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

by Nicola Claire

  “Mrs Yates,” I said, hoping I could find the words to justify my actions.

  “He didn’t do it,” she spat. “He was corned last night. Do you hear me? Corned! Completely incapable of what you have claimed. If I didn’t know any better, Anna Cassidy, I’d say you were casting light on another to avoid suspicion of yourself. Where were you last night? Where were you when that poor policeman was murdered?”

  Gasps and cries of dismay rang out around the room. I scanned the pale faces of those nearest me, spotting Maisey and Louise. They shook their heads at me in dismay, mirrored images of shock and wariness gracing their features.

  Even my friends thought I had played a part in all of these deaths.

  I tightened my hands into fists and met Mrs Yates’ accusing gaze.

  “I did not do this,” I said steadily.

  “And yet it always comes back to you, doesn’t it, Anna Cassidy? Your surgery. Your tools of the trade. Your banishment from the police station. How many more people have to pay for your desire to be on top? How many more lives must you take so you can gain the applause you crave?”

  I did not know this woman. I did not know anyone here.

  I turned, intending to leave as quickly as I could manage, but Mrs Yates had other intentions.

  She screamed a battle cry, which echoed off the ceiling, and then her hands gripped my hair, tearing strands out and making my bonnet tumble. I struggled to free myself as I was pulled backwards; a knee connected with my lower spine as a hand went around my face; fingers searching for my eyes.

  I could hardly believe what was happening. Where it was happening. That it would happen here of all places; an event I had so been enjoying, a gathering that meant so much.

  Confusion reigned as my blood pumped and Mrs Yates attempted to blind me. Hands scrabbled, fingers gouged, hair was yanked. I hadn’t even lifted a finger in attack, all I could do was attempt to stave off the madness.

  And then a bucket of water was thrown, and most of it landed on Mrs Yates. And a now familiar, deep, feminine voice said, “They really should check the wine for contaminants.”

  I turned and spotted Mrs Drummond, wine bucket in hand, ice chips coating Mrs Yates. The latter spluttered and stomped, but several of the women present pulled her away. On whose orders, I could not say, but the reprieve was welcomed.

  I blinked at Mrs Drummond as she stared down at the ice bucket in her hand and then gently placed it on the nearest table.

  “My dear, Dr Cassidy,” she said, stepping forward. “I do believe you are going to be quite entertaining.”

  I had no intelligent words to offer the lady. But I did manage to mumble a “Thank you.”

  “For what? Stopping a fiasco from happening?” She waved her hands in the air and then said, rather loudly, “Mrs Yates smells much like a village in Italy. Awash in the scent of Montepulciano. That’s a grape, dear,” she said to the closest woman to her. “Wine.” Then she mimicked drinking from a glass, throwing her head back and swallowing. “I should know,” she announced a moment later and winked. “I have a husband with a fine taste in libations.”

  Several women laughed, the tension easing from their shoulders.

  “Perhaps the loss at the races is to blame,” Mrs Drummond went on. “So much riding on a horse. Thank heavens, Johnny’s not a gambler. One vice is quite enough, in my opinion.”

  “Just the one?” I somehow managed to say. I smiled softly at my rescuer.

  “Anna, dearest. May I call you that?” I nodded. For how could I deny the woman anything? “Between you and me, he has many. But the rest I shan’t even attempt to change.”

  The words were uttered in a deep purr, a sensual shudder running through her frame. I had never met anyone quite like Mrs Drummond. A part of me still wanted to hate the lady. She was married to my arch nemesis, after all.

  But try as I might, as she led me from the room, ensuring everyone knew the altercation was not my fault but poor Elizabeth’s, I couldn’t dislike Mrs John Drummond.

  It was her not I who would prove entertaining. Of that, I was fairly certain. But she had won my trust in rescuing me from a public shaming.

  That she was John Drummond’s wife and a person I held in great standing was perhaps the greatest shock of the day. Was I mellowing? Or was I finally growing up?

  I wondered what Papa would say.

  Find Him!

  Inspector Kelly

  I stepped down from the curricle and stretched my leg, hiding a grimace as pain shot through me. Blackmore stood outside the doctor’s surgery waiting, his hat in his hand, a scowl upon his face. His eyes settled on Inspector Elliott at my side, then he masked his features and bobbed his head to me.

  “Sir,” he said. “Nothing’s been touched, as you requested.”

  It would have stung that I ordered him to halt his investigation until we arrived. I knew I had offended the sergeant, but I could not take the risk that he would compromise the scene somehow. Constables stood to either side of the only entrance into Dr Yates’ surgery rooms as requested. The scene, for all intents and purposes, would be as Yates himself had left it.

  I nodded back and strode up the path toward the small cottage Barclay Yates was using for his consultations. The upper floor had been rented out to a family, who watched our progress from the bay window at the front of the building above our heads. Access to their accommodations was around the side of the cottage, leaving the porch and front door for the doctor’s patients.

  A sign to the side of the door read Dr Barclay Yates, Physician and Surgeon. From what I had garnered, he was well liked in the community. But, then, the Yates family had been in Onehunga for some time now and had their fingers in many of its pies. Including the council. I wondered if the reaction to his arrest that we’d witnessed was indicative of something other than empathy for his plight.

  I opened the door with the key we’d taken from Yates and stepped inside. The polished wooden floor was clean and shining, the hall stand held fly-sheets and dried lavender in a vase. The door on the right led to a waiting room with several fine chairs around its circumference. In the middle was a table with more fly-sheets upon them. I crossed the room and stared down at the display.

  BELIEVE IN VAMPIRES, one article read. It matched the one Anna had found at the races. I took in the flyers beside it, talking of remedies and warnings for the common cold and the like. The vampire fly-sheet was out of place amongst the more appropriate physician instructions.

  “Quite a rummy old cove, eh?” Elliott asked, staring down at the flyers beside me.

  “Not so you would think,” I murmured.

  “What’s with the vampires, then?” he asked.

  I said nothing and carefully scanned the room for anything else that would help condemn the man. Placards adorned the walls. Articles on sudden death and heart disease. I noted one in particular that spoke of the benefits of gentle massage for the hysterical lady. Blackmore was quite taken with it. He turned and looked directly at me, an arched brow all that was needed to convey his message.

  It took only moments to ascertain there was nothing incriminating within the waiting room. Other than an insight into the types of practices the doctor undertook. I turned my back on the fly-sheets and placards and typewritten messages and walked into the hallway again. To the back of the house was a bathroom and kitchen, both of which did not reveal any further secrets. All that was left was the examination room which took up one whole side of the ground floor of the building.

  I stood in the doorway to Dr Yates’ surgery and stared at familiar objects.

  “We’ll need Drummond,” I said.

  “Right you are, sir,” Blackie offered and moved to the front porch to arrange a message to be delivered to our surgeon with one of the bobbies.

  Elliott pushed past me and strode into the room. The sudden movement required not to be brushed by his shoulder sent a jabbing pain through my thigh muscle. I winced, but thankfully the man was studying the arra
y of autopsy tools on display in a glass-fronted cabinet.

  “I wonder what his patients think of this?” he said gruffly. “Does he intend to frighten them into submission?”

  “Perhaps he is proud of his collection,” I offered, walking toward the other side of the room, well away from Elliott’s bulky form and the possibility of a stray shoulder.

  I studied the desk and file cabinet and then started rummaging through it. Some of his patients’ names I recognised. Some I didn’t. None would leave this investigation, even if what I read astounded me.

  “The man has unusual practices,” I said softly.

  “I’ll say,” Elliott offered holding up an electromagnetic device that seemed crude in its making.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your women not the excitable types, Kelly?” Elliott asked, waving the thing at me. “None requiring relief through hysterical paroxysm?”

  I scowled at the man and turned my head away.

  “I might keep this,” Elliott said behind me. “I’m sure I could find a use for such a thing.”

  “Put it back,” I ordered.

  “Afraid I’ll use it on Dr Cassidy?”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” I snapped.

  “Too easy,” the man said, returning the device to its position within a large drawer. I was sure there were more alarming things within the dresser, but I kept my attention on the file cabinet and the letters of correspondence I’d uncovered.

  After reading several, I decided if Barclay Yates had had conversations with my wife, he hadn’t kept the missives in his surgery.

  “Ho!” Elliott said as Blackie walked back in. “Look here, would you?”

  I turned, slamming the drawer I’d been searching closed, and looked toward where Elliott was standing.

  “Photographs,” he said, holding up a handful. “And quite a collection.”

  He walked to the examination table in the centre of the room and threw the pictures down, so they fanned out. We all leaned closer for inspection, and then Blackmore and I leaned back again all of a sudden.

  “What the dickens?” I said as Blackie swore more colourfully. “Is that Mrs Elizabeth Yates?” I asked.

  “Looks like it, guv,” Blackie said, turning away completely.

  “Not just his sister, but a bevy of beautiful lasses,” Elliott offered.

  “Sister-in-law,” I corrected.

  “Does it make it better?”

  I grimaced and shook my head.

  Forcing myself to assess the images with a professional eye, I studied one which clearly showed the device Elliott had found at work. The patient seemed insensate; not aware of what the doctor was doing. Well, I corrected as I looked upon her facial features, not aware the doctor was taking a photograph of her in her climactic state.

  “There are notes,” Elliott offered from where he had returned to the drawer which contained the device, and no doubt had housed the images. “He was studying the ongoing health benefits of hysterical paroxysm on the modern day women. I say, I should use that one when courting.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” I repeated.

  Elliott chuckled.

  I pushed the photographs to one side and examined the table. It was clear he used the plinth as an autopsy table as well as an examination table. I wondered briefly if Anna did the same. At present, there was a thin mattress adorning it, but when I lifted the mattress up, a shining metal surface glinted at me, channels evident down its sides to catch the blood. I followed the trail to the drain in the centre of the room.

  “See where this comes out, Sergeant,” I said to Blackie.

  “Right you are, sir,” he replied and slipped out of the room on silent feet.

  “Oh, this one’s even better,” Elliott announced, pointing to what I could only describe as a torture device.

  Despite my misgivings in approaching the man, I stepped up to his side and peered into the display cabinet. The device in question involved a steam boiler, a pulley system, and a phallic attachment that clearly was meant to ‘relieve’ a woman of her hysteria.

  “Good God,” I said, looking at the contraption. “What would possess a woman to undergo such treatment willingly?”

  “If you have to ask that,” Elliott said dryly, “then you’re not doing it correctly.”

  He turned and walked away, leaving that statement hanging in the air behind him. I let out a silent measured breath of air and studied the cabinet. There were other devices on display, some of which made sense, most did not. I’d have to have Drummond look at everything and write up a report.

  But as the police surgeon would not make it out to Onehunga within the hour, I turned away from the disturbing display and concentrated on something else.

  Yates’ medicinal remedies were clearly labelled and matched those I had seen when visiting Anna’s surgery. Here he seemed to take a much more mainstream approach to medical ailments and the treating of them. Not that I hadn’t heard of female hysteria as a disease and the modern day treatments some doctors had taken to using in New York or London.

  I just had never thought the practice would have followed me here to the Antipodes. And having spent several hours interrogating Barclay Yates before locking him up in the cells at Auckland Police Station, I had not expected the man to have undertaken such extremes of treatment for his patients.

  And then there was the fact he was treating his brother’s wife.

  I had not been convinced of his guilt, and yet the evidence of his debauchery was profound. Masked as it was in a physician’s respectability.

  “Now this,” Elliott said from the other side of the room, “is interesting.”

  I took my time turning back to face the man. I’d had enough of his unprofessional behaviour. Not to mention, enough of his threats to mistreat Anna during his supposed courtship of her. I wasn’t sure if continuing the farce was necessary; Chalmers had calmed some when I brought in Yates for processing yesterday. Having another surgeon to focus his ire upon seemed to help.

  The distraction from Anna’s connection to the murders was welcome, of course, but I still couldn’t quite see Barclay Yates as our culprit.

  My eyes scanned the photographs still lying out on the examination table as I passed. Perhaps my gut instinct was off on this occasion.

  “What is it?” I demanded of Elliott.

  “Secret compartment,” he said, crouched down and staring at a scuff mark on the wooden floor beneath a cabinet on wheels.

  “Move this,” I instructed, pushing against the mobile unit.

  Elliott stood up and helped me push the object out of the way. It was surprisingly heavy. I took the time to open the top drawer and peer inside. Tools of his trade again; bedpans, syringes, glass phials, pipettes, pliers, a Bunsen burner. The next drawer revealed similar equipment, all of it weighty. I grunted as I shut the drawer and crouched down beside Elliott to examine the scuff mark on the floor.

  My thigh throbbed, but with care and slower movements, I managed not to pull my stitches again. Elliott watched me from the corner of his eye, well aware I was injured and suffering. He thankfully did not pass comment, but his observations were enough to make my mood foul some.

  “See here,” he said, indicating the angle and placement of the mark. “Something was used to pry the floorboards up. This was not caused by the wheels on the cabinet. The cabinet is a ruse; a means to hide this panel from observant eyes.”

  “It did not hide from you,” I commented.

  “I said observant, not determined,” Elliott countered. “You would not have missed it if you hadn’t been so taken with those photographs.”

  I ignored the poor attempt to rile me and ran a finger through the groove. Reaching up into one of the drawers on the rolling cabinet, I pulled out the pliers and placed the tip in the mark on the floor.

  “Good guess,” Elliott offered when it was obvious they matched.

  “Not a guess,” I said, using the tool to pry the floorboar
d up, “a deduction.”

  “What, are you Sherlock Holmes now?” Elliott muttered.

  The reminder of the fictional character my wife so admired did not sit well on me. I forced the pliers into the groove and slammed my fist down on the handles, making the floorboard pop out completely.

  “Feeling a bit on edge there, Inspector Kelly?” Elliott asked, lighting a match and holding it so we could see into the deep and dark cavity my efforts had revealed.

  I stared at the flickering shadows and then reached down and retrieved what appeared to be a box. Elliott snuffed out his match when it was obvious it was the only item inside the space beneath the floorboards.

  “This should be good,” he announced.

  I studied the box. It looked new and in good order. I turned it this way and that and noted there were minimal scuff marks on its shining surface. Yates had taken good care of this item. Using the pliers, I broke the inconsequential lock; it hardly seemed worth the effort. And then I lifted the lid and peered inside.

  We both fell back at what greeted us.

  “Bloody hell!” Elliott exclaimed. “I did not see that coming.”

  Nor I. I moved back to peer inside the tomb and forced myself to swallow past the bile. Inside the wooden crate were four perfectly preserved hearts. I’d hazard a guess; they were human hearts. All four had been placed in small jars of liquid to preserve them. It would make it difficult to tell whose heart was whose. I could not even determine which was the Chief’s heart; the most recent heart to be procured.

  “Where is Drummond?” I shouted.

  A constable came running into the room and stood to attention.

  “The message has gone out, sir,” he said. “We have not had a reply as yet.”

  “Find him!” I ordered. “And get me Sergeant Blackmore!”

  Elliott stood up and moved away as the room came alive with constables and the sergeant. Voices were hushed but harried; sweat glistened on more than one brow. Blackmore issued orders and the contents of the surgery were bagged and tagged, ready for evidence in Barclay Yates’ likely trial.