I stared at the box of hearts before me as around me officers moved evermore faster to discover what further horrid secrets the surgery kept. I doubted any more secret compartments would be found. There certainly were no more hearts to discover. The photographs had been placed in an evidence envelope. The devices were being carried out of the room and placed in the back of the Black Maria.
Throughout it all, I stared at the hearts in the jars as Elliott watched the bustling activity with a senior officer’s eye.
This wasn’t right. The box was new, but that could be explained. Perhaps the doctor had it made only recently for this round of murders. The secret cavity may even have been a new adjustment to his surgery, and that was why the groove did not look as if it had been used more than once until I further marked it by prying the floorboard off to reveal what lay within.
All of that could have been explained as I was sure the murderer wished me to.
But the fact that Barclay Yates was hungover yesterday morning still worried me. We hadn’t determined if he’d been drunk the previous night when he would have had to be lying in wait for Chief Davies at the Ellerslie Racecourse Station. But he had certainly been drunk a few hours later when we came calling at the Yates’ house.
Again, a good prosecutor could twist the lack of proof as damnable.
It was too convenient and left too many unanswered questions in my mind.
But most concerning, and perhaps out of the control of the real murderer, was the fact that Barclay Yates had no indication of being injured. Chief Davies’ fist had connected. Drummond had found threads in the wound under magnifying glass. The Chief had landed a blow to a jacket or trouser. Not a shirt, but something heavier such as a coat.
And nowhere, not even outside of obvious placements, had a bruise formed on Dr Yates.
I had not written that into the file as yet. I had not allowed anyone, not even Elliott, Chalmers, Drummond or Blackie know. I had examined Yates in the evening when most of the station was deserted, and I had sent the constable on guard on break from the cells.
I stepped away from the hearts and surveyed the room. Maybe not here, but somewhere, was the murderer.
And they were not Barclay Yates.
She Did Not Wave Farewell
Anna
The last of my scheduled patients left for the day. I wrote up my notes and made some notations to follow up on them when next in Freemans Bay. It had been an eventful morning, in regards to the surgery. I’d had more than the usual number of patients, some I hadn’t even met before either. Word had to be spreading of the good I was doing in the slums.
I hummed to myself as I refilled certain tinctures and organised my supplies. The Police Force still held my autopsy tools in their evidence locker, but I had not had need of them since the Bohemian cadaver. Thankfully none of my patients or their kin had required that sort of physician’s assistance.
Idly, I wondered how the case was progressing, and then I firmly pushed those thoughts from my mind. I was not Police Surgeon. I could enjoy the simplicity of aiding patients in their day to day ailments. I did not need the mystery and danger of a murder enquiry to fill my hours and my mind.
Five minutes later I stared at a spotless and well-organised surgery and wondered what I should do next.
A knock on the front door saved my plummeting mood.
I allowed Mrs Hardwick to address the visitor, but only because she was already in the hall, no doubt on her way to ask if I was ready for luncheon. Food could wait, as I was sure Mina was not yet hungry; her appetite had shrunk since returning to New Zealand, in direct contrast to her hunger for other substances.
I straightened my dress, today a deep burgundy and cream striped silk, and awaited my next patient’s pleasure.
Mrs Hardwick entered the surgery not a second later and presented me with a card on a tray I had barely ever seen her use when introducing an unexpected visitor. So, not a patient, then.
I picked the card up as Hardwick waited patiently for her orders. Taking a moment to study Hardwick’s attempts at gentrification, I shook my head and peered down at the name embossed on the plain white card-stock.
Mrs Amelia Drummond.
“I say,” I said, perplexed. “Mrs Drummond is here.”
“Yes, miss. Shall I prepare a platter for the parlour?”
“Is she within?”
“Yes, I thought it best to place her there as she was well presented.”
“And you expected Dr Drummond’s wife not to be?”
“Well…” She wrung her hands and flicked her gaze away.
I could not blame my housekeeper for such uncharitable thoughts for I had made no attempt to speak highly of Dr Drummond in the past. I feared I had soured the household to the woman before she’d even got a chance to state her case.
“Mrs Drummond is most welcome here,” I advised.
“As you say, miss.”
“A platter of whatever you have prepared for luncheon would be sufficient,” I added. “And perhaps Mina would like to join us.”
“I’ll see to the miss straight away.”
Hardwick shot out of the room as if making some grand escape. I shook my head again and pocketed Mrs Amelia Drummond’s card and then strode out of the surgery, shutting the door at my back.
Mrs Drummond was standing in front of a well-stoked fire when I entered the front room, warming her gloveless hands. She turned upon my entry and smiled at me. The smile seemed genuine.
“Do forgive the intrusion, Dr Cassidy,” she exclaimed. “I do hope I have not interrupted your surgery hours.”
“Your timing could not have been better,” I assured the woman. “My last patient left not half an hour past.”
“Splendid! I was without plans this afternoon and thought a visit might cheer me up.”
I crossed to the settee nearest her and took a seat, indicating she should also sit in the settee opposite.
“You require cheering?” I asked.
She sat, making her taffeta gown of gold and green fluff out around her like a shimmering cloud. Placing her gloves to the side, she leaned forward and said, “I must confess, I have had difficulty finding intelligent and engaging conversation. Yours was so appealing at the soiree the other day that I just had to remake your acquaintance.”
I felt honoured that such a well travelled lady would find my conversation satisfactory.
“It is a pleasure to welcome you into our home,” I said.
“‘Our’ home? You do not live alone, then? I had not realised you were married.”
“I am not. But I do have a cousin who lives with me.”
At the mention of Mina, Hardwick entered and laid a tray down between us. A selection of sweetmeats and sandwiches were artfully displayed. She’d even gone to the trouble of decorating the platter with pansies from the garden. Mina’s favourites. Their sweet scent permeated the air making me smile in appreciation.
“Thank you, Mrs Hardwick,” I said. “Will Wilhelmina be joining us?”
“I’m afraid not, miss,” Hardwick said. “She is feeling rather poorly.”
“Oh,” I said, not aware of Mina having an episode this morning. Her visits with Arabella Mackey had been going so well; I had wondered if we were finally making progress. “Does she require assistance?”
Hardwick hesitated, her eyes darting to our guest. I saw the dilemma she battled in the rapid blink of her eyelids.
“Please, do not wait on me,” Mrs Drummond advised. “Go see to your cousin.”
I thanked her and stood, leaving the room with Hardwick behind me. The housekeeper shut the door to the parlour and waited for me to look her in the eye.
“She was fine, miss,” she whispered. “She even came down the stairs as if to attend you and Mrs Drummond, but suddenly, so suddenly like, she felt faint, and rushed back up to her bedroom.”
“I see,” I said when I was anything but sure of what had upset Mina. “I shall briefly check on her. Please brin
g tea to the parlour and ensure Mrs Drummond has all that she requires.”
“Yes, miss.”
I watched the housekeeper walk toward the kitchen and then lifted my gaze to the landing above. What could have upset Mina? Taking the stairs as quickly as I could, I made my way to Mina’s bedroom. The curtains were open, and the window was too. Not unusual, but Mina practically hanging out of the opening was. I rushed across the space and reached out to her, fearful that she was about to throw herself from the second storey window.
“Mina!” I cried.
She gulped in air, her body trembling, her face pure white. I gripped her arm and hauled her back onto safer ground, only to have the chit slip my grip and fling herself at the aperture again.
“Let me!” she moaned, her breasts heaving, her mouth open as if she could taste the air.
“Mina, what on earth is going on?” I demanded.
“I need fresh air, that scent. I couldn’t…it was too much. I couldn’t bear it!”
“What scent?”
“Jasmine,” she said and shuddered. Tears started to leak out of the corners of her eyes. She gulped in air and let out a pitiful moan, her legs buckling. I caught her before she crashed to the floor, and managed to hook a foot around a hard-backed chair and drag it close for her to collapse into.
At least she was no longer hanging half her torso out of the second storey window.
Jasmine. I had not recognised the scent Mrs Drummond wore. And it had not occurred to me that it would trigger a memory in Mina. Hardwick and I had ensured there was no jasmine in our garden. The housekeeper even going so far as to ask the housekeepers in the houses on either side to do the same. They had obliged, even if they thought the request alarming. For many months now, Mina had been secluded from the scent that sent her spiralling into her nightmares.
I leaned back against the wall and said, “Mrs Drummond is Dr John Drummond’s wife.”
“The police surgeon,” Mina whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “A perfectly respectable lady with an unusual attraction to rough diamonds.”
“Drummond is that,” Mina agreed quietly.
Her breathing had levelled somewhat, and a little colour had returned to her cheeks at last.
“I am sure I could ask her to refrain from wearing the scent on further visits to the house,” I offered.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Nonsense. She would understand.”
“Please, don’t tell her.” It was the first time Mina had shown awareness of what she had become. I did not welcome the shame, but I was relieved at its presence all the same.
“Well, she does not need to know the actual reason. I can say we have allergies.”
Mina smiled softly, staring out the window but I was sure she saw nothing. Or if she did see anything, it was fantasy; something she conjured up to push the unwanted memories from her head.
“That would work,” she said.
“Of course it will,” I advised. “I am nothing if not creative.”
“You are a scientist,” Mina corrected. “You lack imagination.”
“How can you say that?” I mock gasped. “I am the epitome of every man’s fantasy.”
“Anna!” she cried, shocked and finally laughing. The smile reached her eyes. Then a mischievous grin graced her lips. “You are certainly Inspector Kelly’s fantasy lady.”
I scowled at her which only seemed to make her laugh harder.
My heart swelled at the picture she made. So young and beguiling and innocent. Would that I could keep her that way, but nightmares had a tendency to return when least expected. Case in point, Mrs Drummond’s choice of perfume.
“I should return below,” I said softly.
“I am all right, Anna,” Mina assured me. “The scent does not reach my room.”
“I’ll have Hardwick bring you some lunch, sweeting.”
“I’d like that.”
“And I’ll let you know when Mrs Drummond leaves.”
“Anna,” she said, turning to face me. She reached out and grasped both of my hands. “I am so very sorry.”
My heart leapt into my throat.
“You have nothing to apologise for.”
“I have everything to thank you for, in any case.”
She lifted my hand to her cheek and pressed against it. Then turned her head and kissed my fingers.
“Darling Mina,” I murmured, and wrapped my arms around her. “This too shall pass,” I whispered. “You will see.”
She turned back to her window, the smile gone, the curve to her back letting me know I’d invited the memories back in when I should have been protecting her from them.
With a heavy heart, I left Mina to her thoughts and returned downstairs to a waiting Hardwick.
“Lunch and perhaps some light company,” I told the housekeeper. “I'll be fine with Mrs Drummond without your assistance, Hardwick.”
“Right you are, miss,” she said, scurrying off to the kitchen to prepare something for herself and Mina to share.
I straightened my skirt, checked my hair was still tied up and walked back into the parlour.
“My apologies, Mrs Drummond,” I announced.
“Nonsense, your absence has allowed me to select the choicest morsels for lunch. I’m afraid your housekeeper has done her job most remarkably, for I fear I have eaten too much.”
There were a few gaps on the platter, but I only smiled at my guest and helped myself to a cucumber sandwich.
“My father always said a healthy appetite was a sure sign of a person’s contentment in life. Food is for the soul; he’d often remark.”
“Your father sounds like an intelligent man.”
“He was a surgeon. Like your husband.”
“Like you.”
“Ah,” I said, finishing my sandwich. “Dr Drummond has revealed my secret.”
“’Tis not a secret, dearest, if the whole station knows it.”
She did not seem to be saying that to hurt me, rather to make light of a situation she could not possibly fully understand. I appreciated her efforts to lighten the tone of the topic, but anything relating to the police surgery was not to be made a jest of.
“Be that as it may,” I said, “I am trained as a surgeon but make my living as a physician mainly.”
“That does not mean one excludes the other. You are a surgeon, Anna. State it with pride regardless of where you get your pay.”
I smiled more freely at the woman and took a sip of my tea.
“What is it you do, Mrs Drummond?” I enquired.
“I have had many hats, my dear, but at present, I find myself between milliners.”
I laughed and helped myself to a piece of Hardwick’s cherry cake. Mrs Drummond sipped her tea and watched me over the rim of her cup.
“Will you be seeking something to occupy your attention?” I enquired.
“I am in search of a new occupation,” she agreed. “I have not, as yet, decided on its course.”
Her evasiveness was peculiar, but perhaps she wanted a fresh start and did not want word of her past deeds to reach her husband. I did not think there was any chance of me conversing in such a manner with John Drummond. But I would respect the woman’s privacy if that was what she wanted.
“Your cousin,” she said, pouring herself more tea. “Is she unwell?”
“Mina has allergies,” I lied with surprising efficiency. Perhaps we had our secrets too. “I’m afraid your scent today has set them off again.”
“My perfume? Oh, how dreadful. I am sorry.”
“Please,” I said, leaning forward to assure the lady, “it is nothing. She is safe in the confines of her room. Hardwick is attending her even as we speak.”
“I will not wear the fragrance again,” she declared.
“You are too kind,” I demurred, pleased she had not been put off by our foibles.
“I have worn that scent for far too long as it is,” she advised. “I shall enjoy
selecting a new one. What would you recommend?”
“I have always liked lavender,” I said. “Or perhaps an English rose.”
“Oh, I like the English rose, for am I not one?”
I laughed as Mrs Drummond presented her face with two open palms as if a flower awakening to the sun’s rays.
“Indeed, Mrs Drummond. A rose most sweet.”
She laughed that throaty purr of a laugh, and exclaimed, “I do like you, Anna. But, please, call me Amelia.”
I nodded, fussing with refilling my tea to cover my pleasure at having made a new friend. It surprised me, for I had not known Amelia long, yet I felt a kinship with her I had not had for some time. Mina, of course, had long been my closest companion, and her sweet disposition made it easy for her to form friends who later became mine. But to have discovered a wonderful friendship with another woman who did not judge my line of work was much welcomed.
Despite the fact that she was married to a man I had previously despised.
I wondered if it was time to rethink my opinion of Dr Drummond. He had made such inroads in redeeming his character since the debacle with Ethel Poynton. He had secured himself a respectable wife; had foresworn alcohol and any other vice; his appearance on scene at a crime had become almost punctual. Indeed, the man had turned over a new leaf; I could hardly call him a disgrace to the profession now.
Yes, I thought as I sat back in my seat and finished luncheon with Mrs Drummond, it was time to let bygones be bygones and acknowledge I had been outmatched for the position of Chief Surgeon.
It was not a welcome thought, but it was a freeing one. I am not one to hold a grudge, and yet where John Drummond was concerned, I had steadfastly held onto one.
“This has been a most pleasurable hour,” Amelia said, standing. We’d finished our repast some time ago and been chatting about the latest advances in medicine.
It occurred to me as I escorted her to the front door, that she had still not divulged much of her history. The topics we’d freely discussed had been all things pertinent to me. She was a most gracious conversationalist, but I promised myself that I would do better at engaging in topics of interest to her in the future.
Heartless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 3): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series Page 21