“Nothing,” she replied, starting to pace. “Just gifts and more confessions of admiration. Everything vague enough to be nonsense. I dismissed them for some time; they seemed so vague.”
“Until this latest one.”
“Yes, it seemed so much more personal. Intimate. As if the sender was observing me, and an action I had performed had caused him to change.”
“Change how?” I demanded.
“His words are far more familiar than previously. I had the sense I was being watched.”
“Figuratively or literally?” I pressed.
“There have been shadows,” she said, biting her lower lip. I studied the movement with intense desire, barely able to reign myself in.
This newfound open attraction between us was vexing. And dangerous.
“What shadows?” I demanded.
“Cloaked figures. One stopped across the street last night and watched this very window.”
Bloody hell. “Why didn't you say something?”
“I just did.”
“Earlier. When I first walked in here to find you having spent the entire night sleeping on a settee.”
“I didn't sleep. Not really. I must have drifted off not long before you walk in here. I was keeping guard, you see?”
“Keeping guard?” I almost shouted, taking three long strides to reach her. “Heaven forbid you involve the police detectives living under the same roof as yourself! What would you have done should he have broken through the front door? We could not have reached you swiftly enough from our rooms at the rear of the house to protect you.”
She pulled herself up to her full height, still a foot short of me. I tried not to loom, but I was angry. No. I wasn't angry. I was furious. Had she no self-preservation at all?
“I have told you before, Inspector, I do not require protection.”
“Oh, it’s ‘Inspector’ now, is it?”
“As it is ‘Dr Cassidy’ when you are angry with me.”
“I am not just angry, Doctor. I am incandescent with rage. And why are you angry? You’re the one constantly putting yourself in danger. I have a right mind to lock you in your room until we sort out this mess.”
“Not your room?” the impertinent chit enquired. “Or perhaps a dungeon would be more fitting?”
“Do not test me, Anna.”
“Do not presume to contain me, Andrew.”
“You are entirely too vexing!”
“You are pigheaded and bullish!”
“Foolhardy woman!”
“Irritating man!”
“Ahem,” Blackmore muttered. “It’s nice, and all, that you’re gettin’ along so…well, but ‘ave you thought that these letters might link in some way to Miss Wilhelmina? Or, dare I say, be a match to your own letter…sir?”
God damn the man. What was he thinking? Anna deflated at the mention of her missing cousin. Then turned desperate eyes to my face.
“The letter. Are they at all similar?” she asked with all the hope in the world swimming in her stormy gaze.
“I…” I said, feeling all my rage dissipate. I swallowed, wanting desperately to reassure her, then shook my head. “My letter is not the same.”
“But it don’t half smell the same,” Blackie muttered, and I swear, I wanted to hit the man square in the face.
All that saved him was the fact that he’d hit back harder.
And the shock on Anna’s face.
So Very Protective
Anna
“The letters are connected,” I declared, staring at the two notes, side by side.
Andrew had baulked at revealing his missive, but Sergeant Blackmore had been most persuasive. And the corner in which the inspector had been corralled into left him little room to manoeuvre.
“The handwriting and origin are not the same,” Andrew argued now.
“You cannot deny the link between the nightingale and jasmine.”
“Coincidence.”
“Is that deadly nightshade?” I asked, peering at the flower drawn in the lower left-hand corner of Andrew’s letter.
“The one and same,” Blackmore agreed, almost cheerily.
I stood up and stared at the inspector. “Nightshade and nightingale. One could hardly call that a coincidence, rather a message.”
“The Dutch East Indies and London,” Andrew replied, tapping the stamps on the envelopes one after the other.
“Jasmine,” I returned, crossing my arms over my chest most inappropriately for a lady.
Andrew sighed. “It is not her penmanship,” he said softly, waving a hand at my letter.
And the tone of my note did not match the tone of his, either.
I read the words again, my heart clenching. No wonder Andrew had eschewed revealing its contents.
Husband,
Your little bird has flown the coop and is no longer under your protection.
For shame, Andrew. Don’t you know how I long to cage it? To watch it break, its feathers losing lustre, as day by day it withers away, locked inside a gilded prison.
I had thought, my love, that you had learned your lesson. For the jailor is the one who ultimately pays, is he not? And I am ready for my penance.
I shall face the final hour with aplomb. But not before I steal your little bird away.
EMK
Mad. She was mad. And clearly playing with Andrew as though he the prey and she the hound. In some wicked, twisted version of a fox hunt.
“I see now, sir,” Sergeant Blackmore said carefully, “why you booked passage so swiftly.”
He came to London to protect me.
My eyes met Andrew’s; he held my gaze with one so stoic I swear I could feel the chill of it emanating from his body.
And instead of finding me in harm’s way when he got here, he’d discovered my cousin missing.
“She thinks Wilhelmina is me,” I whispered, horrified at the discovery.
“It would appear so,” Andrew said slowly.
“Where would she take the young miss?” Blackmore asked.
“I fear, I have no knowledge,” Andrew replied, his eyes still on my face; as if he were unable to look away. “But with last night’s charade and children missing from Whitechapel streets, I believe there is a chance of Eliza May’s involvement.”
“With missing children?” I asked, aghast, well aware that the confrontation in the inspector’s house last evening led to only one conclusion.
“It is not out of her purview,” he admitted now with a grimace. “And the means to abscond with someone from off the street requires a certain talent the abductors of children would possess. Eliza is adept at bending people to her whims; she is less likely to get her hands dirty that way.”
What horror had she performed to make her husband, this man who prizes loyalty and protection of those he cares for above all else, to turn on her? To cause her to leave him for dead.
She sold herself as a botanist. We’d had a number of poisonings. She was the foremost knowledge on such.
“The Lambeth Poisonings,” I said suddenly.
“What of it, Doctor?” Blackmore asked.
I lifted my eyes to Andrew’s; he winced, stepped back, and then straightened.
“You already suspected a connection,” I guessed.
He sucked in a breath and then murmured, “Strychnine.”
“A plant derivative,” I added.
“One she has used before?” Blackmore asked, his eyes not uncaring as he looked to the inspector.
Andrew nodded, his gaze darkening, thunderclouds appearing across his face.
“She will not be immediately involved,” he said quietly, turning slightly as if he wished to give us his back, not face the condemnation he was sure would be there, but couldn’t countenance the cowardly act.
I loved him more for his courage right then than I had thought possible. What a wretched world he had lived in. What a wonderfully moral man he had remained despite it.
“Eliza May is a mastermin
d of deceit and slight of hand,” he said gruffly. “Nothing she does can be held against her. She has always remained two steps removed from the acts.”
He stared out of the window, watching the clouds darken as the day closed in. No fog; there was too much wind. But the wind had a bleakness to it, that brought to mind one’s worst fears; the patients in Bedlam would be revolting. The wind, they said, spoke to them of its ill intent. Stirred them to do its bidding.
“What did she do, Andrew?” I asked.
“I never wanted you tainted by this,” he said softly.
“Knowledge itself is power,” I replied and watched as his nostrils flared and his eyes widened.
“Ipsa scientia protestas est,” he said in reply.
We waited. He could not be pushed on this. Should not be. To relive his past would be to invite the ghost back in. But had she not invited herself back into his life again with that letter? He'd hunted her across the globe and finally given up and turned his back on his past, claiming a new life in New Zealand. She was free of him, as she must have intended when she left him for dead in their burning house. Why garner his attention now? Why lure him back to London?
The only reason I could think of was me.
The thought was a desolate one. For I would not have him harmed by my hand or that of another who wielded the weapon because of me.
As much as I longed for our relationship to become intimate, I knew without a shadow of doubt that to do so before Eliza May was caught would cause Andrew harm.
I took a metaphorical step back as my heart broke and my throat ached with the need to shout my anger and disappointment to the rafters.
Oh, what a wretched world this is.
“The poisonings at the time,” Andrew finally said, “were at her bidding, I was sure, but I could never prove it. I found…things in our home. Things that even a botanist should not tamper with. But nothing at the murder scenes could be linked to my wife. And still, every night she cooked dinner for me. Tended to my needs. Acted as any wife is wont to do.”
I swallowed back bile.
“She knew I knew,” he said. “I’m not sure for how long she continued to play the act of wife with that knowledge. At any stage, she could have laced my meals with strychnine. But she did not.
“Then the Ripper struck, and the world changed overnight. I insisted she remain indoors, off the streets, away from Leman Street, which had become a target. Little did I know that chasing the Ripper would bring my hunt to my own doorstep and my wife as she waited for me.”
“They worked together?” Blackmore asked, his shock making him forget Andrew’s pain for a moment. Or maybe it was the inspector’s pain that forced him to interrupt his superior.
“Again, I have no proof,” Andrew said in that dead voice he’d adopted. “But the only murderers I found on London’s streets that year were men who claimed to know my wife. Even if only remotely.”
Oh, good Lord. His professional standing must have been in question. Was that why Superintendent Arnold spoke to him so witheringly?
“Poisons and slashings,” Sergeant Blackmore mused.
“And missing children,” Andrew added. “There were always some of those.”
“She uses them?” I asked, my mouth dry. “In what capacity?”
“In whatever capacity suits her needs.”
To murder, steal, work to the bone for scraps of food and a flea-infested bed upon which to sleep. It could hardly be for the comfort of her bosom.
“So we start with the children,” Blackmore said.
“The Old Bailey,” Andrew replied, nodding his head, some colour returning to his cheeks at last.
“I’m coming with you,” I announced, expecting the obligatory argument.
Andrew opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again, but said nothing.
Thinking of his wife? Or the gilded cage she claimed I was imprisoned in?
But it wasn’t Andrew’s need to protect me that kept me trapped. Emily Tempest burst through the door to the sitting room, trailed by Mrs Pugh, who frantically dusted her hands on her apron.
“La, Dr Cassidy!” the young chit exclaimed. “What fascinating company you keep!”
My eyes met Andrew’s. Had she heard what we’d been discussing?
I shook my head and rose from my seat, clasping Emily’s hands in my own.
“Sweeting,” I greeted, kissing her cheeks. “How splendid you are here.”
“Now, now, Anna, don't be coy. You know very well Henry has sent me. And not a moment too soon. For shame! Alone with two gentlemen. Henry has the right of it to be concerned.”
I arched a brow at her; Emily would be the first to slip her brother’s leash when it so pleased her. She’d been successfully navigating that minefield for the past four months.
“Humour him, dear one,” she whispered. “Or he’ll challenge your inspector to a duel. So very protective.”
“And proprietary,” I muttered.
Damn Henry Tempest, Esquire. I watched as Inspector Kelly and Sergeant Blackmore left the building, heading towards the Old Bailey.
Leaving me behind in my gilded cage, my feathers most definitely ruffled.
Minutes Felt Like Days
Inspector Kelly
I watched from the shadows as Blackie completed the exchange with the newsie, tugging his hat low over his hard eyes, his gaze on the surroundings, a limp to his gait as he crossed the street. The act was convincing, for I believed him injured when so presented, yet I knew the sergeant had not fought in the rings for months and therefore did not suffer such an injury.
“Well?” I said, as he slipped into the alley I was hiding in. The thought had me reminiscing my last conversation with Anna.
“Will you run again?” she’d asked.
“I wasn’t running.”
“Then hide, perhaps?”
“Nonsense.”
I pushed Dr Cassidy from my mind; I had no hope of pushing her from my heart, however.
“It’s as we feared, sir,” Blackie said, straightening his posture. “Two days past, a Black Maria full ‘o orphans entered under the portcullis. Their cries could be ‘eard for miles. At dusk, that same day, they left via the west gate in a closed wagon, but the newsboy ‘eard ‘em just fine.”
“Did he see Miss Cassidy amongst those taken?”
“He did not, sir, but he did confirm there were girls amongst those he seen.”
I scowled at the pavers, then flicked my eyes over what I could see of Newgate Street.
“They take them to the gaol,” I mused, “openly one could say, and then surreptitiously remove them. To what purpose?”
“I do not know, sir. But I can speculate. For nefarious purposes, eh?”
“Female and male orphans?”
“Yes, sir.” He looked as grim as I felt.
“We needs must approach the gaol,” I declared.
“Is that wise, sir. Showin’ our hand, and all?”
“What choice have we, Sergeant? If there is a chance that Miss Cassidy was wrongly taken - and one can only hope her diminutive size, nervous disposition, and worn travel cloak would have convinced the abductors she was indeed a child - then we must discover to where she has been sent. This may have nothing to do with my wife.”
It was a small hope, but I clung to it.
“Well, this was no Met doin’, neither, if you don't mind me sayin’, sir. For the newsie did not see a blue drivin’ the wagon.”
“Could he identify who was driving the wagon?”
“Warden garb, sir.” Blackie looked to the gaol. “Why would Newgate get involved with cleanin' up the streets?”
“And why do all roads lead to the Old Bailey?”
“Maybe they don’t, sir. Maybe the reference to the Bailey was the location, not the buildin’. Newgate Gaol lies on the corner of Newgate Street and Old Bailey Street. Just ‘cause the courts share a street entrance with the gaol, don’t make it our destination.”
�
��And yet I cannot move past the Central Criminal Court being essential to this operation. If this is an effort to clean up the streets, then the order originated there. However, without Metropolitan involvement, I cannot believe this is an official undertaking.”
“And let’s not forget the twilight escape through the side door.”
“Indeed.”
We both stared at the imposing structure across Newgate Street, the newsie calling out his latest headline, pie carts selling their hot wares, curricles rolling past, their occupants oblivious to the horrors that transpired within the solid brick walls.
“There are children on this street,” I observed.
“Dressed to the nines, and all, sir,” Blackie agreed.
“The wrong type of children.”
“Aye.”
We watched on in silence a few moments more, then I said, “I’ve seen enough, Sergeant. This entrance is their official façade. I wish to see what lurks beneath.”
“Old Bailey Street, then, sir?”
I nodded and started walking toward the western entrance to the gaol.
The Central Criminal Courts beckoned, but I refused to be led down a path without first eliminating every other avenue. The west gate, which could hardly be called a gate, more a thick, double-sided, wooden door, appeared a few seconds later. One solitary guard stood outside, but I was certain more watched from behind the battlements.
We studied the entrance, noting the evidence of wagon wheels running beneath the doors, and then took up residence across the street, watching the comings and goings of an inner city gaol. Supplies were delivered, the guard marking each off on a list he kept in his breast pocket. No one exited, other than those who delivered their goods. Nothing else indicated what lay beyond the closed doors.
“We need inside,” I announced.
“Should be easy,” Blackie replied, receiving a raised eyebrow from me. “Breakin’ into a gaol is much simpler than breakin’ out, is it not?”
“I am sure that is not entirely the case, Sergeant.”
“Watch and learn, Inspector. Watch and learn.”
Blackmore took off down the street, heading towards what was obviously a delivery wagon rounding the corner from Ludgate Hill. I held my breath as he crossed the roadway, intersecting the wagon, causing the driver to pull on the reins and slow the vehicle. Then in a move befitting the cunning wile of a pugilist, he rolled beneath the wagon as soon as it picked up speed.
Breathless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 2): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series Page 12
