Breathless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 2): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series

by Nicola Claire

  I cleared my throat; it felt raw all of a sudden.

  “Newgate,” I said.

  His spoon stopped midway between plate and parted lips.

  “Gaol?”

  I nodded.

  The spoon clattered back to the plate.

  “Well,” Blackmore said. “Ain’t that a turn up for the book?” He smiled. “At least I know how to break ‘im out of there.”

  I blinked.

  And then Henry Tempest walked into the room; cravat askew, flush to his cheeks, a satisfied skip to his step. That damnable cane tapping.

  Blackie looked over his shoulder and stilled.

  Dumble watched from behind the bar with sharp eyes.

  And I pushed up out of my seat and walked toward my friend.

  Practically making Henry jump a country mile.

  Checkmate

  Anna

  “Dr Cassidy! Anna,” Henry said, somehow gaining control of his surprise. He glanced around the tavern, then stiffened. “Have we not already had this discussion?” He leant forward, reaching out to grip my elbow tightly, and whispered, “This is no place for a lady, madam.”

  “But for a gentleman?” I enquired.

  “’Tis the state of society, Anna. One cannot fight the monster that is the ton.” He stared down at me, a plethora of emotions flittering across his handsome façade. “You do vex me, Doctor. Why is it that you insist on trawling Whitechapel. Is it your cousin? Seek you answers in the inns and wine shops? Would Mina have traversed here?”

  “I have learned much of my cousin, Mr Tempest, in the past few days. I do believe she was seen on Whitechapel’s streets before her abduction.”

  “Abduction? You suspect such foul play?” He was very good at acting the part. His shock appeared genuine, but I was not so easily persuaded.

  “Wilhelmina is small in stature,” I advised. “And was dressed as if she belonged on the street. It is our belief she was picked up along with several orphans and taken to Newgate.”

  He took a step back. Horror painted a vivid picture across his face. His skin paled, his hands shook, his moustachio quivered as if it were a nervous caterpillar.

  “This cannot be,” he whispered. “Oh, my dear Anna. I have never heard of such a thing.”

  “‘Ave you heard, then,” Sergeant Blackmore said from behind me, “of such urchins bein’ used in slavery?”

  I spun to face the sergeant; shock now painting my face a shade of pale. Slavery?

  “Sl…slavery?” Henry enquired.

  Blackmore’s eyes flicked to mine only briefly, before returning to Henry. The sergeant narrowed his gaze.

  “Know you much of the mines up north, sir?”

  “Mines?” Henry said carefully. “There is many a coal mine north of London. Speak you of which precisely?”

  “Perhaps the Londonderry coal mines, sir. In County Durham.”

  “Now, see you here, man! I will not have you saying such things!” Henry took a step toward the sergeant, his righteousness making him bristle alarmingly.

  I noted Will Dumble move out from behind the bar, and several other patrons stop their conversations and watch eagerly. Tension rode the air. Eagerness twisted features. Henry had his hands balled into tight fists. He had half a foot on the sergeant in height as well, but the sergeant was a pugilist. And I’d hazard a guess Henry Tempest was not.

  This could turn ugly.

  “Gentlemen,” I said urgently. “Perhaps we need to take this elsewhere?”

  “Seems a fittin’ place for treachery,” Blackmore offered. He would not look away from Henry, but I was sure he noted the barkeep’s hostility.

  Not much got past Sergeant Blackmore. Evidence of that fact was present in his current line of enquiry. Had he learned such whilst inside Newgate Gaol? What had he learned exactly?

  “Treachery!” Henry exclaimed. “I’ll tell you what is treacherous, sir. Your accusations against a peer of the realm.”

  “Your uncle,” Blackmore supplied. “Charles Vane-Tempest-Stewart, the Marquess of Londonderry. Keepin’ it all in the family, aren’t we?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The family,” I repeated. “Tempest.”

  “Anna?” Henry asked, looking lost and angry and desperate for me to stop this confrontation from progressing.

  I couldn't do that. Not if we were to find Mina. The Tempest family was involved in all of this. From Henry’s presence on Whitechapel streets to his father’s role in the Lambeth Workhouse. To the family coal mines up north and the supposed destination of the abducted orphans.

  “Lambeth Workhouse,” I said.

  Henry shook his head. Taking a step back from both Blackmore and me.

  “Your father is on the board of guardians, is he not?”

  “Why are you doing this?” Henry asked quietly.

  “I must find her, Henry.”

  “This is not like you, Doctor.”

  “I fear you do not know me at all,” I offered.

  “No, perhaps I do not. Nor shall I endeavour to discover more.”

  He made a move to turn away. Blackmore stepped in front of him, cutting off his egress.

  “Not so fast, lad,” he said, making Henry jerk to a stop. “We need answers.”

  “I do not answer to you, sir.”

  “Perhaps you’ll answer to this?”

  And then Blackmore hit him. A swinging punch that had fist meeting jaw. Henry spun, his cane toppling to the floor, his hand coming up and cupping his chin.

  And then he was on Blackmore, fists flying, breaths ragged, grunts of exertion as each man pummelled the other.

  I jumped back, lest I receive a stray cuff to the head. Hands landed on my shoulder, a rough grip followed, and hard words met my ear.

  “You bring trouble with you, luv,” Will Dumble said. “Your quid don't cover the cost of this.”

  He let go and stepped around me, reaching into the fray and gripping first Blackmore’s jacket collar and then Henry’s. He lifted them both up as if they weighed nothing, and stormed toward the front door to the tavern. With a grunt and a heave, he threw them out of the building.

  Then turned toward me.

  “Tell Polly I’ll eat her bloody crackers if she sends another the likes of you to me.”

  He held the door open and glared, his hand outstretched, indicating I should walk through it.

  It had all transpired in a mere few seconds.

  I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders and walked across the taproom. My boots making little clipping sounds on wood which sounded far too loud in the echoing silence.

  I stepped out into fog-filled London. The door slammed shut at my back, making me jump. I scowled at it and then scanned the road for Blackmore and Henry. They were nowhere to be seen. I searched the footpaths and shop stoops for their dark forms, my ears straining for the sound of fisticuffs. The longer it took to find them, the more I was ill at ease.

  I looked to the ground at my feet, seeking inspiration. My eyes landing on my reticule as it hung before me. Reaching inside, I withdrew the latest letter. I needed answers. Not a thing was making sense. Blackmore and Henry were gone. I had nothing to lose by rereading it.

  My eyes scanned the words again for meaning. The writing this time made as if in haste. Or anger. The words cutting, as though delivered by knife. The jasmine scent had weakened, but it still left me feeling faint. The postal stamp confirming Eliza May’s presence in London. The Dutch East Indies would not have been too far away.

  My not so dearest Anna,

  It is with the gravest of hearts that I must cease our communications.

  For you have so disappointed me.

  I have seen you with him. I have witnessed your disloyalty.

  Ours is not a loveless relationship, is it? Must you tear it apart so harshly?

  If this is your chosen path, then mine has also been written.

  And I am afraid to say; it does not bode well for your cousin.

  Y
ours, at one time, sincerely,

  MM

  This was all very perplexing. We knew Eliza May was involved in Mina’s abduction. We knew she was hell-bent on seeking her revenge on Andrew and had, therefore, staged the telegraph boy’s death. Eliza May also had links to the Old Bailey and the bribing of judges. Yet here we were on Whitechapel Road, where the orphans had disappeared and then been sent on to work in a Tempest coal mine. Blackmore and Andrew both believed Mina had been taken along with the children. If so, how did Henry’s family connect to Eliza May?

  I’d wanted answers. I’d only found more questions.

  Wilhelmina’s absence. Andrew’s arrest. The orphans and slavery. The Lambeth poisonings and telegraph boy’s death. The bribing of judges at the Old Bailey. Newgate Gaol and a house burned to the ground on Lime Street. Strychnine. Scopolamine. Nightshade. Nightingale. Jasmine. The Dutch East Indies. London. County Durham.

  It was all so unintelligible. Illogical even. But it did not matter who had taken Mina or even why. But where she had been taken to instead.

  And Blackmore had narrowed it down to Lord Londonderry’s coal mines.

  That was where we needed to go, then.

  But first I needed Sergeant Blackmore. He was handy with his fists, and a parasol only provided a woman so much cover.

  I spied an alleyway off to the side; the only possible location for the scuffle to have hied itself off to. So, determining my course of action, I took the necessary steps to reach it.

  Rounding the corner into darkness, I marched on heedlessly.

  And felt an arm go around my neck, cutting off all air.

  “Shhh,” a whispered voice I instantly recognised said. “Be at ease, Doctor. You and I need to have a little chat.”

  Mary Moriarty my mind supplied. Eliza May my heart corrected.

  I gripped my parasol with one hand, and her arm about my neck with the other.

  Then purposely removed one to aid the other.

  The snick of my sword sliding free from the parasol’s sheath sounded out on the air.

  The click of her pistol cocking at my ear drowned out anything further.

  “Checkmate,” she whispered. And then laughed. “Oh, you never fail to surprise me. Such a delight.”

  Contrary woman, I thought, and dropped the sword to the ground.

  This was her game, after all, and I a mere pawn in it. I waited on her next move, wanting nothing more than to corner the queen with my knight.

  My eyes darted down to the fallen parasol-sword, and I grimaced.

  Well, this was a fine pickle. So, I stomped on her foot instead.

  Nothing But My Fear

  Inspector Kelly

  The stench of urine mixed with the smell of sweat. A hacking cough sounded out in the dim interior of the gaol. Something scuttled through the straw mattress I rested upon. A drip worked its methodical way into the stone in one corner. A grimy, long fingered hand wrapped around the bars of the cell opposite me, and two dark eyes peered out from behind lank hair.

  “It’s not like they don’t know who they work for,” the man said, then spat on the ground outside of his cell. “’Tis not often a man can say he’s called for a higher purpose.”

  I shifted, resting my back to the cool stone, my legs out before me, my boots barely missing a piss-filled puddle in the middle of the room.

  “This person styles themselves as a god, then?” I queried.

  The cove chuckled; a wet, throaty sound. He ran a ragged sleeve under his nose and leant in closer to the thick bars containing him.

  “More like a goddess, guv. And who wouldn’t sell their soul for a fine bit o’skirt, eh?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Charlie!” someone snarled. “Wot you talkin’ to ‘im for? You know he’s naught but a blue bottle.”

  “Aye, a blue bottle who’s gonna get me out of this ‘ere trap.” Charlie, my would be snitch, rattled the iron cage that surrounded him in emphasis.

  The guards who normally patrolled this section of Newgate were conspicuously absent. Giving me time to do some work. Blackie had already been inside the gaol, and as far as could be seen, he was out again. Whether he’d already ascertained where the orphans had been taken to, I did not know. But I wasn’t about to waste an opportunity when so presented with one.

  Something bit my leg and I slapped a hand against it. My palm came away with a telltale spot of blood. Fleas. I grimaced. It would take a week of bathing to rid myself of them once I left here.

  If I left here, that was.

  “A woman,” I said, reminding my talkative friend of where in his diatribe he’d been interrupted. “You say a woman runs the Blind Beggars gang?”

  “Ain’t no beggar, guv. But she sure as shite’s a lady.”

  “A name?”

  “I mights be convinced to give you one when you gets me out of ‘ere.” He didn’t know this woman’s name. Eliza May would be more careful than that, anyway. Or she’d use the Mary Moriarty moniker she’d adopted.

  “And the orphans?”

  “Takes ‘em up north, she does. Takes ‘em home, they says.”

  Home? Eliza May was born and bred in London. She had no home north of here. But perhaps she did now. Perhaps after having wandered the earth with me hot on her tail, she’d decided to return to England when I gave up. Return to pastures greener than London.

  “Does this woman have a benefactor?” I enquired.

  “She don't need no benefactor, guv. She’s the top dog, she is.”

  “I hardly believe that.” I believed it wholeheartedly. Eliza May never did take kindly to being second best. Unless it suited her, of course. I purposely pushed the memories away. I had no time for them in here.

  “This is no average chit,” Charlie said with a hint of awe. “She’s gots the entire city eatin’ out of the palm of her hand.”

  “In what way?”

  “She runs the markets.” Covent Garden. Petticoat Lane. “She runs Whitechapel. She runs the Old Bailey. She runs the river like it’s the blood in her veins. London runs to her beat, guv. No one messes with her or her boys. First thing she did was get rid of the Struttons. Crushers found ‘em all holed up in a warehouse in Lambeth, froth pouring from their mouths, their skins so pale they say you could see clear through ‘em to the filth beneath.”

  “Poison.” How apt. And in Lambeth, no less. According to Sammy Swift Fingers’s last words, the Blind Beggars appeared in Spitalfields close to a year ago. Perhaps the Struttons’ demise, so different and yet so similar to the whores’, was far enough in the past for L Division not to make the connection.

  “Charlie,” the interfering conscience of two cells down called out. “Shut your bone box! Do you want a scroby, then?”

  “None of her boys is in ‘ere, is they?” Charlie shouted back. “If you was a Blind Beggar, then you’d not be found in Newgate.”

  “No Blind Beggars at all?” I asked.

  “None, guv. They all gets their bail.” Justice Blackborough.

  I grimaced and shifted my leg before it grew too numb. The reminder of who I dealt with left a foul taste in my mouth. Eliza May was indeed capable of running the back streets of London city, of mixing with the downtrodden, manipulating their desires, and then washing herself clean again with a sip of middle class wine.

  But she’d need contacts. Contacts up north, it seemed. I scratched at my beard, noting absently that it needed a trim. Chances of that in here were slim to none. The whore left at the Lambeth Workhouse could have been a misdirection or a mistake. Eliza either wanted us to think the Tempest family was involved or she’d used a Tempest coach which would not have been unusual in such a location, but had for some unknown reason had to dump the body in that courtyard.

  The foundation stone with John Tempest, ESQ imprinted upon it may have been an oversight. How many people look to those when perpetrating a crime?

  But although my gut told me the Tempests were involved in this somehow, I also knew Eliza Ma
y to be more careful than that. I’d chased her across three different continents and a handful of islands for twelve months. She’d barely left a trace of her footprints.

  Dumping the woman, a woman who looked for all intents and purposes like Wilhelmina Cassidy, in the Lambeth Workhouse gardens was not an action I would have assigned to my wife.

  “Charlie,” I called softly. “Where up north do you think the orphans have gone?”

  “You plannin’ on rescuin’ them, guv?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’ll believe that when I sees it. A peeler doin’ somfink for the likes o’ us? Nonsense.”

  “Say I’m not like other policemen. Say I have a vested interest in one of the poor souls taken from Whitechapel. What then?”

  Charlie scratched at his tuft of hair and then spat out a glob of phlegm on the ground.

  “I ‘eard it was Durham, guv. Lots of mines to hide a lost soul in up there.”

  Coal mines. The Londonderry coal mines. The Tempest family seat of power. Of course!

  A thrill raced through me; a sudden urgent feeling of needing to investigate further. But trapped as I was inside the impenetrable walls of Newgate Gaol, the thrill soon was replaced with despondency. I picked up a tin mug and banged it against the bars of my cell in frustration.

  “Oi,” someone called out. “Don’t be doin’ that! They’ll come runnin’.”

  Exactly. I hit the bars more firmly, really throwing my back into it.

  The rattle of keys and the clank of locks turning soon followed, and then the groan of several prisoners accompanied by the clip of shoes upon flagstones. A brown suited figure appeared before my bars, hat still upon his head, pipe protruding between pursed lips, a glint of mischief in his dark eyes as he peered down at me and grinned.

  “Inspector Kelly,” Edmund Reid announced. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  I pushed up from my resting place and approached the bars. Reid did not step back but simply smirked.

  “Where is Arnold?”

  “Superintendent Arnold to you, sir,” Reid shot back. “And he does not need to dirty his shoes in such a foul-smelling place.”