A Necessary Murder

by M. J. Tjia

  My voice is constricted as I say, “We know about Sarawak, about McBride and the Crookshanks. But why kill Lovejoy? And poor Pidgeon?” I struggle to twist towards him, so he can see the anger in my eyes. I can smell him—his familiar scent, of forest and something musky, and a momentary pinch of regret squeezes my heart.

  His grip on my arms tightens. “Had to keep the pattern going, didn’t I? The vengeful letters, the kungsi murders. I left your kris behind when I murdered Lovejoy in the hope the murders would be linked to their ridiculously sinister Chinaman, but I couldn’t account for the nightsoil man filching it.”

  Shouts are heard over the loud rumbling of the coach. Slowly, the coach eases to a stop and, out my window, I can see Hatch’s buggy pull in a few metres away.

  “Maurice, you have nowhere to go,” I say through clenched teeth, straining away from the blade.

  “You blasted woman,” he breathes, hot against my ear. “Why couldn’t you just let things be?”

  Hatch runs towards the coach but sees me through the window, sees the blade held to my throat. He halts, flings his arms out, blocking the other policeman from approaching.

  “How’d you find out so quickly it wasn’t me on the slab?” Cosgrove asks. He taps the glass of the window with the pointed end of the dagger, to ward off Hatch and his men, then returns it quickly to my neck. “I thought the blue pin would trick you. I knew you wouldn’t study the severed head. I had the idea that night at the theatre, when you said everyone would recognise you once you donned the red riding cloak. I made sure you knew me from that damned blue pin.”

  The pin with the lapis lazuli stone. Attached to my bodice. I wriggle against him. His left hand has the dagger firmly pressed to my throat, but his other hand only manages to clasp my right arm tight, leaving my left arm loose. I’m able to bend my left arm at the elbow, slide the pin out from my bodice and hold it firmly between my finger and thumb. I think of jabbing it into his arm but that might not be enough to stop him from sinking the blade into me, so I swing the pin upwards, stab towards his face, feel the sharp end break skin, and then the long, thin shaft slide right through to the hilt.

  Cosgrove’s scream is high-pitched, sickening, as the dagger clatters to the floor. I wrench open the coach door and, looking over my shoulder, I see Cosgrove clutching his hands over his left eye, as a thin trickle of blood slips down the side of his cheek like a tear.

  CHAPTER 35

  By the light of an oil lamp, I peer into the mirror, my fingers picking at the lace of my collar where there is a rent in the fabric. Stroking the unscathed skin of my neck beneath it, I think of how much tougher the cotton lace is compared to my smooth flesh; of how lucky I am that the dagger hadn’t pressed any closer.

  Cosgrove must’ve become very well-practised at beheading, after taking so many lives. I imagine his left hand creeping up the back of my neck, his strong fingers running through my hair—for a moment my mind grapples with the pleasures this once evoked—he would’ve grabbed hold of a large clump of my hair in order to steady my head, as his other hand swept the knife’s edge across the front of my throat.

  No. No. He would’ve had to unhand me first to do that. Surely in those precious seconds I would’ve managed to pull away, defend myself? I close my eyes, concentrate on the blank canvas, blood-red, of my closed eyelids, until the gruesome pictures subside.

  “Heloise, what are you doing?”

  Amah stands behind me in my drawing room, holding a tray of tea things. As her eyes travel across my face, I feel weary, I feel what she can see.

  “You need to eat and drink something,” she says, placing the tray on the table. She crosses the room to close the curtains against the darkening sky. “And I don’t mean whisky.”

  I glance down at the crystal tumbler in my hand. I’d poured it for myself as soon as I entered the room, but, in truth, I don’t have the stomach for it. I place it on the shelf of the china cabinet and pick up the pile of post awaiting me.

  “Sit, sit,” she urges, taking a seat herself on one of the armchairs. Leaning forward to pour tea, she asks, “You don’t have guests tonight?”

  Dismay fills my chest. “But what day is it?”

  “Wednesday.”

  I stare down into the teacup she passes me, watching the lazy swirl from where she’s stirred honey into the milky tea. “I don’t think so. I remember there’s a masked ball on Thursday, but…”

  “What about Hatterleigh?”

  I lean back into the sofa, resting the teacup and saucer in my lap. Hatterleigh. I’m not even sure if he’s back in town or not. There might be a missive amongst the post before me on the table, but I haven’t had the time or desire to check. He’ll want to know all the news, about Pidgeon, and Cosgrove. Usually, I take glee in relating my adventures to him, but in this instance, I won’t. How do I account for Cosgrove with a straight face? Do I act shocked? Like I’m telling him nothing worse than a ghoulish tale? Or no, maybe better to act like I always knew Cosgrove was up to no good. Surely you noticed how reserved I was around the man, Hatterleigh?

  “Heloise, what is it? Where were you all day?”

  “Hatch and I found out who has been murdering all these men.”

  “The Indian?”

  A scornful “Ha” escapes my lips. “No. And not a Chinaman either. It was none other than Cosgrove, one of the gentlemen of their own set.” I tell her of how Hatch had tracked down the incriminating letters from McBride and that latest body wasn’t Cosgrove, as we were meant to believe.

  She doesn’t ask me how I know this, only blinks slowly. “Why was he at Isobel’s? I always told you that girl couldn’t be trusted.”

  “Oh, Mama,” I say, taking a sip of my tea. “The poor creature had no idea what he’d been up to. That’s why I am so late today. I had to accompany her to the police station while she was questioned by Hatch. She thought she was helping Cosgrove escape from the monster. She didn’t realise he was the monster; hadn’t yet heard he was meant to have been the latest victim. They knew each other in Mandalay when she was young. She had tender feelings for him, I’m afraid.” Poor Isobel. Feverish circles on her pale cheeks, nose and eyes almost raw with weeping. She’s lost two men she loved in a matter of days.

  “Is that why you asked me about Mandalay? And Burma?” Amah asks.

  I nod. “I’d heard Cosgrove talk of Burma, and the last time I saw Isobel she mentioned a curry she learnt to make in Mandalay. Cosgrove was great friends with the Pidgeons,” my lips compress into a bitter line for a second, “so I thought that maybe they spent time together there. I wondered if he might find shelter with her.”

  “What did the letter say, that Hatch found?”

  “That Cosgrove had arranged the riot to cover up his affair with a married woman, or to finish off her husband.”

  Amah nods. “So, Uncle Chee was correct. It was all over a woman.”

  Cosgrove and women. I feel like I should’ve known. But, of course, I did have an inkling all along; I just chose to ignore it. Didn’t I wonder if Milly was his lover? Didn’t I fall for him myself? And I consider myself very well-seasoned in such things.

  A veritable Casanova, Cosgrove. But ruthless. The dead wife in Sarawak. Prepared to take advantage of sweet Isobel. And that crack he gave me over the head in the alleyway, near the cesspool. Looking back, he must’ve used his gun to knock me out. My stomach sinks. Fortunate he needed a witness, that he didn’t press it to my temple, then and there, finish me off.

  Looking up, I find Amah staring at me. “You are troubled?” she says.

  I shake my head, more to dispel my horrid thoughts than anything. Amah pours herself some more tea, black, with a squeeze of lemon in it. My tongue puckers at the thought.

  “And you, Amah?” I say, reaching for a piece of Madeira cake. “What have you been up to lately, in and out at all hours, I hear.” It’s only now that I recall her story of Jakub being Mrs Preston’s son. Like him, I’d always thought dear Aunt Miriam was
his mother. “Chasing after Jakub, I think you said. I cannot believe the cheek of Uncle Chee.” I grin, licking powdered sugar from my bottom lip. “Dossing down with the boss’s wife.”

  Amah’s lip twists, reprovingly. “He loved her very much, Heloise. We both did.”

  I pull a face. “Still rather brave, if you ask me.” Resting my head back, I close my eyes. “I think we should take some time away, Amah.” I open one eye, peep at her. “Maybe Venice? I’ve noticed the picture book you borrowed from the library.” With portraits of canals, grand churches, decaying courtyards. “By the time we are organised, the weather might be more clement there, too, for you. Thaw your bones,” I grin. “You can get your sea legs back again on the steamship over.”

  Her cacao-bean eyes gleam back at me. She doesn’t say anything, but I know she’s pleased, by her short nod.

  I will have a glass of something, after all. Not the whisky; something sweeter. I pour myself a generous portion of sherry, which I sip as I tear open the first letter on the pile.

  Hatterleigh.

  Dearest Heloise,

  I will be back in London by the 3rd. I’m having a devilish time getting away from my estate. Work work work. Kennard, my foreman you know, will not let me alone. If it’s not roofs that need thatching, it’s harvests that need collecting. He seems to think he needs my nay or say in everything he does, despite my assurances to him that he is much better suited to making those decisions than I am. I know I must be thankful, though, that he’s not a thieving rascal.

  It’s so horribly cold at the moment, I really think you and I should escape to France for a few weeks when I return. The champagne we can sip! The love we can make! The gougère to grease our lips! I have heard of a wonderful chateau we can stay at in the Loire Valley. And, of course, I know you love the theatre life in Paris. Remember those girls, you minx, in Haymarket, flashing their fannies? Maybe you could learn some of their ways? I am laughing here, my dear. You are far more alluring than they, even covered in yards of silk. What do you say? I say yes! Cherie, mon amour, mon coeur, please say yes too.

  Yours

  Hatterleigh.

  I fold his letter into two, then over again. I glance at Amah, who has thrown my shawl across her knees and calmly embroiders a bird of paradise with yellow silk. Folding the letter once more, my mind races. Paris with Hatterleigh, or Venice with my mother? The tug of loyalty, of obligation, between these two people spirals through my mind. Picture galleries with Amah. Paris nightlife with Hatterleigh. Love, or riches? Contentment, or pleasure?

  Or both?

  Surely I can manage both. A merry foray into Paris on our way to restful Venice.

  Smiling, I toss the letter into the fire.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you, again, to Legend Press and Pantera Press, for your continued faith in my Heloise novels. Special thanks to Lauren Parsons, for her careful, thoughtful editing of my work. Works by Lee Jackson, Liza Picard and numerous others are integral to the research that goes into my Heloise novels, and some might recognise references to George R. Sims’ Living London (1900).

  I would like to thank the Queensland Writers Centre, Sisters in Crime (Aus) and Byron Writers Festival for their ongoing support. Thank you to all those who have helped me shape this book, especially Emma Doolan, Laura Elvery, Kathy George, Vivienne Muller, Fiona Kearney and Andrea Baldwin. Thank you to both Emma and my mum, Margaret Boland, for being the usual suspects (guinea pigs) to read my first drafts. Finally, I am forever grateful for all those who love and encourage me in all my endeavours, especially Jim Riwoe, Mum, Elis, Tina, Liam, Amy, Damien, Dave, Bianca, Jett and Mae.

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