Fearless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 1): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series

by Nicola Claire

  I reached out instinctively and gripped her hand. Her fingers were the same temperature as mine, and mine were cold. I was sure Wilhelmina was stricken at what might be discussed, as I was distraught at what I was uncovering. But she offered a small squeeze of her hand in mine, and nodded her head for me to continue.

  Is it any wonder I loved this woman?

  I let a slow breath of air out and verbalised my thoughts.

  “He is trying to compensate for a lack of control in his life.”

  “Then he could be subjected to harsh directives normally.”

  “Such as a Militia Guard,” I offered.

  Mina nodded her head. “What else would tie him to a Guard?”

  “His strength,” I admitted. “He has shown unimaginable brawn. Effecting feats the normal man could not accomplish.”

  “Good, cousin,” she encouraged. “What else?”

  “He has an understanding of the human body.”

  Mina grimaced, but didn’t look away. Instead she enquired, “Would a Militia Guard have knowledge of such things?”

  I nodded my head, warming to this new ability to discuss my observations. Receiving feedback and a sense of encouragement I had severely lacked recently. I prayed it was not too much of a burden for Mina. But the light was visible at the end of the tunnel, and the tunnel had been so very dark, I couldn’t seem to stop the discussion now.

  “A Guard would be trained in how to disable an opponent.”

  “You mean kill one,” Mina corrected. “They are military, after all.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “But the precision displayed would indicate more than just a military training. Especially for a volunteer Militia Guard.”

  “You have someone in mind?”

  “The inspector is investigating a possibility.”

  “And this man could fit the account?” she enquired, using terminology I had not expected to ever hear coming from my cousin.

  “Perhaps,” I admitted distractedly. The killer was also intelligent, and I’d spoken to the Militia Guard. Could that man have chosen the horn blowing cherubs? He certainly could have penned the illiterate missives.

  I sucked in a breath of air.

  “What is it, Anna?” Wilhelmina demanded, turning in her seat to face me, her attention wholly on our discussion now.

  “The letters are falsified,” I murmured.

  “In what way?”

  “Designed to look uneducated, where the man himself must be highly so.”

  “Highly educated?” she queried.

  My head nodded as thoughts stormed my brain. Educated enough to know to cover his tracks. To be able to dissect a human body without needless strikes of the blade. To be aware of the inspector’s past and present and know how to wield it with subtlety.

  Intelligent enough to hide behind a disguise.

  “If the letters are false, what else could be?” I mused aloud.

  “Start at the beginning,” Mina suggested. “This murderer is indeed a man?”

  I blinked in surprise at my cousin’s astute understanding.

  “You know, sweeting,” I announced. “You could give the inspector a run for his money.”

  She smiled, the first real smile I’d seen in days.

  “But then how would the inspector prove his worth to you, my dear?”

  My smile fell, quickly followed by Mina’s.

  “Anna? Has something transpired between the two of you?”

  My head shook despondently. “Everything is fine, Mina. But I like where you are going with this train of thought. Is our murderer a man?”

  Mina frowned, unconvinced with my answer, but acquiescing anyway.

  “What evidence have you to work with?” she asked.

  “The post-mortems, the letters, and the murder scenes.”

  “One at a time, cousin. The post-mortem, how does this prove the sex of the assailant?”

  “It doesn’t. We know he or she is right handed. We know they have an adequate knowledge of the human body. And we also know they are not opposed to removing certain body parts.”

  Wilhelmina swallowed visibly, her skin paling a shade or two.

  “Forgive me, cousin,” I rushed to say.

  “No. No,” she managed. “Just give me a moment.” And then she was up and across the room and disappearing from sight.

  I cursed my inability to think before I spoke. The need to determine answers clouding my good judgement. Wilhelmina had not been raised by my father. In fact hers had sheltered her, beyond what is considered healthy for a young woman. The fact that she had participated in this conversation at all was a miracle. The few short months she’d lived under my father’s roof had not been enough to reverse years of moulding.

  I’d just pushed myself to my feet, in order to chase after her, when Mina came bustling back into the room, a tray held tightly in her pale knuckles. She placed it on the table before us, and began to pour tea. Adding several heaped spoons of precious sugar to her cup and only two to mine. Two more than I usually partook.

  She handed me the cup, rattling a little in its saucer, and then lifted her own, as she took a seat at my side. I sank down into the soft padding of the chaise longue and watched as she took first one measured sip, and then another and another. Finally she lowered the cup to the saucer in her lap and lifted tear-rimmed eyes to mine.

  “Go on,” she instructed, causing an inappropriate bubble of laughter to erupt from within. “Anna!” she chastised, but a small smile twitched at the edge of her lips.

  “Very well,” I murmured. “Where were we?” Far be it from me to start this discourse again.

  “He or she,” Mina said very carefully, “removed body parts.” So we weren’t shying away from a thing, this morning.

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “And does this give an indication of sex?”

  I opened my mouth to deny its veracity in this regard and paused. The killer had dissected organs mainly, but also a tongue and a breast. The former did not indicate sex one way or the other. But the latter…

  My eyes flicked to Mina’s. She was watching me, teacup to lips as she sipped. The hot liquid soothing, but not soothing enough for the knowledge I wished to impart.

  I shook my head and chose my words carefully.

  “On the whole, the body parts taken do not lead to a conclusive sex.” I let a slow breath out. “Apart from one.”

  “Which is?”

  “He took a breast.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Emma said, lowering her teacup to the table, managing to spill only a small portion of the tea itself. “How horrendous.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And you believe only a male would attempt such,” she correctly guessed.

  “Along with evidence procured from the letters,” I offered. If the letters were to be trusted, of course.

  “Very well, we’ll move on to the letters.”

  “Are you sure you wish to do this?” I enquired.

  “Is it helping?”

  I bit my bottom lip.

  “Be honest, Anna.”

  “Yes, it is somehow,” I admitted reluctantly.

  “Then we shall proceed. The letters. What lies within to indicate sex?”

  I closed my eyes and thought back on the most recent missive, wishing I’d had the forethought to copy the wording down. But I needn’t have bothered, I remembered every misspelled word as though the letter lay before my eyes.

  “‘I shall imagine your wistful thanks, your lush lips pressed into a determined grin’” I quoted. “And he always signs them, ‘Yours in truth only.’”

  “Does seem rather masculine,” Mina agreed.

  “But so much has been falsified,” I argued. “How can we be sure the murderer hasn’t fabricated this leaning as well?”

  Mina narrowed her eyes, deep in thought.

  “The letters and the post-mortem both support to some degree the notion the killer is male,” she summarised. “How does the murder scene
corroborate or discount this train of thought?”

  “You really are very good at this,” I remarked.

  “Despite the topic and the depravity of what we’re discussing, I am enjoying myself,” she confessed.

  And aside from the fact that we knew the victims. And loved one in particular.

  I cleared my throat, letting out a measured breath of air, then took a fortifying sip of tea. It was cold. We’d been at this some time now. I glanced out the window, noting the rain had stopped and the afternoon sunlight was filtering between grey clouds.

  “The killer showed great strength,” I said softly, taking care to couch my words. “Displayed a sense of madness, which could be inherent or obtained in some external way.”

  “Such as?”

  “An injury to the head. Maltreatment of some kind. Drugs.”

  I paused, thinking back on Mary Bennett’s scene, remembering the proximity to an opium den. Then Helen’s face flashed before my eyes. Unmarred, no defensive wounds, unlike the previous two deaths. Images of the blood which had clearly pooled prior to death joined the others.

  I sank back in the chair. Drummond would have determined more by now, but my conversation with the inspector had been cut short. Did they find opium in her system? Large doses of pacifying Laudanum perhaps?

  “Drugs,” I announced. “His madness comes from drugs.” Because he surely has a knowledge of where to obtain them and how to administer them.

  Silence, as though Mina knew I’d alighted on something that required deep, uninterrupted thought.

  The Militia Guard could fit that bill, but could a woman?

  A small sound of distress emitted from my lips. Because I knew how far a woman could go when caught in the clutches of opium. I knew only too well.

  Images of my mother’s face flared to long lost life inside my mind. Her listless frame. Her dull eyes. Her vacant stare. The grey pallor of her skin. Her parched and bleeding lips. The cough that claimed her.

  I knew all too well how opium, and its many derivatives, did not discriminate by sex. I knew it intimately.

  But opium alone was not all that could be determined from the victims. Margaret’s scene showed evidence of immense strength. Mary’s as well. And although Helen’s did not, she was no doubt under the influence of an insidious, soul destroying drug. The killer did not need his strength when he had compliance.

  But he was strong.

  “The strength of the murderer,” I whispered, “would indicate a male for the role, not female.”

  “In the fairness of discussion,” Mina began, “I must point out his propensity to disguise. Could he have hidden his sex behind the strength? I mean to say, could the killer have doctored his strength in some manner? Made him or herself stronger than he or she would normally be?”

  I stared at my cousin in wonder. Although I did believe the murderer could only be of the male persuasion, I agreed the strength displayed had been a falsity of sorts.

  “You are right, dear cousin,” I said, standing to my feet and moving toward the door to the parlour. “For even though the killer is undoubtedly male - one need only look at the evidence as a whole to determine that fact - the acts still required more strength than humanly possible. How?” I asked, turning at the door and directing my gaze to Wilhelmina.

  She seemed without answer, and as I contemplated my own next words my eyes lifted to the window, catching the sight of a constable across the street.

  Inspector Kelly had not forgotten me. Nor my cousin. I smiled.

  “I must needs pay a visit to the Station,” I declared.

  “The police station?” Wilhelmina queried, also rising to her feet.

  “Indeed,” I said with a nod of my head, and then made to move.

  I stopped in my tracks and looked back at Wilhelmina.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. For so much. For not condemning me. For not holding a grudge. For understanding my desire, my need, to see this through. For me. For them. For my father.

  And for helping me achieve just that.

  “Anna,” she whispered back.

  I smiled. “He had help, don’t you see?” I announced. “He had the knowledge to gain that help and the intelligence to use it sparingly. He knew when to switch it off and when to turn it on. He is a master at it. And you, my dearest, have enabled me to see that.”

  “I did nothing. Nothing at all,” she insisted.

  My chest constricted. My eyes smarted with tears.

  “No, sweet Mina. You did everything.”

  Twenty-One

  Absolutely Not!

  Anna

  The Auckland Central Police Station was bustling, as was to be expected mid-afternoon, in the throes of discovering a murderer’s identity. A low rumble of distinctly male voices hummed through the vaulted ceilinged room, cupboards banged, doors squeaked, and heavy boots thudded across polished wooden flooring.

  The familiar scent of lemon and vinegar filled my nose, welcoming in a way that gripped my heart, closed my throat. Those constables who recognised me nodded their heads, stepping aside to allow me entry, obvious looks of concern across their harried features. There was barely room enough to walk, the entire contingent of officers had been hauled in, no doubt on Superintendent Chalmers’ orders.

  I didn’t envy them their tasks. But I was resigned to aid them in any manner that I could.

  That was, of course, if they allowed me.

  I lifted my head and clutched my reticule closer, then began to make my way towards the front desk. I knew exactly where I needed to go, but getting there without permission would be impossible.

  Halfway across the main room, dodging rushing men and carts full of crooked piles of paper, I collided with a figure stepping out of one of the side rooms. His top hat went flying, and his kid gloved hand reached out to catch it, a velvet covered elbow striking the side of my face in his unchecked movement. I staggered, he spun, and in the next instant I was in the arms of Mr Entrican.

  “Miss Cassidy,” he announced, rather breathlessly. His eyes trailed over my face, no doubt noting the mark he’d left from his ineffectual attempt at rescuing his flying headgear. A hand slowly rose and stroked softly against my cheek.

  The room seemed to spin for a moment. I was unsure whether it was the blow to my head or the nearness of the man. Who held me still in a most inappropriate fashion.

  “Mr Entrican,” I managed, trying to withdraw from his clutches without making it seem obvious.

  “My apologies,” he murmured. “Can you stand unaided?”

  “Of course,” I whispered back, the sounds of the room engulfing us, but somehow not reaching our momentary cocoon.

  “You do appear in the most unexpected places,” he announced, straightening his cravat in a movement that seemed natural, even if the grimace on his face said otherwise.

  “As do you, sir,” I replied, noticing the looks of intrigue we were receiving from the Chief Constable of the Watch. Davies had known my father well, and by extension myself.

  I couldn’t decide if his look was one of disapproval or simple curiosity, though. Either way, it left me uncomfortable.

  “Mr Upton is too frail to attend to this matter, so has asked that I take it upon myself to investigate,” Entrican advised, standing to his full height, which made him tower over me.

  “The mayor is unwell?” I enquired politely.

  “The sooner the elections are over, the sooner he can retire and recuperate,” the deputy mayor announced. “This term has been exhausting for the old chap, and now these murders. No man likes to see his time marked in such dark deeds.”

  I nodded my head slowly in understanding, unusually disturbed by the thought of Helen’s death being nothing more than an inconvenience to a length of term served in office. She was more than that, wasn’t she?

  “And have you discovered enough on your visit to allay Mr Upton’s fears?” I asked.

  “Indeed, the detectives inform me they are no closer to na
ming a suspect,” he shared. “But I have faith they are onto a good lead.”

  “The Militia Guard,” I supplied.

  “Why, Miss Cassidy, you are a font of interesting information. How well are you acquainted with the case?”

  “Too well, sir,” I murmured, my mind full of images of Helen.

  “My dear lady,” he said solicitously, a perfectly covered hand reaching out to touch my upper arm in comfort. “I am sorry for your loss. Perhaps I should have said it sooner. One of the victims was your friend, correct?”

  “I knew them all, Mr Entrican,” I admitted. “But the last victim was a like sister to me.”

  His face clouded for a moment, then a look of sadness quickly followed. So swiftly it was hard to say if his look of disquiet had been there previously or not.

  “My condolences, then, madam.” He bowed slightly, then looked around the room, noting his hat on its side a few feet away. He took the necessary steps required to reach it, dusting it off as he lifted it from the floor. It seemed no worse for wear, but he took his time picking at non-existent dust upon its surface, until finally he deemed the hat wearable again.

  He turned back and crossed the small space between us, the hat held in front of him in both hands. The move made his chest puff out - or the man was presenting himself in his best light - and his shoulders seem broader.

  “Miss Cassidy,” he began. “I realise this is a most inappropriate moment to enquire, but I find myself unable to leave without divulging my desires.”

  “Your desires, sir?” I asked, my eyes taking in the flurry of activity that still mainly shrouded us from view, and the hard look Davies managed to throw my way through all of it.

  “Why yes,” Entrican said. “You have crossed my path several times now and I am becoming more and more intrigued.” He cleared his throat, adjusted his cravat, and then asked, “May I call on you?”

  “Call on me?” I repeated inanely. I shook my head softly to clear the fugue that had invaded, my darting eyes somehow landing on the inspector’s closed door. I turned my attention back to Entrican purposely, and then offered my most beguiling smile.

  “That would be delightful, sir.”

  He grinned, genuinely thrilled to have permission to call, and then bowed low again, reaching out with a gloved hand to one of mine and lifting the back to his lips.