Heartless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 3): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series

by Nicola Claire

  “Be that as it may,” I offered, “this is an act and nothing more.”

  “Is it?” he murmured, his eyes back on the passengers who were waiting for the eight o’clock train out of the station.

  I decided silence was my best option and turned my attention elsewhere. The ladies who were attending the Cup race today were dressed to the nines. Golds and greens were the order of the day, gone the aquas and fuchsias of yesteryear. Replaced with a shimmering display of lace and satin, shot through with glimmering threads, not unlike fine metals. The overall effect was one of regal opulence. Despite the recession, the approach of the twentieth century was creating a sense of excitement and prosperity. A new century meant a new lease on life.

  I studied a gentleman off to the side. His long coat was fitted to perfection in an opulent green to match his lady companion’s outerwear. His cravat was a rich crimson, his waistcoat gold. His top hat black. His stovepipe trousers were white by contrast, making the overall look quite dapper. My eyes slid from the spectacle before me to the inspector at my side. Although he wore a fine velvet long coat in a dark blue, he had not opted for the more risqué white trousers. His were a caramel colour, tucked into fine knee-high leather boots.

  “Do I meet with your expectations?” he enquired.

  I blushed, having been caught out in my observations.

  “You are quite presentable, Inspector,” I offered.

  He huffed out a laugh and said, “And you are a vision in gilded lace.”

  I shook my head at his obvious teasing tone and watched as various couples boarded the waiting train. It was not set to depart for another few minutes, so there were still a fair number of passengers standing on the platform. Some in deep conversation as others merely wished to be admired and seen.

  It was as much a race for horses as it was for the ton, I believed.

  The inspector and I stood to one side by mutual agreement, not rushing to board the carriage. Much could be garnered from listening in on casual conversation. However, I was not interested in the latest fashions nor did I care for who was courting whom.

  But as a group of foppish young men walked by in animated conversation, the topic du jour became, if not puzzling, more inclined to catch my interest.

  “They say it’s vampires,” a particularly roguish looking man announced. “The same ones to have been spotted in America!”

  “Nonsense,” another man exclaimed. “Vampires are from Europe, not the New World. I have an uncle who has travelled through Transylvania, and he said the place is rife with folklore.”

  “This is not folklore,” one more of the group offered. “We have three dead bodies that say as much. How do you account for those?”

  “Vampires,” the first gentleman said succinctly. The others all nodded their heads and then boarded.

  “What complete hogwash,” I said to the inspector.

  He narrowed his eyes after the group of men and then surprised me by saying, “It fits, does it not? The puncture marks.”

  “Not you too,” I exclaimed. “It is an old wives tale to keep the young and gullible in line of an evening.”

  He turned and looked down at me. “Know you much of vampires, Doctor?”

  “I know as much as the next man, sir. They are figments of an overactive mind and nothing more.”

  “And yet, in New England, there is an anti-vampire party. Pledging themselves to the eradication of the feckless beasts.”

  “Feckless beasts!” I scoffed. “Poppycock!”

  Elliott studied me for a moment and then threw back his head and laughed. “You, madam, are a scientist through and through.” He offered me his arm and nodded toward the carriage. “The train will leave soon. Shall we?”

  “As long as we are not sitting with those nincompoops.”

  “Dr Cassidy,” Elliott said as we climbed aboard the carriage. “You are a breath of fresh air.”

  “I am of sound mind and an above average intelligence, Inspector. That is all.”

  He huffed out an amused breath behind me as he opened the door to our private salon. “And such a forthright one at that.”

  I sat down and ignored the blush that stole over my cheeks. I had spoken too strongly on a topic which more oft than not was found amusing. Sometimes I argued a point that had no right being argued.

  We sat in companionable silence, both eschewing something to eat from the dining car. The Ellerslie Racecourse Platform was only a mere four miles away and as such, aboard a fine engine such as this, our journey would not be a long one.

  “Are you aware of the Johnsons, sir?” I asked as the train finally approached our destination.

  “I have made some enquiries and believe I know of whom you speak.”

  “Are we to approach them first?”

  “They will be pressed for time prior to the Cup race. I believe our best bet is to watch the crowd for Mrs Kelly.”

  I paled at the thought of the woman being there, but if she were indeed a lover of Percheron horses, then would she not be a lover of the races? My gloved hands twisted in my lap as I contemplated that development. I did not know what the woman looked like, but I thought perhaps I would recognise her if I laid eyes on her. She would be English for starters. She would be finely dressed, as I did not believe a mind such as hers would see itself in anything less than the most appropriate outfit for any occasion. She would have intelligent eyes that would miss nothing; which led me to believe she would be watching me. For how could she not be aware of who I was?

  And she would be beautiful.

  I bit my bottom lip and stared out at the station. I was not certain I was ready to face Eliza May Kelly.

  The train jerked to a stop, steam billowing and briefly obscuring my vision out of the window.

  “Shall we wait for everyone to alight?” Inspector Elliott enquired. “Or do you wish to merge with the crowd and thereby miss unwanted observation.”

  How had the man read my mind?

  “I thought our appearance together was to prove we are courting? Should we not be seen for that to work?”

  “The ruse would hardly be a ruse if it were not noticed.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Very well, madam.” He stood, offering me his hand again. I accepted it, gloved as it was, and allowed the inspector to lead me from the salon, through the narrow corridor, and down the steps of the carriage onto the platform.

  The sun shone down on the array of gilded passengers before me. My eyes flicked from one woman to the next, attempting to spot Eliza May. My heart thundered through my veins, and my ears began to buzz. I attempted, futilely, to slow my breathing. I was not ready for this.

  “Are you quite all right, Dr Cassidy?” Elliott asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am fine.”

  “You look pale,” he offered. “Perhaps a rest before we walk the final distance to the racecourse proper?”

  He led me over to the side of the platform and then through the doors of the station itself. There were more people in here, making their way to Mitchelson Street and onto the racecourse. The press of bodies made it harder to breathe. Every woman whose bustle knocked me, or whose parasol obscured my vision, made me suck in a mortified breath of air. Every glint of gold lace or flash of forest green had me turning my head. My temples ached. My throat was parched. I felt lightheaded.

  Elliott led me across the station, elbowing his way through the crowd with only a cursory apology, and out the doors into fresh air. But he did not stop. He turned us away from the throng of stampeding boots and heels, and raucous laughter and loud exclamations, and around the side of the station to a quiet area not much traversed I thought.

  I clutched at my chest as I struggled to breathe, one hand still holding onto the inspector’s arm as if he were a lifeline for me. He moved us farther away from the maddening crowd and into the shadow of the station building. There was a bench seat here, surrounded by boxes and crates that had clearly been delivered to the statio
n itself. What they would have held within them at one time was beyond me.

  I sat down heavily on the seat and attempted to catch my breath, to right myself. My hands shook as they flattened my skirts. My skin felt clammy, and I dreaded to think how awful I must have presented.

  Elliott hovered for a while and then decided I needed a moment to myself and gave me his back. He stood off to the side, closer to the front of the station, facing the rabble that had so discombobulated me. His arms clasped at the base of his back, his legs spread shoulder width apart, his face tipped up, chin lifted, no doubt eyes daring anyone to disturb me. He made a good watchdog.

  I should not have needed one. I was far better than this. My father would have been appalled. And yet, I could not stop thinking of what Eliza May would look like. If I had missed her in that crush. If she had seen the effect she had on me.

  I took a moment to settle my heart rate, to regulate my breathing. I would not scold myself for reacting thus, but I would make sure I never allowed my imagination to get the better of me. Perhaps it was the talk of vampires; creatures of the night who drank the blood of their victims. Perhaps it was the inspector’s words, reminding me that Eliza May Kelly had a fascination for horses and would no doubt be here at Ellerslie.

  Whatever it was, I could not allow myself to be brought so low by a spectre again.

  By her.

  I sucked in a breath of air and prepared to stand, only to knock my parasol over from where it had been closed, resting against the bench seat beside me. It clattered to the ground, garnering Inspector Elliott’s attention, and then rolled under the seat and out the other side.

  “It’s all right,” I said, ashamed at my behaviour. “I just dropped it.”

  “Allow me,” he said, stepping forward.

  Embarrassment had me saying, “No need; I have it.”

  I stepped around a crate and between two boxes, reaching down to uplift my parasol from the ground. The sun’s rays did not quite reach into the darker shadows, but some of its illumination landed on the parasol. And the puddle of water that the blasted thing had fallen into.

  No, I thought as I reached out with a gloved hand and picked the parasol up. Not water, but blood. I stared at my glove for a moment, a sickening sensation creeping through me. Having just completely ruined any chance of the inspector seeing me as a professional woman, I straightened my spine, pushed a crate out of my way, and then peered around a sodden box to what lay behind it.

  I must have made a sound because, in a thrice, the inspector was beside me, his hand on my arm in a warning or to steady me, I did not know, his eyes on the horrifying scene that greeted us.

  “Step back, Doctor,” he said softly.

  “I am a surgeon, sir,” I countered and remained where I was standing.

  “I must call this in,” the inspector advised. He leaned forward. “Is that a uniform he is wearing?”

  “Yes,” I said, my words catching. I cleared my throat. “He is a constable.”

  “Oh, no,” Elliott said quietly. He searched my face. “Do you know this man, Dr Cassidy?”

  Knew him? I had only just yesterday been talking of him.

  “This is Chief Constable Davies of the Auckland Police Force, Inspector. The Chief Constable of the Watch.”

  Inspector Elliott said nothing for a moment and then nodded his head and walked to the end of the station building. I heard him blow his whistle three times as I stared down at a man I had grown up knowing. Who had given me lemon tarts when I visited my father in the police surgery. Who had taught me that lemon mixed with vinegar made an excellent cleaning solution. Who grew the ugliest and yet most delicious lemons in his garden.

  Who I had condemned to death by mentioning him to Barclay Yates yesterday.

  It was too much of a coincidence for that not to be a factor. Too much of a remarkable concurrence of events. I speak of Chief Davies ejecting me from the police station. And Chief Davies turns up at the Ellerslie Racecourse Platform dead.

  Barclay Yates did this.

  I crouched down beside the fallen man and murmured a prayer over his body.

  “I am sorry,” I whispered. “You did not deserve this fate.”

  Tears welled in my eyes as I tried to determine any further clues from his state of distress. He had fought back, I was certain. His knuckles looked bruised. I noted his billy club off to the side. It did not appear to show evidence of having been used. I studied his cheeks, beneath his robust whiskers. The pale skin had not been cut as the Bohemian in my surgery had. I puzzled over this.

  Only one of the Bohemians had worn such a mark. The Northern Club victim had not. And neither did Chief Davies. The Bohemians had been together, the scene where the second one had been found indicated as such. Which led me to believe they had been attacked together. But where one had been incapacitated without needing the distraction of a slash to the cheek, the other had required the added benefit of such.

  The victim on my slab had been murdered second, I concluded. His awareness of what was transpiring required the added cut to distract. The Northern Club gentleman had been alone; caught unawares. And although Chief Davies had fought back, he too had been caught off guard; unable to raise his billy club in time, having to resort to bare knuckles.

  He’d landed a blow, though. I leaned in and peered at the marks on his knuckles. With a quick look over my shoulder to ascertain Inspector Elliott had not yet returned, I moved the Chief’s hand so I could examine his fingernails. No evidence of contact was apparent. Just the knuckles then. One could only hope the chief had landed the blow somewhere obvious. A nose or cheek perhaps?

  I searched the rest of the chief’s body. He was in uniform, so had been sent here to bolster the bobbies on duty for the Cup. Such an excitable crowd would warrant an increase in uniformed presence. I wondered when he had arrived at Ellerslie then? It was still somewhat early in the day; the sun had barely risen when we made it to Newmarket in the city proper this morning. Chief Davies had been here longer than that.

  I slipped a glove off and reached into the pericardial cavity. There was no heart to obscure my progress. Without a mercury thermometer, I could not be precise; however, I could estimate with some manner of expertise. Time of death was a good two to three hours past.

  It would have been dark.

  I stared at the puncture marks. I was certain they would match the measurements taken from the other victims. Two of them with little evidence of blood around the site. They had not caused his death, but they had certainly felled the man.

  I looked at the blood beneath his once pristine uniform. There was enough here to indicate that he had in fact been murdered at this location and not another. I stared at the empty cavity in his chest. At the wound itself in his flesh; small divots indicated where the device had rested upon his thorax.

  The modus operandi was the same.

  I took one final look at the face of the man before me. He may well be naught but a shell now, his spirit ascended to the heavens, but he once was a man. A fine man.

  “Rest in peace, Chief Davies,” I said, for surely his death had not been peaceful.

  I stood up, my body aching, my heart battered and bruised inside my chest, and turned my back on the cadaver. I would not be the one performing the autopsy, and I was not sure if I was indeed happy for that. At one time, I might have fought for the right to do the post-mortem. But guilt lay too heavily upon my shoulders for that.

  I walked to the end of the building and spotted Inspector Elliott handing out orders to several bobbies.

  The sun beat down on my head, and I reached for my parasol, only to note it was covered in bright red blood.

  Barclay Yates had done this.

  A sob escaped me. And then another. Elliott turned, saw my distress, and then rushed to my side.

  His arm wrapped around my shoulders as he curved me into his chest, and held me tight.

  I did not have the strength to deny him. I held him back.


  Thinking of poor Elizabeth. Thinking of what would possess a man, a doctor, do such a thing.

  Thinking of little else.

  For A Second, I Just Stood There

  Inspector Kelly

  Mrs Hardwick was in top form this morning, offering tea and scones immediately upon our unannounced arrival. Constable Mackey looked uncertain of his response, but thankfully his sister appeared more adept at social niceties and accepted the offering with an innate sense of calm.

  I paced over to the fireplace in the parlour and placed my back to the warmth, surveying the constable and his sibling. They were both fair of skin and hair with startling blue eyes. However, Miss Mackey’s did favour her with inordinately long lashes. A plus for any woman in today’s society.

  I noted their clothing. The constable, of course, was in his uniform; cleanly pressed and well presented. His sister was equally as well turned out, but I noticed the wear upon her brocade dress, the slight dulling to areas that would normally shine.

  I shifted my gaze away, lest they note my perusal. George Mackey’s was a large family. This sibling being the eldest of his five sisters and three brothers. Times were not easy for those with such responsibilities.

  Mrs Hardwick bustled back into the parlour with a tray laden with the promised tea and scones. The scent of bergamot wafted from the teapot and made my stomach rumble. None of those present offered comment. With hands wringing, Hardwick stood back and curtsied. She had every intention of leaving us, despite the fact we had called on the Misses Cassidy and neither were present to entertain us.

  “Will Dr Cassidy be joining us?” I enquired before the old woman could make her escape.

  “Dr Cassidy is not home, Inspector.”

  I was momentarily nonplussed. At this hour of the day, I had expected Anna to be home. Where could she be?

  “Will she be returning forthwith?” I asked.