Secrets in Scarlet

by Erica Monroe

  “It is yours,” Knight grinned. “You said you hadn’t read it, and I remembered I had this edition. I got it when I was at Cambridge. A book dealer had a brilliant stall in the market. I used to go every Wednesday after class.”

  She closed the book gently. Confound it. The book was gorgeous, the caramel leather front supple. Lettering was lovingly embossed onto the cover, along with a picture of Lear, wearing an ornate crown. It was the most exquisite book she’d ever seen.

  And she couldn’t accept it.

  “No, I couldn’t possibly.” She shook her head, but she made no move to hand the book back.

  Knight’s nose wrinkled, his eyes clouding with uneasiness. “Mrs. Corrigan, I saw the book on my shelf and thought you’d like to read it. When you’re done, you could read to your daughter. I have heard that babies like the sound of Shakespeare.”

  When she arched a brow at him, he shrugged sheepishly. “Well, at least I did when I was young.”

  She smiled, in spite of herself. “I can see you, tucked in a window seat with a huge volume spread across your lap.”

  “An accurate picture,” he admitted. “I have three other copies of Lear at home. I can surely part with this one. I mean nothing more from it.”

  Gifts came with expectations, she reminded herself. Edward had given her a necklace that night, and the morning after he’d ripped her heart open and fed it to the fire. She’d finally pawned that necklace, but it had taken her two shots of gin to part with it.

  She wouldn’t be beholden to another man.

  Not again.

  Poppy handed the book to him, already missing the weight of it in her palm. He took it from her, vacillating a moment too long, so that their hands would brush again. Glove against glove, less intimate than when their hands had touched over the teakettle, but it sent a quiver down her spine.

  Touching him felt like coming home.

  “It was sweet of you to think of me,” she said. “But I’m afraid I can’t accept it.”

  Knight redid the paper wrapping; with a careful reverence that made her wonder if he could indeed be trusted with delicate matters like the state of a fallen woman’s broken heart.

  His grin had faded, replaced with sheepishness. “I’m sorry if you thought I was trying to impose—”

  “No, no, of course not.” She didn’t know why she was justifying his actions, when by all intents it had been an improper gesture.

  A thoughtful, lovely improper gesture.

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, remaining in the doorway of that tenement house. Red spread across his cheeks, and she couldn’t bring herself to add onto his crestfallen state.

  “Sergeant Knight, you must understand, it’s not that I don’t appreciate your kindness.” She resisted the urge to lay a hand on his arm. Her body had a way of talking for her that she simply couldn’t countenance here. “But I don’t think it’d be proper, for me to be…on friendly terms with you. After all, you’re investigating my employers. And in these parts, being seen with the police leads to trouble. I can’t have people thinking I’ve nosed.”

  Knight frowned. “There are few things I hate about working for the Met, but that’s one of them. Can’t talk to a pretty woman without her getting accused of turning state’s evidence.”

  He didn’t meet her eye when he said, “pretty woman,” and the crimson upon his cheeks deepened. She loved his bashfulness, for it was the opposite of how Edward had pursued her. Free of fripperies and overly ornate praise, it felt heartfelt.

  “Perils of the job, I suppose.” She smiled when she knew she shouldn’t. For once, she wanted to be genuine.

  He laughed. “Bloody rotten.”

  “Good luck with your investigation, Sergeant Knight,” she said, wishing she could convey all her real well wishes into that one statement.

  She’d say that his compassion had touched a part of her she’d much rather keep locked up tight, hidden from sight, for it was too easily shattered. She’d say that if the circumstances were different—if she’d met him three years ago, if he wasn’t a Peeler, if she didn’t have Moira to take care of—she might have allowed herself to fancy him. Might have been willing to take the chance that he wouldn’t end up some day bleeding to death in these very streets, felled by the very men he’d been trying to protect.

  But she could live one life and one life alone, so there was no time for regrets. Poppy Corrigan she must be.

  8

  The station house on Wood Street was, for the most part, relatively silent today. There seemed to be a lull in arrests. Fewer thieves caught, fewer ruffians found disturbing the general peace. Thaddeus supposed he ought to be pleased about this unexplainable change, but overall, it left him without much to do on his patrol.

  But as soon as he made his case to Whiting, he’d have plenty to do. Boz Larker would be brought before the magistrate. Once the magistrate heard the testimony, he’d decide whether they had substantial grounds to arrest Larker. Thaddeus had no doubt he could prove that Larker had murdered Anna Moseley. Bringing Larker in would justify him spending more time at the factory, sorting through the records. Surely, there’d be something to tie Larker irrevocably to Miss Moseley’s death.

  The counterfeiting charge might be harder to show definitively, but he was hopeful about that, too. Thaddeus had a niggling suspicion that Larker’s wife, Effie, was somehow involved—he didn’t know how yet. He’d observed her interactions with the workers. Something felt off. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew enough to trust his instincts.

  “Where’s Whiting?” Thaddeus asked, sitting down at his desk. “I need to talk to him, but he’s not in his office.”

  Strickland looked up from the pile of papers he’d been sorting. His desk was unfortunately three down from Thaddeus’s station.

  Thaddeus grimaced. He recognized the reports on Strickland’s desk—those were the information sheets he’d given Whiting earlier that week on the Larkers’ known associates. He’d tabbed each sheet with a different color, so that Whiting could flip through the pages quickly.

  Once again, Whiting had passed off a job meant for an inspector to someone else.

  And if that person had been Strickland, he’d bet his last guinea that Strickland had moved up in consideration for Doughty’s vacated inspector post. So much for Whiting’s promises that Thaddeus was the likely candidate.

  “Thorough report here.” Strickland gestured to the pages with one brow arched sardonically. “But all the research in the world isn’t going to make you look less like you’re reaching for things that don’t exist. So, the girl worked at the factory. It’s Spitalfields—everybody either weaves at home or works at a factory where they weave.”

  “I’ve found proof,” Thaddeus protested. “That’s what I need to talk to Whiting about, but he’s not in his office.”

  Shuffling through the reports, Strickland didn’t look up. “He went to the interrogation room.”

  Thaddeus groaned, pushing his chair back and standing. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  Strickland smirked. “I thought I’d give you a few more minutes of thinking you could solve this case before I told you that Whiting’s already got a confession.”

  “Puh—pardon?” Thaddeus sputtered.

  “Go see for yourself,” Strickland shrugged.

  “I will,” Thaddeus replied, turning on his heel and heading down the hall.

  The station’s so-called “interrogation room” was a tiny room, designed to make the inhabitant feel as though the walls were closing in upon him or her. According to Whiting, the less likely escape became to a criminal, the more willing they were to give a full confession. The whole idea seemed disdainful to Thaddeus, who far preferred coaxing information through civil conversation.

  A glass panel covered one wall, so that the other officers could witness what went on. When he’d first joined the Met, Thaddeus had observed from outside for hours at a time, trying to memo
rize the various reactions suspects had to the questions asked. From his study, he’d learned that body language rarely changed between people.

  Thaddeus stood at this panel now, watching as Whiting sat across the plywood table from a small, dumpy man. He could not have been much taller than the dwarves Thaddeus had once seen in an East End sideshow.

  The man was handcuffed to the metal bar drilled into the middle of the table. Thaddeus wasn’t sure the handcuffs were even necessary. The suspect’s expression was so devoid of emotion Thaddeus wondered if he comprehended anything Whiting said.

  Whiting looked up, catching sight of Thaddeus in the window. He came to join Thaddeus outside of the room, leaving the suspect cuffed to the table.

  Whiting closed the door behind him. “I was looking for you earlier, Sergeant.”

  “There was traffic on Pelham Street,” Thaddeus replied. “A coster had set up his cart outside of Coverley Fields and the infirmary. Despite my telling him that it was illegal to sell in the street there, he insisted he was given permission—”

  Whiting held up his hand. “That’s enough. We’re wasting time here, boy. I wanted you to meet the man you’ve been searching for: Raymond McPhee. A tip came in last night and I followed it to McPhee.”

  Thaddeus glanced toward the room again. McPhee had rolled his eyes so far upward that the whites showed, and he stared at the ceiling with rapt interest. He kept repeating the same phrase, but Thaddeus was not close enough to hear it.

  McPhee’s left hand twitched every now and then. How had he managed to stab Miss Moseley with that unsteady grip? She’d been stabbed more than once. While her wounds indicated that the initial impact had been the worst, the knife had been dragged down her back, and then twisted in place for a deeper, wider cut.

  With McPhee’s shaky hands, the likelihood that he could keep such a strong grip on the knife was greatly reduced. Add on to that a struggling Miss Moseley and it became near to impossible.

  “What evidence do you have that he committed this crime?” Thaddeus asked, unable to keep the doubt from his voice.

  Whiting bristled. “He gave a full confession.”

  “But the chance of his stabbing Miss Moseley in her shoulder is very unlikely—”

  “If you don’t believe me, question him yourself.” Whiting walked toward the room, holding the door open.

  Thaddeus tailed behind him. Whiting was not going to be happy with him.

  Yet, he had to make Whiting see McPhee was the wrong man. He’d promised Miss Moseley justice.

  “Mr. McPhee.” Thaddeus took a seat across from the man.

  Whiting lingered at the door. He kept glancing at the hall, probably planning to make a quick escape to the magistrate before Thaddeus could prove once again that he was more competent than his supervisor was.

  For a second, McPhee appeared surprised that Thaddeus had replaced Whiting.

  Thaddeus waited for McPhee’s eyes to focus on him. “Mr. McPhee, where were you on the night of Thursday, April 5th?”

  “At the factory,” McPhee answered without hesitation. “The Larker factory.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “To kill the girl.” Again, McPhee didn’t stop to consider. That alone would have been odd. In most interrogations, suspects usually took at least a minute to formulate a story that would hopefully ensure them less time in the gaol.

  “Why did you kill her?”

  This direct question caught McPhee off guard. He opened and shut his mouth. Diverting his gaze to the ceiling as if it contained all the answers he needed, he considered. His hand began to shake once more.

  “Girl was pretty,” he settled on. “I wanted ’er.”

  Thaddeus arched his brows at McPhee, letting every ounce of disbelief flood into his voice. “So, you stabbed her?”

  McPhee tugged on the handcuffs, his eyes widening. Alarm seized him, and he continued to pull at the cuffs, metal clacking against metal.

  “I said I stabbed ’er, and I did,” McPhee insisted, becoming increasingly irate with each passing second. “Why don’t you believe me? I stabbed ’er. I took a knife and I stabbed ’er with it.”

  “Where did you stab her, exactly?” Thaddeus enquired. It took all the effort he had to make his voice flat, devoid of any emotion.

  McPhee looked up at the ceiling again, and finding it provided no answers, he looked instead at Whiting. “’E’s got my statement,” McPhee said. “I told ’im everything, why you make me repeat it?”

  Whiting reached over his shoulder, and brought his hand up behind him, squirming to reach the elusive part of his back that itched. He rolled his shoulders and angled his body so that he could use the molding to scratch.

  Then, as if he could feel their eyes upon him, he started. “What?”

  “I asked Mr. McPhee a simple question,” Thaddeus said. “Where did you stab her? If you were truly there, you should have no problem recalling.”

  “In the back,” McPhee spat, jerking at the cuffs. “Now let me go, pig. I said all I’m gonna.”

  “I should think that’s enough,” Whiting agreed, stepping forward.

  “I’m not done questioning him,” Thaddeus protested. “Inspector, I’m not convinced he was even present the night Miss Moseley died.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Whiting insisted. “Mr. McPhee has stated multiple times that he stabbed the girl, and that’s good enough for me.”

  He took out a key from his pocket, unlocking McPhee’s handcuffs from the metal bar. The cuffs remained on, however, and Whiting took hold of McPhee’s arm to help up from the chair.

  Thaddeus exited the room behind them. Standing, McPhee was about the height of a ten-year-old boy. Miss Moseley had been frail, yes, but she was certainly taller than McPhee. Presuming she’d been attacked leaving the factory, McPhee had to stab her in the back, underneath her shoulder blade. To inflict such a wound, he would have had to take a running leap—therefore alerting Miss Moseley to his presence.

  If Raymond McPhee had managed to kill Anna Moseley without any assistance, then Thaddeus would turn in his truncheon and top hat.

  And there wasn’t a single “L” in McPhee’s name.

  Whiting handed McPhee off to a waiting sergeant, telling him to proceed with processing McPhee. Nodding at Thaddeus, Whiting began to head down the hall, back toward his office. Thaddeus hustled after him, overtaking him in several strides. Positioning himself in front of Whiting, he spread his arms out, blocking the inspector from going farther.

  “Knight.” Whiting turned his name into a growl, reminding Thaddeus vaguely of a baited bear.

  Were he a sensible man, Thaddeus would have stepped back and let Whiting go about his way. He shouldn’t argue with Whiting, whether or not he believed Whiting was wrong to accept McPhee’s confession without additional investigation. In displeasing Whiting, he risked whatever chance he had still had at filling Inspector Doughty’s vacated role.

  But he remembered standing in that alley at seventeen, seeing Miss Stewart’s mangled corpse, slick with gore. Flies had descended upon her exposed organs in a raging black mass. Thaddeus’s stomach churned. He was shoving Miss Moseley into that tumbledown hackney once more, hollering at the cab driver.

  Wasn’t doing what was right more important than petty bureaucracy?

  And so, Thaddeus didn’t lower his arms. “Sir, it doesn’t make sense. How could McPhee stab Anna Moseley so many times? He’s not exactly the epitome of male strength. And his name—Miss Moseley was clearly sketching an ‘L’ on her dress. Even her mother believes it’s the Larkers.”

  “Let me make this very clear for you, Knight,” Whiting ground out through clenched teeth. “I don’t care who you think murdered that girl. Raymond McPhee has confessed, and that’s all I need.”

  Thaddeus clenched his jaw, stifling a nasty retort. “Despite there being strong evidence that he is not the one who killed her?”

  “It is one case out of a hundred,” Whiting replied. “O
ne case that you’ve already spent copious time on, when I need you to be devoted to your route.”

  “You said you’d give me two weeks to solve this,” Thaddeus reminded him. “It hasn’t been two weeks. I’ve found equipment in the Larker factory that indicates they could be counterfeiters. If I can prove that McPhee has been paid to confess—”

  Whiting shook his head. “No. I will not entertain you any longer on this. This isn’t a grand conspiracy, Knight, it’s a simple murder for which we’ve found the person who did it. You should be congratulating yourself.”

  “But—” His arms fell ever so marginally.

  Whiting darted around him. “But nothing. You will not investigate this further.”

  “I could look into it on my own time,” Thaddeus suggested. “Fully tending to my route.”

  “Absolutely not,” Whiting snapped. “If I hear that you’ve been in the Larker factory, I won’t put your name in for the inspector job. You need to focus on what’s to come, Knight, the bigger cases. How will you have sergeants assigned to you that need your tutelage if you’re chasing after wild horses?”

  Thaddeus dropped back, leaning against the wall. For a moment, he stared at Whiting, open-mouthed. He couldn’t risk investigating. In that initial meeting with Whiting, the inspector had threatened to dismiss him if he disobeyed. If he lost his job, he wouldn’t be able to help anyone else.

  With McPhee taking the blame, Miss Moseley’s real killers would go free.

  There had to be a way.

  “I understand,” he said, for Whiting was still staring at him. “I won’t go inside the factory again.”

  Whiting nodded briskly, pleased with Thaddeus’s response. “I’ll expect to see a full report on your route after you return tomorrow.” When Thaddeus agreed, Whiting set off toward his office.

  Thaddeus remained in that hall for a long time afterwards. If he could somehow find someone to be his eyes and ears inside the factory…

  Of course. Poppy Corrigan.