“Oh,” she said, once donning her coat and gloves. “I found something on the floor in the parlour before you returned from seeing to your cousin.”
She dipped a hand into her pocket and pulled out a brightly coloured ribbon.
I stared at it as she held the small slip of material out to me.
“It is Mina’s, isn’t it?” she enquired.
A ribbon was a ribbon and Mina had oft-worn many in a variety of vibrant colours.
“Yes,” I said, reaching out and taking the offering.
“It would have been a shame to have lost it to the dark shadows that stalk us.”
My eyes came up and met crystalline blue. I saw something that for a moment made little sense. And then Mrs Drummond was out the door, her curricle already waiting as if she had timed its arrival, and the chill late afternoon air swept in to fill the space she had so recently occupied.
I watched the buggy leave; she did not wave farewell. Then I stared down at the ribbon I held in my fingers.
It could have been Mina’s. It undoubtedly was, I reluctantly acknowledge.
But it was not one she had worn for some months now. Mina had forgone ribbons on returning to New Zealand. That frivolous and joyful outlook on fashion and the world had been lost back in England at Wynyard Park, the family seat of Emily Tempest.
The last time I had seen Wilhelmina wearing this particular colour was in London.
The last time I had seen a ribbon like this was on the floor of Lord Londonderry’s home.
You Are Making A Mistake
Anna
I felt sick to my stomach. I slammed the door shut and lurched to the base of the stairs, sitting heavily upon them. For a moment, I could not organise my turbulent thoughts. Sweat beaded my brow. The room spun. I was vaguely aware I was panting for breath and saliva coated my mouth. I swallowed thickly and ran sweaty palms over my skirts, then attempted to rise.
My legs gave out, and I landed with a resounding whoosh of my skirts back on the lowest tread of the stairwell. My vision wavered. My heart thundered, making blood pound through my veins and my head start to ache.
I closed my eyes and sucked in much-needed air, trying to hold my breath until the world righted itself.
But it would not right itself from this knowledge.
Several long, interminable seconds later I felt solid enough to attempt standing again. I managed it with the assistance of the newel post and pure determination. I glanced up the stairs, thankful neither Mrs Hardwick nor Mina had heard my collapse and harried breaths.
Straightening my spine and lifting my head, I crossed to my surgery. My stomach contents somersaulted and twisted inside, but I held onto my lunch.
One thought and one thought only circulated inside my head.
I had met Eliza May Kelly. I’d welcomed her into my home. Accepted her friendship. And all the while, she’d been playing with me. Toying with me as a cat would a mouse. She’d known the second she’d met me who I was and I had been ignorant until she’d had to prompt me.
I stared down at the ribbon as I pushed open the door to my surgery. She wanted me to know. How close she’d got. How much she knew. How far her reach was.
I staggered into the room and slammed up against the sink, and then thrust the ribbon to the side and turned the tap on; splashing water on my face; making a mess of my clothing. I didn’t care. Nothing mattered, but the fact that Andrew’s wife had shown her hand at last. That I had survived the encounter because she wanted the torment to last.
Why had she revealed herself now?
Because Barclay Yates had been arrested for the murder. Her accomplice found out. Did she intend to run, but before she left our shores, she’d make one final swipe at Andrew through me?
I did not have the answer, but I did know the game had changed. From one of subterfuge and secrets to one of open warfare and fabrication.
I wiped my face dry on a clean cloth and then attempted to right my clothing. The water would dry, and I was only fussing. I stared at the tremor that had claimed my fingers and then fisted them, drawing them down to my sides.
Turning, I leaned back against the bench and surveyed my surgery, hoping to seek comfort in the familiar.
A sound slipped out, and I covered my mouth.
There was no cadaver waiting for me, but there was an organ and with it the device.
I stepped forward; Lord alone knows how I managed to take a step at all. My knees did not buckle, but my stomach was protesting once again. I had seen many organs in my time as a surgeon, but knowing this heart was placed here by that woman meant something I could not possibly grasp but felt to the bottom of my soul.
It ruined me.
I studied the device, acknowledging its fine workmanship and similarity to the plans we’d uncovered in the Bohemians’ boardinghouse. I noted the prongs to the side; a double tined fork with a blister-pump attached for the catchment of blood which would account for the bloodless carotid punctures. They were coated in red. And then I looked down at the heart.
With still shaking fingers, I reached out and touched it.
And then stumbled back, placing myself against the far wall.
It was warm.
“Oh, God,” I muttered.
My eyes scanned the surgery. The window was unlatched but closed. Had Mrs Drummond unlatched it while I’d been upstairs with Mina, and Hardwick had been otherwise occupied? Had she done so in order for the murderer to enter the surgery and place the heart, prongs and device here while I was sipping tea and eating cucumber sandwiches with their mistress?
Someone had just died. Their heart excised. Their neck punctured.
If Barclay Yates was in custody, then the police had the wrong man.
And then my eyes landed on the heart again.
Why now? Why this heart?
“Oh, God,” I said with more conviction.
I rushed out of the room and threw on a cloak, slipping my bloodied hands into gloves to hide them. Then with parasol in hand, I stormed out of the house, chasing down a hansom as if my life depended on it.
Perhaps mine did, perhaps it didn’t, but I feared for the owner of the heart. And I feared my worst nightmare had come to fruition.
For why now? Why this heart?
She had planned this, I realised. Her grand presentation and reveal. It meant more to her than just fooling me.
A hansom stopped, but only because I stepped in front of it.
“Oi!” the cabbie said. “What you doin’, luv?”
“I need transport to the Old Albert Barracks immediately,” I announced.
“I’ve been booked,” he exclaimed as I rounded the side of his vehicle.
“Sir!” I said. “This is a matter of life and death.”
“My life and death if I don’t pick up me fare, miss.”
“The Police Barracks,” I shouted.
“Oh,” he said. “Right then.”
I climbed aboard and struck the roof of the cab with my parasol, not even waiting to take a seat before doing so. The hansom lurched forward. I fell backwards and landed in a pile of silk and stripes. And then the horse was tearing off down Franklin Street, and the driver was shouting, “Out of the way!” And I was sure even divine intervention would not get us there fast enough to allay my fears.
Not with that heart still sitting warm upon my dissecting table.
Not with Eliza May Kelly setting the stage for the final act to play.
I struggled not to let the tears fall; angst and terror invading me; pervading my very soul. I attempted, futilely, to slow my breaths. My fingers ached where I fisted them beyond what was advisable for healthy circulation. I stared out of the window and prayed to God above that nothing would get in the hansom’s way.
He listened to my fervent prayers, for we made good time and careened into Albert Park without upset. I stumbled down the step and landed on the chipped path, nearly losing my balance in my haste.
“Don’t know which bar
racks is the Peelers’,” the driver said.
“It is all right,” I offered, shoving as many shillings as I could manage into his hands. “I’ll manage from here.”
I started running down the path that would lead to Andrew’s barracks before the man could answer me. I heard him shout something about change, but I did not care if I had paid him enough to feed his family throughout winter. My need to reach Andrew’s home and determine for myself that he wasn’t lying there dead, heartless, overrode all practical thought.
I could not countenance any other notion, so I told myself he would be there stunned at my arrival, and my relief would be so palpable that he would sweep me up in his arms and kiss me silent. If only Mina could hear my fantastical thoughts.
But they helped somewhat, for I made the distance without my stomach expelling its contents and my knees buckling under a heavy cloud of doubt.
A figure awaited me, and for a moment I thought it Andrew’s and I believed my heart saved. But the figure turned, and the face that greeted me was not Andrew Kelly’s but William Elliott’s.
“Dr Cassidy?” he said, sounding surprised at my harried arrival.
I skidded to a halt in a most unladylike manner and then attempted to catch my breath.
“Inspector Elliott,” I said, breathless. “I must check on Andrew.”
“‘Andrew’ now is it? And you visit him at his home?”
I did not have time for his posturing, I pushed past the man and rapped my knuckles on Andrew’s door, and then finding the door unlocked, turned the handle and rushed within.
I did not know what would greet me; I had hoped, I had feared, but I had not known for certain.
A cadaver lay in the middle of the floor. Two precise puncture marks to its neck. I recognised the billy club that lay discarded at the side. I recognised the uniform.
Andrew looked up from where he was assessing the corpse and its empty chest cavity, blood coating his fingers a bright scarlet that matched the scarlet on the prongs in my surgery.
“Anna,” he said, standing.
“Ho!” Inspector Elliott offered at my back.
“That is Constable Mackey,” I announced, and almost collapsed.
Elliott reached out and gripped me, helping me to a chair. I did not have the wherewithal to be appalled at my reaction; I was too relieved it was not Andrew upon the blood-soaked floor. I lifted a hand to my mouth and held it there as I allowed my tremulous body to regain its equilibrium; my eyes soaking in the sight of Andrew Kelly; alive and well and standing before me.
“What has happened here, then?” Elliott demanded, moving away from me and circling the body. His eyes were trained on Andrew, and his hand was resting above his billy club.
“I have just found him,” Andrew said, his eyes darted to me, no doubt to check I was not succumbing to whatever ailed me.
I worked on righting my body and mind and pushed all superfluous emotions away. I did not, however, immediately stand from the chair that kept me from an undignified heap on the floor.
“So you say,” Elliott offered. “He looks fresh.”
“The body is warm,” Andrew acknowledged.
“I did not know you had it in you, Kelly,” Elliott murmured.
“Have what in me?” Andrew asked, but I knew what the inspector was saying, and it was enough to have me lurching to my feet at last.
“There is blood upon your hands, Kelly,” Elliott said, still circling the cadaver. Andrew had begun to circle the body with him; inherently aware of the threat Inspector Elliott presented. “The body is in your home,” Elliott went on. “It does not look good, old chap.”
“The heart is missing as is the device used,” Andrew snapped. “Why would I be here and they not?”
“You had an accomplice, perhaps.”
Oh, dear.
“Um, Inspector?” I said stepping forward.
“Stay back now, Dr Cassidy. There is naught you can do for the lad. And Andrew Kelly is not the man you think he is.”
“He is very much the man I think him,” I argued, and then slipped off my glove. “And he is not alone in being covered in blood.”
I displayed my bloodied fingers for his inspection.
Andrew closed his eyes and let out a frustrated breath.
“What’s this then?” Elliott asked in a snake charmer’s tone of voice. “Pray tell, Dr Cassidy, is there perchance a heart at your house?”
“Awaiting my inspection in my surgery,” I explained.
“Just as the Bohemian body was,” Elliott offered. He looked at Andrew. “You used her tools that first night. She had not time to remove the body from her surgery before the superintendent insisted you search her house. I know not what you planned, Doctor, but your lover has not been able to cover his tracks let alone yours this time.”
“This is nonsense,” Andrew exclaimed. “I have been working all morning, and I am sure Anna has an equally suitable alibi that will prove her innocence. This is Eliza May, and you know it, William. Is she not the reason why you came here?”
“I came here seeking answers to questions you conveniently left untended, sir. I did not suspect they would lead me to you.” He turned his head and looked at me. “And you found yourself a new black widow to help in your endeavours.” His attention returned to Andrew a heartbeat later as if he knew he was the greater threat in the room. “What did you do to your wife, Kelly? Is she even alive? Or did you dispose of her when she no longer suited your purpose.”
“Eliza May Kelly is very much alive,” I said, stepping forward.
“Stay back!” Elliott shouted, pulling his billy club free of his belt.
“Anna,” Andrew warned.
Elliott fished a whistle out of his pocket with his free hand and placed it to his lips.
“You are making a mistake,” Andrew said steadily.
“The only mistake I made was believing you a mere cuckold.”
The shrill sound of the whistle blowing had me covering my ears. Inspector Elliott blew the wretched thing three times, making my eardrums feel like they were being split apart. The door burst open not a minute later. The look of surprise on Andrew’s face that was swiftly covered by a neutral expression said volumes.
Elliott had brought backup, already suspecting he’d need the bobbies to haul Andrew away.
What had Eliza May done? As Amelia Drummond, had she persuaded her husband to leak false information to the visiting detective? Had she set this up?
Of course, she had. And as the bobbies swarmed us and manacles were withdrawn and attached, my eyes met Andrew’s, and I knew he suspected as much. But he did not offer his opinion, in fact, he urged me to cooperate; the words torn from his lips as if he despised them.
As much as I despised Eliza May Kelly.
That Was My Wife
Inspector Kelly
Rage consumed me at seeing Anna behind bars. It did not help that I was also behind bars in the adjacent cell to hers; trapped; impotent to help her; to get us out of this.
My wife had won.
I paced the cell, allowing the ache of my leg to ground me, turning my back on the sight of Anna sitting primly on the bench inside a six-foot by six-foot brick enclosure. When I turned around again, I was faced with her patient and stoic visage.
She allowed me my frustrations.
Who was helping Eliza May? Five deaths. Two of them policemen. I did not know how she had swindled the Bohemians, what that connection was, but they had aided in the construction of a device that cracked ribs and stole hearts, all while the victim still lived. The gentleman at The Northern Club was an innocent, however, for there could be no connection there other than the location and what it stood for. I could hardly condemn a man for belonging to an organisation that lived within today’s societal expectations.
But the policemen. Chief Davies, a man I had known for as long as I had lived here. An honest and loyal worker, dedicated to the Police Force. I had admired him. I had liked him.
And then Mackey. Constable George Mackey. I could barely breathe with the knowledge that he was dead at such a tender age. A fine young man who had supported a large family and now his pension was gone. Lost to them. What would Arabella and her siblings do now?
I made a sound. I had not meant to. Distraught and anguished. I swallowed it back down. I was responsible for bringing this to their shores. For had I not married the woman, been beguiled by her feminine ways, then discovered her horrid secrets, she would not have followed me here to the Antipodes.
The door to the cellblock opened, and Superintendent Chalmers strode in disturbing my thoughts. I welcomed the interruption, for I could not carry the weight of the guilt for long periods.
I had brought her here. To New Zealand. To Davies and Mackey and dear God, to my Anna.
Chalmers came to rest in front of my cell, completely ignoring the fact that a lady was contained within the cell beside me. His tired old eyes met mine, then searched my body for injury. Even agitated and riled as he was now, he still felt enough for me to ensure I was intact and had not been treated badly.
“This does not look good,” the old man said gruffly.
“No, sir, it does not,” I replied just as roughly.
“One of our own.”
I did not have an answer, nor could I have spoken past the lump that had formed in my throat.
“Damn it, Kelly!” the man exclaimed. “You leave me no choice but to replace you.”
“I am innocent until proven guilty, sir.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” He started to pace. “But to do nothing, with five deaths on our hands and one of them found within the chief inspector’s barracks, with him caught redhanded no less, is unconscionable.”
I nodded my head, for I could not argue with the man when he spoke such logic. The law and the city council would require it of him. The evidence was compelling.
Heartless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 3): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series Page 22