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

by Nicola Claire

  “This has nothing to do with your father,” Chalmers replied levelly.

  “Perhaps not, sir. But it has everything to do with you.”

  “How dare you, Miss Cassidy. Is this what your father taught you?”

  “To question authority?” I said. “Yes. To question the world around me. Most definitely. To never leave a stone unturned. Absolutely. To look with more than my eyes. To hear with more than my ears. To uncover truths even if they hurt me.”

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Chalmers blurted. “Henson!” he called.

  “The killer is inordinately strong, Superintendent,” I said, ignoring his summoning of the constable who undoubtedly was to take me home. “He is mad, as well. Quite insane. But not the insanity of the hopeless. His madness is refined, like the sharp point of a quill. He functions in society, yet harbours a desire for success he has failed to attain thus far in his career. He is knowledgeable in the use and effects of narcotics. He has some measure of skill with human anatomy. In essence, sir, he is intelligent, cunning and lethal. He will kill again, and his targets are Suffragettes.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I do not already know,” Chalmers pointed out, but he hadn’t dismissed me. And he was listening.

  “He has identified with me,” I went on. “He seeks my good opinion. Not because I am a doctor. Or not,” I added, for the superintendent’s benefit. “But because I don’t give up. I never stop.”

  “And you won’t now, is that what you’re saying?” Chalmers did not sound amused. I was losing him.

  “How did you receive the tip-off, Superintendent?” I asked.

  “That’s police business, missy,” he snapped.

  “Actually,” Kelly said in his low, smooth voice. “I’d like to know the answer to that.”

  “Not now,” Chalmers ground out though a clenched jaw.

  “Yes now, Superintendent,” Kelly baldly declared. “And I’d like the opinion of Miss Cassidy. In her capacity as a witness to the letters, of course,” he added, when Chalmers opened his mouth to argue the point. “You cannot deny, she is connected to this mystery. Uniquely placed to offer a perspective. Is it not in our best interest to investigate all avenues available to us? Sir.”

  Chalmers mumbled something indecipherable under his breath, but there was no doubt of its disgruntlement.

  He finally released my arm, making me immediately reach up and rub where the circulation returned in prickling waves of pain, and pulled a note from his jacket pocket. He handed it to Kelly, his grey gaze piercing me with a look of dislike I had never been faced with before.

  Either the man really did hate me, or he hated what I stood for. I couldn’t tell.

  “Ian,” Kelly said, hand fisting around the notepaper. “This is on the killer’s parchment.”

  “What?” Chalmers replied ineloquently. “It’s not the same colour at all.”

  “Here,” Kelly said, holding the paper out and tapping the embossed image of a flower. The flower. The one that appeared on all the killer’s previous notes. And, I’d hazard a guess, appears in that book of Kelly’s in his barracks.

  He knew what it was, I was certain now. He knew what it meant, as well.

  “Damnation,” Chalmers muttered. “You’re right.”

  Kelly drew the note back and read it. “‘Superintendent. The person you seek is near the dockyard tonight. At an establishment frequented by sots and layabouts. Search the den of inequity and find yourself your man. For a Suffragette may suffer indeed tonight, should you fail to heed these words.’”

  “He does not mention the killer in any way,” I offered.

  “No, because he will not share that lofty title with another.” Kelly frowned and reread the wording. “His writing is as appalling as previous attempts, but no misspellings that I can determine.” He handed me the note, both of us forgetting the watchful eyes of the superintendent in that moment.

  “He wrote it in haste,” I declared. “Once he knew we were here. ‘Your man’ is of course you. For who else could be the superintendent’s man? Then am I the Suffragette who may suffer tonight?”

  Kelly met my eyes with a look of concern, but it was the superintendent who spoke first.

  “He knew you were both here and he wanted me to chase you down. Why?”

  I looked around the den, at the disturbance the constables had wrought. None of the patrons were lounging. None were smoking pipes. And the Chinaman had given up all hope of rectifying the situation.

  “He wanted the den closed,” I said. “To hinder our investigation.”

  “We were undercover,” Kelly explained to the superintendent. “We had not made ourselves known in the hopes it would illicit more information.”

  “This man is entirely aware of too much,” Chalmers declared. “How do we combat someone like this?”

  “By playing his game,” I said softly, receiving two disgruntled stares from both men. Each, I was sure, for different reasons. “He knows the inspector,” I offered. “He knows me.”

  “And your point, Miss Cassidy?” Chalmers asked reluctantly.

  “My point, Superintendent,” I said, straightening my gloves and checking the angle of my hat. “You need me.”

  “Now hold on a minute,” Chalmers growled.

  “She does have a point, sir,” Kelly said suddenly, making me suck in a surprised breath of air. This was new.

  “And what would that be, Kelly?” Chalmers demanded.

  The inspector looked at me, his eyes searching my face, looking deep into my soul. I couldn’t breathe, and it wasn’t because I was waiting for Andrew to answer the superintendent. I couldn’t breathe because of the fear and uncertainty and determination I saw in his eyes.

  Nothing scared Andrew Kelly.

  Except this.

  “The killer is connected to Miss Cassidy,” he declared. “We call him out using her as bait.”

  A small breath of air escaped me, as my heart beat unreasonably fast within the confines of my chest. I blinked back relieved tears, my eyes locked on Kelly’s as his were locked on mine.

  “About bloody time you acted like a police inspector,” Chalmers said gruffly, then turned his attention to me. “Well, Miss Cassidy, you get a reprieve, but don’t for a second think this means you’re off scot-free. You’re a menace, and I intend to see you menace the Auckland Central Police Force no more.”

  He paused for breath, but I didn’t let him succeed in drawing it.

  “But for now, you’ll use me?” I enquired sweetly.

  Chalmers scowled. Kelly frowned.

  It was all I could do not to smile.

  Twenty-Six

  Now You’ve Bloody Well Gone And Done It!

  Anna

  I slept not a wink once the inspector delivered me home. Chalmers’ threats too close to my heart, swirling around inside my tired mind. And the inspector’s silence on the carriage ride to my house hadn’t helped, either. His anger at the superintendent had almost been palpable; spilling over the bench seat in the curricle to where I sat and wrapping silent fingers around my arms.

  The sensation hadn’t been nice.

  With a gruff sound and short nod of his head, he had helped me down off the carriage and walked me to the door. Not leaving until I had made my way safely inside and locked it behind me. I had watched from the front parlour window as he spoke at length to the constable across the street, and then he’d been up in his vehicle and away from Franklin Street without so much as a backwards glance.

  I’d stood too long in the dark after that, looking out on the wet streets, watching the shadows shift in between the branches of the London planetrees that lined our steep hill, thinking on Chalmers’ words and Kelly’s quiet but miraculous support of me. Why did his presence offer such welcome relief and his absence afterwards leave me so empty?

  Post that inauspicious farewell I could not settle. And now I found myself barely awake, mid-morning the day after, suffering from a headache, and unabl
e to keep a morsel of food down. I was not normally one to suffer from stress or anxiety, I left those rather lamentable afflictions to my cousin. But try as I might, I couldn’t manage more than a trickle of tea to soothe my nerves.

  I could have blamed my emotional state on Chalmers’ threats, but I rather thought those were familiar now. It may well have been Helen’s death, finally catching up with me and making all possibility of strength disappear. But I was wont to believe it was more insidious than that. If there is such a thing more insidious than death.

  I’d offered myself up as bait and they had accepted.

  I am not a coward, but the thought of drawing out the killer and facing him left me weak kneed and out of sorts. Anger at this outcome was a welcome guest, so I clutched it ever tighter in the hopes I could do this. For Helen. And for Wilhelmina.

  The police had made little progress. Three women had been killed with the threat of more to come. So with little accomplished, what choice did I have? The killer identified with me; I was the obvious choice to call him out. But how much would that connection protect in the long run?

  Fear was not something I was familiar with, but there was no denying I felt it now.

  “Darling,” Wilhelmina called, as she swept into the drawing room. She’d shown more strength in the past few hours than she’d managed to possess in the past few years. I was inordinately proud of her. “A parcel has arrived,” she declared, ruining any chance I had of finishing the crumpet Mrs Hardwick had baked that very morning.

  I placed the cake down on a plate and dusted my hands, standing to receive the dreaded parcel. It wasn’t a box this time, which did not relieve any trepidation. But rather a solid object wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with a string. Mina caught a look at my face and handed the parcel over with concerned eyes.

  “Do you think…?” she began.

  “I have no idea,” I whispered in reply.

  The settee found the back of my thighs as I sat with a whoosh of skirts and petticoats. For a moment unable to breathe. I shook my head, watching the parcel sit innocuously but threateningly in my lap, and then straightened my back. Enough! Whatever lay within would not go away the longer I delayed this.

  I considered moving to my surgery to open it, but my legs were far too unsteady to achieve such a small thing. So I ripped the string off and then carefully removed the paper, immediately recognising the item within.

  “It’s a book,” Wilhelmina declared, relief obvious in her upbeat tone.

  But this was not just any book. I turned it about in my hands and ran a finger over the image of a flower on its cover. With a heavy sigh, I began to flick through the pages. One was marked with a dog’s-ear that appeared to have been made some time ago. The crease quite worn through, almost enough to break the paper. I stared at the drawing of a flower I recognised and read, then reread, and then read again the name of the elusive Suffragette killer motif.

  Atropa belladonna. Or deadly nightshade. It could not have been more appropriate. I knew a little of this flower, but had not recognised the embossed image of it in the letters from the killer until now. Botany was but a small part of my training. I felt sick with the knowledge that I should have been more aware.

  Deadly nightshade had been used by the Romans as poison, as I remember, but before that arrow-tips had been dipped in its tincture, providing an added layer of lethality to the archer’s shot. It possessed anaesthetic qualities in small doses, and in larger it induced hallucinations and delirium. Its toxicity was alarming, and yet its berries and flowers looked sweetly innocent.

  And the man who had killed three of my fellow Suffragettes used it on his notepaper, but why?

  I closed the book with a slap, but it rebounded open to the title page. I attempted to slam the offending article closed again, but Wilhelmina’s hand reached out and stayed me.

  “There is writing on the first page. Perhaps a message?”

  It wouldn’t have surprised me if our killer had sent this and wanted to gloat. See here, I know something you do not. Look how lethal I am with merely a glance.

  But it wasn’t a message, only a name.

  “Eliza May Kelly,” I read aloud, my eyes coming up and meeting Mina’s. “Kelly,” I repeated.

  “A sister?” Wilhelmina asked.

  I shook my head; I had no idea if Inspector Kelly had any siblings. Any relatives at all for that matter.

  “This is his book, I am certain,” I said. “I saw this on his table just yesterday.”

  “What does the flower mean?”

  “I am unsure,” I admitted. “But our killer uses paper with this flower embossed upon it.”

  “Deadly nightshade,” Wilhelmina read aloud from beside me, once she’d turned the book back to the correct page. “A rather ominous name, wouldn’t you say?’

  “Appropriate for a murderer,” I agreed.

  “But what does it mean?”

  I really didn’t know, but there was more to be concerned with than just the thought of what message the killer hoped to convey. He’d known this book existed. He’d entered the inspector’s private quarters and pilfered it. Knowing, too, that it had been on display while I’d been there. Why else would he send it to me, if not as a gift? The killer wanted me to know what the inspector was hiding, but none of this made any sense.

  Why would Inspector Kelly hide the name of the flower the Suffragette killer used in his notes?

  There was more to this than what first appeared. We had a killer on the loose who was playing with us, as a cat would a mouse. And I despised games, especially when I was not privy to the rules. But the killer was one step ahead of us at every turn. Becoming bolder and more cocksure with every day that passed.

  “Five days, three murders,” I said to myself.

  “What was that?” Wilhelmina asked.

  “So short a time and yet the murderer has become so very sure of himself. The first had to have been chance only. The victim killed in a passion of frenzy.”

  “Margaret,” Mina corrected, her tone suggesting I had forgotten.

  I spared her a glance, but did not comment. I never forgot their names. Wilhelmina did not understand this. It was merely a self-preservation tactic, one my father insisted from an early stage in my training that I adopt. Without it, I would feel too much.

  “Margaret,” I found myself saying, despite all logical thought. “The second, Mary,” I offered, “was displayed in a fashion that bordered on reckless.”

  “Reckless?”

  “He knew the inspector was close by, yet he took his time and staged her perfectly.”

  “For Inspector Kelly to find,” Mina finished.

  “Indeed. It was a taunt, but more than that, it showed an increase in confidence for our killer. Add in the excised tongue and subsequent delivery to our home, and he has transcended opportunity delivering himself to purpose.”

  “And every victim thereafter is planned.”

  I stared at my cousin with mounting respect; in spite of her ailments and delicate disposition, she was determined to offer me aid. It was undoubtedly for Helen, but I couldn’t help feeling thankful for myself.

  For how could I sound this out with the inspector, when the inspector was hiding something important? The flower meant something, more than its message of death. And Kelly knew what it meant.

  No. I couldn’t talk to Inspector Kelly about this. But Wilhelmina was proving a rather successful - and quite unexpected - sounding board.

  “Quite,” I said. “Planned. And then there was Helen,” I whispered softly.

  Wilhelmina looked down at her lap where her fingers wound restlessly about each other.

  “I can stop,” I offered.

  “No,” she said, with a soft shake of her head. “You need this.”

  “But you do not.”

  She sucked in a deep breath of air and then exhaled purposefully.

  “Will it help you find him? Stop him?” she asked.

  I had to be h
onest, she deserved as much.

  “It will help me to know him. To face him, when the time comes.”

  “Why would you ever face him?” Mina demanded, strength returning to her frame again.

  “Helen,” I said simply. Mina searched my face and then sighed deeply.

  “Helen,” she said, and that was all there was to say about it. For Helen we would do anything. Face a killer.

  Or face our fears.

  “He respects me,” I said. “He had to have known Helen was a friend; he sees too much not to have had this knowledge. And yet he killed her.”

  “What does it mean?” Wilhelmina asked carefully.

  “That he’s mad.”

  She stifled a sound of distress with her hand and then sat back on the settee as though wounded.

  “How can you face him?” she said through quivering lips.

  “How can I not, sweeting?” I replied, reaching out and holding her hand.

  I didn’t need to say it, she understood. If he could kill my friend, then he could easily kill my cousin. This man had no conscience, no room left in his broken mind for mercy. I doubted, in the end, that I would be overlooked in his pursuit of perfection. For I could never accept the “higher planes” of this path he walked. He wanted that; for me to rise above my dedication and embrace murder. His letter had said as much.

  But I could no further kill than I could stop breathing. Perhaps the greatest flaw in his plans. I may be dedicated to my causes, but I would denounce them all now if it kept Wilhelmina safe.

  The killer had no such grace.

  Mina sat frozen in her seat, gripping my hand firmly, as I stared off across the room towards the hearth and the fire that burned merrily there. The knock on the door and Mrs Hardwick’s arrival broke us both out of our dark musings.

  “You have a visitor, miss,” she said with a small curtsy that almost made me smile. Since when had Hardwick ever offered such formal greeting?

  Mina stood and moved off towards the fire, as I came to my own feet wondering at who it could be. It was still too early for the inspector. We weren’t scheduled to head to Queen Street until closer to the deputy mayor’s speech. The constables, in plain clothes, would already be in attendance. But our arrival had to be planned precisely, to garner the attention of the Suffragette killer.