“I am quite well, Drummond,” Andrew replied. His hands were braced on his hips, but Drummond had not bothered to assess his patient; he was too concerned with the anger that sparked in Andrew’s eyes.
“Then why am I here?”
“Your wife,” Andrew spat.
Drummond stepped forward until his nose was practically pressing against the bars of Andrew’s cell.
“How dare you, sir!” he shouted. “You have no right to mention my wife.”
“Haven’t I?”
“None whatsoever!”
“I beg to differ. For she was once mine and, according to law, still is.”
Drummond blinked. I could practically see the cogs of comprehension whirring behind his startled eyes.
“What nonsense say you now?” he demanded.
“Know you your wife well, John?” Andrew enquired. “I can help you with that, for I have studied Eliza May for years.”
“My wife’s name is Amelia.”
“Is it? She has hair spun gold by the sun, soft and with a slight curve at the end which she despises. She wears jasmine as her preferred scent as she believes it to be an aphrodisiac. She tells you this is because she cannot bear you being attracted to another but like a spider, it lures all men to her web. Her eyes remind one of the Stewart Sapphire, a bright and fine blue, of which she is not above mentioning when one notices.”
Drummond had paled, but he said nothing. Andrew took a step closer and continued his barrage.
“She speaks in a deep tone, one she has cultivated over the years, as she believes it adds a mysteriousness to her character. Her laugh turns heads, and she uses it frequently; especially if your attention wanders. She is slight of build and has a birthmark upon her right but…”
“Stop!” Drummond shouted. “Stop this now!”
He was panting, his face pale, his hands shaking. He swiped at the sweat that had formed on his brow.
“You will not convince me,” he growled. “This is utter nonsense. You…you…” The man was quite incoherent.
He bunched his fists and then spun on his foot and stormed out of the cellblock.
Andrew stood still for a moment and then let out a wretched breath of air.
“My apologies,” he murmured and turned his back to me.
“You do not need to hide from me, Andrew Kelly,” I told him.
“Anna,” he said shaking his head. “Would that I could have spared you any of that. It was not my intention to go so far, but the man…”
“…needed the push.”
He turned and looked at me, regret marring his features.
“I am so sorry,” he said, swallowing hard.
“You have nothing to apologise for.”
He stared at me for a moment and then nodded his head. Moving across his cell, he sat down on the uneven cot, making it wobble. I feared he needed the seat more than he needed my reassurance.
It had been incredibly hard to hear him speak of his wife. To know he knew Mrs Drummond so intimately. It should not have been a surprise, but the more he told of the woman who had visited my house, the more I felt my heart being ripped to shreds inside.
It had not been Andrew’s intention to harm me, of course, and that knowledge had been all that had allowed me to save face. But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t affected. I gratefully took a seat on my own cot, knowing doing so after Andrew had sat would not make me appear weak.
We sat in silence for some time, neither of us capable of carrying a conversation. I wondered how Sergeant Blackmore was faring. I wondered where Drummond had run off to. Was he hiding? Was he confronting the woman even now?
What would that mean for us?
Superintendent Chalmers had been more than understanding of Andrew’s plight, despite his disagreeable nature and dislike of my character. Would he investigate Mrs Drummond? Would he take Andrew’s word for it that she was his wife and not John Drummond’s?
Part of me was sure the truth would out. But a greater part of me knew that Eliza May would have suspected this would transpire. Why else reveal herself to me? For that is what she had done, make no mistake. Eliza May Kelly had wanted me to know who she was, how close to me she was, where she had been.
She had been in bed with John Drummond. My nemesis. She’d had access to the Police Force’s case and the progression and suppositions made by those investigating the murders. That’s how she’d remained one step ahead of us. And on reflection, that’s how she’d heard of Chief Davies. Dr Yates had had dinner with the newlyweds. His interest in my career had placed him in the spotlight regarding the murder case. But it had all been Eliza May’s doing.
What a wicked web she weaved.
Barclay Yates had been released this morning. It was one thing I could be grateful for. I prayed Elizabeth Yates forgave me. But seeing a way out of this cell for us was not so easy to come by.
Minutes ticked past, which swiftly became hours. John Drummond did not return, nor did Sergeant Blackmore. The longer it took to hear from either, the harder it was to sit silently and not fret.
I was pacing the cell, as Andrew was lying on his cot attempting to rest when the door opened, and a constable came in with refreshments. My heart rate had increased upon the sound of the door opening, only to plummet at the inconsequential offering. I feared I could not eat.
“Such a palaver out there, I tell you,” the bobby said to the constable who’d been our constant companion. “The doctor’s wife escorts a fancy bit of skirt who demanded such things of the superintendent I almost blushed.”
Our constable grunted something that resembled a laugh mixed with weary understanding.
“The superintendent did right yell at her, he did, but the bit o’ fluff would not be deterred.”
Andrew sat up on his cot and then pushed to his feet. His limp was barely noticeable as he approached the front of his cell to better hear the gossiping bobby.
“Am I to expect another?” our constable asked.
“I don’t doubt it, but not because the superintendent gets his way. Mrs Drummond is a force to be reckoned with.”
He handed over the food trays and then flicked his eyes over us. His gaze connected with Andrew, wariness but if I wasn’t mistaken a smattering of awe flashed across his face. He nodded his head and walked out. Our guard brought us the trays, slipping them in through the slot at the floor of the cells. Neither Andrew nor I touched them.
“Best you eat,” the constable said. “It might be a while before you receive another.”
“Can you find out who the woman is who accompanied Mrs Drummond?” Andrew enquired.
“I cannot leave my post, sir, and you know it.”
“One question asked of a constable as he passes,” Andrew urged.
“It won’t help you none,” the bobby told him.
“Constable,” Andrew started, just as the door to the cellblock opened again and Mina, of all people, strode in.
She was dressed in her finest outfit, her hair done up in curls of which she had not bothered with for quite some time. Her gloves were clean, and her face was free of fear or the tears I had begun to accept as quite typical for Wilhelmina. She lifted her chin and looked directly at the constable and then handed him a note, her hand not showing the tremors that usually plagued her.
I looked at her eyes, but with the angle of light in the room, I could not be certain if she was drugged and this was an all too brief act before the walls crumbled, and she succumbed again to the cruelty of her addiction.
She flicked a brief glance my way, but then returned her attention to the constable, who had read the missive and nodded his head, stepping aside to let her progress towards us.
I stood stock still in the centre of my cell and thought only one thing.
Eliza May had arranged this. Why?
“Mina,” I whispered.
Andrew stepped up to the front of his cell and looked down at my cousin.
“Are you quite well?” he asked,
although it sounded far more a demand.
“Quite,” she said, and finally looked directly at me. “Mrs Hardwick is missing.”
That was why, I thought, my heart thundering. Eliza May was using my fragile cousin to send a final message.
“She raises the axe above our heads,” I murmured.
“We shall not allow her to let it fall,” Andrew promised.
It was a promise he could not keep, confined as we were to the cells. But he attempted to do so anyway; issuing orders to the constable, who surprisingly carried them out. One of which left me reeling.
“Check the evidence locker,” Andrew shouted. “Make sure the heartless device is still in our possession and no other’s. And for God’s sake, man, find Mrs Drummond.”
I held onto Mina’s hands through the cell and finally watched the tears that she had so valiantly held back fall.
Along with them were my hopes for my housekeeper’s survival.
I Couldn’t Release Anna
Inspector Kelly
“Her ivory tower crumbles,” I said, once the constable had carried out my orders.
“What makes you say that?” Anna asked as she held onto her cousin’s hands through the bars of the cell. Constable McQueen had brought a chair to Mina, a compassionate move I approved of.
He had been far more helpful than I had a right to ask. It gave me hope my wife’s efforts had not hoodwinked the rest of the constabulary.
Or my pitiful ones.
“Her hand has been forced,” I said. “First, she reveals herself to you. A move she is only inclined to do when the stakes are high, and she has no other option but to shock and awe her opponent before she manages to escape out from under them.”
I did not want to think of what she had done to me when the moment had come all those years ago in London. It had involved our home and the lick of flames, and me trapped within them.
I pressed a hand to my thigh where evidence of my wife’s cruel abilities still resided; the scars causing me to remember her actions every single day of my life.
“Secondly,” I said, forcing my mind back to the present, “her moves are becoming evermore desperate as she feels the noose tighten about her neck. Taking Hardwick while we are confined to the cells only proves our innocence. Yet the blow her death would cause us is far greater than her victory should we be condemned for her crimes.”
“She is not afraid of being identified,” Anna mused.
“Her own fear has never been a motivator. But our fear; she feeds off this just like the vampires of folklore she has used in her crimes feed off blood.”
“Why the vampires?” Wilhelmina asked. Her contribution to the discussion momentarily surprised me.
This was not the fragile and innocent Miss Wilhelmina Cassidy I had come to know of late. A shadow of Anna’s own strength was hinted at beneath the depth of Wilhelmina’s worry for the housekeeper.
“It would have amused her to make us contemplate such a folly,” I explained. “And, of course, with Dr Yates’ penchant for the occult, it provided a ready scapegoat.”
“And the slums?” Anna asked. “Why go to the lengths of blackmailing the inhabitants of Freemans Bay?”
“Your home’s location for one. Being as Franklin Street is on the outskirts of Freemans Bay. Not to mention your regular clientele. She would have hoped by controlling the slums, she could control your income and professional standing. Any blow to you she made, she knew would be a blow I would also suffer.”
“And yet she has not succeeded,” Anna murmured.
“Your depth of spirit and generosity of heart could not be countered by the extortion they were subjected to.”
“Not entirely, but I fear she is not done with the slums.”
“I fear this also.”
I started to pace. I wanted out of the cell. Impotence was not an emotion I suffered lightly.
“All this is a rather wonderful display of deduction,” Wilhelmina announced. “But what are we to do about it?”
“The constabulary will stand with you, Inspector,” Constable McQueen said from behind me.
I spun and faced the bobby as he peered into my cell, his body at attention, his chin lifted, his eyes meeting mine for the first time in a long while without a shadow of doubt.
“You speak for them all?” I enquired.
“I speak for myself, but I know my fellow officers, sir. Once they hear of what this woman has done, none will stand for it. She had the Chief killed.” He shook his head, determination in his eyes. “She had Mackey done down, too. They did not deserve it and all the while we chased our tails, you were trying to chase the real culprit.”
“One of which, Constable, we still have not uncovered,” I reminded the man.
“I have faith in you, Inspector,” he announced.
The door to the cellblock opened before I could acknowledge the constable’s words. Blackie strode in, dust marring his jacket, his knuckles reddened as though he’d been in a scuffle.
“What news?” I asked.
“There is rioting in the slums,” he said and spat a globule of blood on the floor. He fished about in his pocket for a dirty handkerchief and then dabbed at the corner of his mouth.
Upon spotting Miss Cassidy sitting before Anna’s cell, the man jumped.
“Forgive me, miss,” he rushed to say, taking a step to the side to scrub the spit away from the floor with the sole of his boot.
Anna looked fit to laugh, but Wilhelmina only offered Blackie a demure smile and fluttering of her eyelashes.
Good God, I thought. The man had won her.
“Rioting?” I offered, drawing his attention away from the chit.
“They take to the streets with no thought as to why, causing mayhem and chaos and untold damage. I fear a fire will ensue, and if it does, Auckland will fall.”
“My wife,” I said. This was her coup de grace.
“I have not made progress on that front, I must admit,” Blackie offered.
“Mrs John Drummond,” Anna supplied, saving me from voicing it.
I was having trouble voicing anything to do with my wife.
“You don’t say?” Blackie said, rocking back on his heels. “Now, that is a turn up for the book, eh?”
I could not countenance any further talk of my wife’s new identity, so I asked, “What talk on the streets as to the extortioner?”
“Now, there I did cop an earful,” Blackie remarked. “Talk of a tall man with large fists and bloody knuckles, and the type of muscles a lass does not complain about an’ all.” He tipped his hat to Wilhelmina and Anna and mumbled, “Forgiveness, misses.”
Mina giggled as Anna waved her hand in dismissal.
Blackie cleared his throat.
“On reflection,” he said, “it don’t half sound like Drummond, guv.”
My eyes met Anna’s. I saw a wealth of questions there. Some she considered for a brief moment, many she discarded. The swiftness of her thoughts astounded me. And made me equally as proud of her intelligence.
“It could be,” I said to her softly.
“I do not see it myself,” she murmured back.
“We cannot rule it out.”
“Nor can we be blinded by it.”
God, how I loved this woman.
I turned back to Blackie. “Can you find him? He stormed out of here in a fit of pique when confronted with her duplicity.”
“I would have thought he cock-a-hoop upon one-upping you, sir. But to run?”
He was right. We were missing something. Drummond was not that good of an actor.
The door opened, and as if summoned here by our thoughts alone, John Drummond walked in.
He was not the same man who had stormed out of the cellblock earlier. Nor was he the same man who had walked in with such a high opinion of himself before that.
“Drummond,” I growled.
Blackie moved to the door, circling the police surgeon, blocking off his escape. McQueen pulled his bil
ly club out, now quite up with the play and no longer pretending he wasn’t listening in on our conversation. The doctor noticed neither of them.
In his hand was a pile of papers. They shook as his fist tightened around them. He studied the tremors with a detached air about him, as though this was all happening to someone else and not him.
“Doctor,” I said, more levelly, hoping to call the man out of himself. “What have you brought us?”
He looked up, and his eyes were hollow. Dark pits ringed in red. Shadows lurked beneath them. His skin sallow.
This was not the man I knew, and I had a moment of regret that I had brought this upon him. That the woman I had at one time loved enough to marry had ruined another man in her efforts to conquer the world she lived in.
“I…,” he said, his voice cracking. “I found these.”
He did not hand the papers over, merely stared at them as if only now realising he held them at all.
“What are they, John?” I asked.
“I found them,” he repeated. “In the glasshouse. She’ll be most displeased with me that I entered her domain.”
Eliza May had always had glasshouses. The one on our property in London had been smashed in her hasty escape. But not before she’d cleaned it out of her precious plants and evil concoctions.
“She has been making solutions again,” I murmured.
“Poison?” Anna asked.
Anna’s voice brought Drummond out of himself. He straightened and glared at her as if her presence offended him. He may not have been the man I thought him, but he was still a prejudiced bastard.
“Her weapon of choice and one she has not been here long enough to accomplish, I’d wager,” I replied, keeping an eye on Drummond. “How long did it take you to build the glasshouse?” I asked him.
“A month after she moved in,” he managed to reply.
“And how long ago was that, John?”
He looked away and mumbled, “Two months.”
“Be thankful for small mercies,” I murmured.
My wife would not be poisoning anyone in my city this time.
No, she had resorted to other measures. Namely turning a good man traitor.
Heartless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 3): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series Page 24