautious. They needed to be aware that their activities could bring them harm. I had to warn them.
I sucked in a deep breath of air and approached Mrs Poynton.
“We will not let poor Margaret’s demise sway us from our chosen path to light and freedom,” Ethel was saying to the small group of women who surrounded her. “Margaret would not have wanted us to miss this opportunity. It is sad enough that her demise caused a delay in presenting our petition to the deputy mayor. But to be dilatory now, for the sake of respecting the dead, would be an unforgivable sin against all she held so dearly.”
Margaret had believed in what we were fighting for, but she had hardly been a staunch supporter. Her idea of equality for women went only so far as being heard, having a say. She didn’t believe in prohibition. Nor was she so inclined to march for temperance within society. Margaret wanted the vote. If we could attain it. Outside of that, she was the most contented housewife I’d ever seen.
“If anything,” Ethel went on, “we should do this for Margaret. For her sacrifice. For her memory.”
“For Margaret,” someone repeated.
“For Margaret!” another picked up the cry. Soon the room was murmuring the words in a synchronous chorus, voices rising rapidly to the rafters, hands fisted above their heads in a show of determined power.
Ethel could rouse a sleeping nursery to riot. Her eyes flashed in the sunlight filtering in through the windows of the hall. She watched on with an ill-disguised pride at her dedicated followers. Pleasure lifting the corner of her lips into a thin smile. If we ever did win the vote for women, I wasn’t sure what Ethel Poynton’s next rabble-rousing goal might be.
I was certain, however, that I did not want to know. But I did believe in the Suffragettes. And not all of them were members of the movement for the thrill of a protest rally or the chance to raise their voices against men. These were my sisters-in-arms. These were my friends. There were good people here, in amongst those like Ethel Poynton. Women like Wilhelmina and Helen, here for a show of support more than a chance to shout out their convictions. I couldn’t leave without at least attempting to curtail some of the enthusiasm Ethel was wont to inspire.
We needed to tread carefully. Ever forward, but with all due care.
I stepped through the throng that surrounded Mrs Poynton and waited for the voices to die down. Thankfully Ethel wasn’t encouraging them further. The show she’d received was clearly enough for right now.
“It might be wise if we move forward with caution,” I announced, and was immediately frowned upon by the woman in question.
“Nonsense, Miss Cassidy,” Ethel said with a self assured air. “Caution of what? That they won’t hear our words?”
Several voices tittered with their agreement, but I forged on.
“Margaret’s death was a tragic occurrence,” I started.
“Perhaps one we could use to our advantage,” Ethel interrupted.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked, unsure if I’d heard her correctly or not.
“You have said it yourself in the past, Anna Cassidy,” Ethel announced, and I cringed internally at what words of mine she’d now misrepresent. “No event should be overlooked. No opportunity lost. Those were your words, were they not? The right to vote is more important than us. More important than anything.”
“I did not infer that our safety should be overlooked.”
A hard hand firmly gripped my wrist and pulled me several feet away from the suddenly hushed gathering of women. Only now putting Margaret’s death together with the fact that she’d been on a Suffragette rally. A coincidence it could well be, but with Mary’s demise this morning, I was wont to disagree.
I didn’t have all the answers. And I couldn’t back up my fears here today. I was silenced, as much as the newspapers. More so even, because failure to keep Mary’s death out of public purview would forever condemn my chances of being chief surgeon in Inspector Kelly’s eyes. He may have argued my methods on occasion. Shown outright support of Drummond’s role. But I knew, if he could, he would back me.
I just needed to be patient and wait for my chance.
I saw Suffrage as being that opportunity.
The world was about to change dramatically, but that did not mean we should rush head first into the abyss without wariness.
Not now. Not with two women dead on the street.
But I couldn’t say any of this to Ethel Poynton. Who rounded on me now with a dire look upon her face.
“What in the blazes are you doing now, Anna Cassidy?” she demanded. “Sowing fear where fear need not be. You spend your days in the entrails of society’s most immoral and think to cast that disgusting hue upon everything.”
“You don’t understand the importance of caution, Mrs Poynton,” I tried.
“Are we not cautious?” she growled. “Do we not protest in groups? Attend meetings in the light of day? How much more would you have us do, Miss Cassidy? Not put our signatures to petitions for fear the ink would poison or the paper would cut or the pen would stab through our hearts? Your fears are the imaginings of an overwrought physician. You work too hard. You need to take a break.”
I needed nothing of the sort; she was grandstanding.
“Margaret was attending a protest rally, in the light of broad day,” I pointed out.
“A mere unfortunate coincidence. Her death was a matter of convenience and nothing more.”
“How can you say that, when you know nothing of the police report?”
“And you do? Have they let you back in their sanctified surgery? Have you won another victory for our cause?”
I shook my head, frustrated at her stubborn reluctance to countenance the possibility of danger. Bitterness at her use of my greatest weakness against me left a sour taste upon my tongue.
“We cannot ignore the fact that Margaret was harmed whilst in the position of a Suffragette,” I explained carefully. If I wasn’t careful, I was likely to shout. “Perhaps a coincidence…”
“There, you admit it yourself!”
“…but I think not.”
“You think too much, Anna Cassidy. Leave the thinking to your surgery and the planning of our movement to me.”
“Mrs Poynton,” I insisted. “Just warn the women, please.”
“No, Anna. That’s enough. You’ll have them frightened into their homes, doors barred, and our rallies deserted.”
“Perhaps we should consider cutting back on our protests,” I tried.
“Absolutely not. And I’ll not have you putting such palaver into any of these girls’ heads. We must keep marching forward. We must not give up now. Not with the elections so close at hand.”
It was useless. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t talk to Wilhelmina and Helen, at the very least. Perhaps a few others I knew I could trust.
“Are we done
here?” Ethel Poynton enquired.
I nodded my head, receiving one last warning glare from the woman, and then she brushed past me and returned to her sycophants.
I stood still for a moment longer, staring at the wooden floor and uttering a silent prayer. When I looked up, my eyes scanned the room for Mina and in the process noted how doomed my attempts here were. Wilhelmina and Helen stood off to the side, thankfully. But every other Suffragette I could have considered warning, outside of Ethel’s purview, was too deeply entrenched in Mrs Poynton’s circle. Not one other woman stood apart from the group that doggedly surrounded our leader.
She ruled this movement. I had to be grateful for her energy and determination, the verve she exhibited that so often inspired the rest. But sometimes Ethel Poynton was our weakest link; the thorn in our side that slowly bled.
For a second, I considered telling them everything. For a second, I contemplated going against Inspector Kelly’s orders. But my father had been most persistent in this matter. Think of the greater good, he’d said. Save one or save them all. Panic would cause more damage than not. I had to hope that Ethel was right; we did take precautions. And I had to hope those precautions would be enough.
But as I crossed the hall to Wilhelmina and Helen, I couldn’t help thinking that those precautions had not helped Margaret. And as for Mary, what the devil had she been doing in Mechanics Bay?
And even if my assessment had been correct, and she had been moved there, where had she been prior? At home? On the main street buying her groceries? Doing absolutely nothing related to the Suffragettes?
Was there a connection? Or was this just my mind trying to make a link between two things that were not? I prayed Inspector Kelly was better at determining that answer than I was. I prayed that he’d uncover the murderer before the day was out.
“That looked rather heated, cousin,” Wilhelmina said softly, offering me a cup of hot tea and a biscuit from a nearby table. Perhaps the true reason for their being so far from the rabble.
“When is it not with our dear Mrs Poynton?” Helen enquired.
“Darling Helen,” I said, sipping my tea. “I thank you for not thinking that of me.”
Fearless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 1): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series Page 7