Fearless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 1): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series (6 page)

“My surgery is in the city,” I said. “Should you require a measure of potash, or any other medical need for that matter, you can find me there.”

He stared at the card, dumbfounded, at a guess. His next words confirmed as much.

“Are you mad? Giving me your address?” His eyes came up and searched my face, then with hazy vision assessed my state of dress and person.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“I ain’t telling you my name, missus.”

“Mine is Anna.” I stretched out my hand for him to take. “Dr Anna Cassidy.”

“Doctor,” he said softly. “Whatcha doing here?”

I didn’t remind him that we’d already had this conversation. His moment of clarity could well have been short lived.

“I’m looking for a young child; a boy. Seven or eight years old; nimble, wily, spends time in and around Queen Street, but resides here.”

“There’s many,” the man said, not reaching for my hand to shake, but taking the card and fingering it. He stared at it for a long time, and then looked down at his fallen companion.

They looked alike, I realised. Brothers, I should think. Hard up for work. A little desperate. I knew what desperate men could do. I’d seen the results first hand. I’d dissected them.

I also knew what compassion and non-judgement can sometimes achieve. I was betting a lot on the latter.

“You need to leave, Doc,” the man said, still fingering the card and staring down at his brother. “This ain’t no place for a lady.”

“I can’t,” I offered. “Lives may depend on me finding this boy.”

“What’s he done, then?”

“Nothing,” I rushed to assure. It would do no good for these men to locate the child and persecute him for crimes he hadn’t committed. “But he may known something of someone who
has
done wrong. A grave wrong. The worst.”

Bloodshot eyes flicked up to my face, sweat beading along his brow now. He was working hard to stay upright. Harder still to follow the conversation. Opium may well be the means of delivery for so many, but I knew its tentacles had claws. And once trapped within them, escape was often futile.

“You can’t stay here,” he pleaded. “There’s no help for you, should you need it. Not here, miss.”

I took a gamble; stepping forward and wrapping my fingers around the man’s hand, looking up into shadows of madness, reflected in deep pools of brown.

“If I leave, there may be more in need of help,” I said urgently. “If I stay, I may prevent it.”

He would kill again. I was sure of it. Margaret had no enemies. She did not deserve this fate. Was she a crime of convenience? Or was it more? There had to be more. I couldn’t countenance that her death had been for naught.

The man looked down at his fallen brother, then quickly glanced around the narrow street we were on. He pocketed the card, and then gripped my hand more firmly.

“Johnny,” he said, already leading me away. “You stay ‘ere. I won’t be long.”

I tripped after him, realising he was larger than I had at first thought. His stride matched two of mine. Against the wall, he had not seemed so fearsome. Out in the open, moving as swiftly and silently as he was, told another story entirely.

Survival on the streets could make warriors of some.

I glanced up at him, from the corner of my eye. Taking in the hard set of his jaw, the shifting way his gaze moved from shadowed corner to shadowed corner. His head tipped to the side, listening, and then he came to an abrupt stop. One finger of his free hand slowly moved to cover his mouth.

“Shhh,” he whispered. I hadn’t made a sound, but I didn’t pass comment.

My ears rang as I tried to make sense of little noises. A thumping could be heard - or was it felt? - from farther away. I glanced down into a puddle off to the side and watched the ripples move outwards in a rhythmic manner. Matching the strange drumbeat I seemed to feel as much as hear.

What was that? A boat in the dockyard?

The man pulled me back into the shadows, but no one appeared to be approaching. He panted for his next breath, running a grubby sleeve across his brow to catch the sweat. His skin looked sallow, the rising sun, hidden behind high buildings, painting him a jaundiced hue. His lids lowered, his body slumped. He couldn’t go much farther.

“It’s just over there, Doc,” he whispered, nodding towards the other side of a small opening, now doused in early morning sunshine. “They’ll be winding up soon. Dock workers are due to start just after seven.”

I pulled a watch from my pocket and checked the time. It was indeed minutes shy of six-thirty.

“Are the children in there?” I whispered back, trying to discern movement behind a warehouse window.

“They come ‘n go,” he said, sliding down the wall of a building. “Good spot to pilfer.”

Cutpurses. No doubt the child’s reason for being under the stage.

“They steal from the dock workers?”

The man laughed tiredly. His head lolling to the side, his eyelids now fully closed.

“Ain’t no dock workers in there, missus. Just the lost souls.”

I looked on as he passed out, his breathing shallow, but steady. As full unconsciousness claimed him, I helped him down onto his side, ensuring his airway was clear should he feel the need to vomit. For a moment, I just crouched there. Watching a stranger succumb to narcosis.

It hadn’t always been a stranger I had crouched above.

I let a long breath of air out, running my hands down the length of my skirt. They felt damp even within the confines of their gloves. I stood up and looked across the courtyard. The thumping beat had stopped. Voices could be heard in hushed whispers from some distance away. Light had begun to shine out of windows in neighbouring warehouses. The wheels of a carriage or cart clattered over a roadway. Within minutes the sinister air of Mechanics Bay had been replaced with the harsh reality of a working port.

Too late. The boy would have long gone. I knew this, but still I reached down and picked up my parasol, then ventured out of the shadows and into the day. The sun was weak, but brightening. The grime I’d looked upon by waning moonlight was now fully visible and layered in shades of grey.

I crossed the small square we’d come upon, and pushed up onto the tip of my toes, peering into the warehouse the opium addict had indicated. Nothing was discernible through the soot on the glass, but a door opened along the wall some few feet away. Several locks releasing, the groan of a heavy bar being lifted.

I froze.

A tall man walked out, dressed dandily. Crisp linen shirt, extravagant cravat at his neck, brightly coloured, square-cut waistcoat beneath his quilted outer pea jacket. He wore a stylish top hat and carried a cane in kid glove covered hands. He spotted me before I could make myself move. One hand on the windowsill, balancing myself whilst up on the toes of my shoes. The other clutching my parasol.

“Can I help you, madam?” he asked, lifting his hat in greeting.

I knew him and, for the life of me, I could not fathom why he would be here.

“Mr Entrican,” I replied, finally finding the wherewithal to move away from the window.

“Do I know you?” he asked, a pleasant smile gracing his features as his eyes trailed the length of my dress.

I forced myself not to fidget.

“I’m afraid not, sir,” I managed, my mind racing, trying to find meaning where there was not.

I’d hazard a guess that the warehouse was an opium den during the night hours. The orphaned boy running pockets for his gang, just as my helpful addict had suggested. Opium was common enough, even considered
de rigueur
within the fashionable set. My personal dislike of the drug not withstanding, the deputy mayor had every right to partake.

But surely there were better places than this?

“Your name?” Mr Entrican enquired.

I couldn’t avoid it, but somehow handing out my card to the addict felt safer than giving my name to this man.

“Dr Anna Cassidy,” I replied, offering my hand to shake.

His smile broadened and he took a step towards me.

“A doctor, you say?” He took my hand in his without hesitation. A handshake given quite freely.

“Indeed,” I said, now smiling.

“Well I never. What a wonderful time we live in.” The comment seemed genuine.

I relaxed a little more.

He turned and looked at the warehouse. “This is a recent council purchase. But after this evening, I think it might be wise for the City Council to offer it back up for sale.”

“It is being ill used?” I enquired, surprised he was imparting so much.

“Some would say so,” he agreed, amiably. “But between you and me, a place such as this will exist in every city. I’d just rather it didn’t in a council owned structure.”

He laughed at this, offered a “Good day,” and then tipped his hat again. I bobbed my head in return and watched him swing his cane, no hint of its necessity in his ambulation, as he walked off.

How strange.

I looked back at the warehouse and then tentatively tried the door. Locked. Not by Entrican, but someone on the inside.

Letting a breath of air out, I admitted defeat for today. But that didn’t mean the child wouldn’t be back here, his home turf, by this evening. Resigning myself to another night-time foray, I turned on my heel and came face to face with a bleak looking Inspector Kelly.

Sergeant Blackmore stood off to the side, slowly shaking his head in utter disbelief.

“Miss Cassidy,” Kelly growled, bringing my startled gaze back to the inspector. “I do hope there’s a
damned
good reason for your being here. And it has
nothing
to do with the case.”

Six

My World

Anna

“Of course it does,” I replied steadily. “And I
have
a damned good reason to boot.”

Inspector Kelly looked flummoxed for a moment. Completely taken off guard. I used the opportunity wisely.

“I must say, I’m rather pleased to see you’ve come to the same conclusion,” I offered, spinning my parasol in my hand casually.

“What the devil are you talking about?” Kelly demanded.

“The child, of course. That is why you’re here, Inspector. Isn’t it?”

Silence. But I didn’t fail to register the flush of anger behind his beard. Nor the rapid beat of his pulse at the side of his throat. His neckcloth was slightly crooked, his coat dusty and torn in places. I took a sudden step forward, hand raised to inspect the damage.

“Whatever have you been doing?” I demanded.

“What the
hell
are
you
doing?” He took a frantic step back, his limp more pronounced now than ever; he almost lost his balance.

My hand fell to my side and I looked away. Appalled with myself for making him retreat like that. Mortified that he could not bear to have me touch him.

I swallowed thickly, then pasted a smile on my face, and looked Sergeant Blackmore in the eyes.

“Did you find him?” I asked, embarrassed that my voice sounded scratchy.

“We did indeed, miss,” he said softly, compassion and understanding in his gaze.

I couldn’t take it; I began to pace.

“Did the boy see Margaret’s attacker?” I asked over my shoulder. Blackmore was eyeing the inspector sternly. But for his part, Kelly was just staring at the ground.

The sergeant cleared his throat, when his superior did not pass comment, and then reached into his jacket pocket. “The whippersnapper described a tall man,” Blackmore advised, reading from his notepad. “More precisely, miss, ‘a large black shadow what swallowed the lass up.’ He was quite descriptive, he was.”

“Please do not encourage her, Sergeant,” Kelly said levelly.

I threw a disgruntled look at the inspector, who offered a hard look back in return.

“What else, Blackmore?” I pressed, tearing my eyes away with concerted effort.

The sergeant flicked a glance at Kelly, but, bless him, answered my question anyway.

“He said he moved like me.”

“Like you?” I queried, unsure I’d paid much attention to Sergeant Blackmore’s gait before now.

“Like a pugilist,” Kelly offered, and then frowned when he realised he’d “encouraged me” by speaking at all.

I smiled sweetly at him, receiving a disgruntled sigh in return, and shifted my attention to Blackmore.

“So we’re checking the pugilist rings?” I asked, tightening my grip on my parasol. Readying myself for battle.

“You
are not checking anything, Anna,” Kelly practically shouted. The battle had begun.

“And why not?” I demanded, facing his looming form again.

“Because this is dangerous work!”

“Of course it is,” I threw back with great exasperation. “This man killed Margaret. Stabbed her fourteen times.”

“Eighteen,” Blackmore offered efficiently. And when I glanced uncomprehendingly in his direction, he shrugged, looked chagrined, and muttered, “Drummond.”