Fearless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 1): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series (22 page)

That weight became heavier, until I was sure I could no longer breathe.

Kelly's warm fingers carefully wrapping around mine were at once a relief and also a curse.

And I had absolutely no idea which would win.

Nineteen

Never Could Be

Inspector Kelly

"He is mocking me," Anna declared, a delicate frown marring her face as she peered down in judgement at the letter.

"What makes you say that?" I enquired. Even though I already had my own explanation for her words, I wanted to see Anna's mind in motion; a thrill I never failed to enjoy.

"
'Never fear, for I shall guide you.'
" she quoted. "He is quite mad," she concluded, but I could tell the message left her disturbed.

And I disagreed with the argument. "Mad" seemed too simple an explanation. And there was the fact that the murderer knew so much. Knew of my quarters in the old buildings of the Albert Barracks. Knew of Anna's and my unusual relationship. I feared, in that moment, that he knew more. More than anyone in this country did, in any case.

I cleared my throat and scanned the rest of the letter.

"He believes you understand him," I offered. "He sees you as a kindred, someone who shares his view and cause."

"But my cause is the equality of women, in particular their right to vote," Anna argued. "If that were the case, why has he targeted my fellow Suffragettes?"

I re-examined the letter. Not liking the desperate tone to Anna's voice. I hated that this had been brought down upon her. I hated more the guilt I saw in her beautiful eyes. She had suffered so much already, she did not deserve any more. But life is never easy. Sometimes things happen outside of our control.

"
'Dedication'
" I read, turning my attention back to the missive. "Capitalised as though it holds much weight."

"Or is quoted from the Bible," Anna offered. "The only reference I know of is one's sacrifice and dedication to God. This man is not godly."

"I agree. Then Dedication is
his
belief. The belief he thinks you also share."

"Dedication?" Anna repeated quietly, cogs turning behind those expressive storm grey eyes. "I am dedicated to the Suffragettes," she offered. "Dedicated to women's rights," she concluded.

"I can't see this murderer having the same goals," I countered. "As you have pointed out, if he does, why target Suffragettes?"

"It doesn't make any sense," Anna groused, moving away and beginning to pace. Her skirts swirled around her ankles, her bosom rose and fell in rapid movements under her corset as she breathed heavily through rosy red, pursed lips.

Fire. She was on fire and a temptation that would surely doom my very soul.

I shook myself out of the moment, forcing my gaze from the vision before me and back to the depths of hell and the letter spread out on Anna's workbench.

"Then if not the equality you seek for women, the act of being dedicated itself."

Anna stopped pacing and stared up at me, a soft, surprised look on her face that was just as appealing as the passion she'd exhibited moments before. She rushed over to the bench, her nearness, her warmth and the delicate scent that was all woman, all her, wrapping around my body and holding me deathly still. She reached out and gripped the edge of the letter, turning it towards her, so she could read the chicken scratched scrawl.

"
'You alone have walked this path,'
" she read aloud. "What path?" she growled, eyes continuing to scan the words. I was too entranced with her to help decipher a bloody thing from the message. "One of my misguided friends," she paraphrased. "Misguided friend."

Turning toward me, her face lit up and her eyes widened. I felt my body swaying nearer without direction from my brain.

"If it is my dedication that he admires and emulates, then it is the lack of such dedication that he has found abhorrent in all three women."

I stilled. My heart thumping inside my chest for entirely different reasons than mere seconds ago.

"Say that again," I demanded softly, my mind racing, trying to connect the dots.

"He admires the fact that I am so dedicated. It is irrelevant the cause," she explained. "Merely the fact that I am not so easily dissuaded."

"No," I whispered. "Not just dissuaded. That you stand strong behind your convictions. That you deserve the right to them because of that show of strength."

"As does he," she murmured.

"Exactly!" My turn to pace. The ache in my leg urging me on. I was too buoyed to consider it now. "Miss Thorley, you have said, was happy to stay home and be a wife."

"Yes," Anna agreed, her voice saddened.

"And Miss Bennett a reluctant Suffragette only involved in the movement because she feared Mrs Ethel Poynton."

Anna stared at me a moment, a strange look upon her face.

I raised an eyebrow at her. "I have been doing my homework, Miss Cassidy," I informed her. "The job of investigating."

"I don't doubt it, Inspector," she offered, a small smile playing at the edges of her lips. "Your acumen merely impresses."

"As it should," I quipped, trying not to grin like a schoolboy at her praise. "Finally, Miss Nelson," I added, making us both forget all levity.

"Helen supported me, as does Wilhelmina," Anna said, her voice brave and strong, despite the way her fingers were trembling. "She was only involved, however, because I insisted it was our duty to do our part for women all over the world. For those who could not stand against oppression, as we in our society can."

Oh, my beautiful, strong girl. Your father would be so proud.

"He saw them as less dedicated as yourself," I concluded.

She breathed out a slow heated breath of air. Then swayed slightly on her feet, catching her balance on the edge of the bench. I reached for her; how could I not? But one wave of her hand had me retreating. Hurt more than I had any right.

"It is because of me," she whispered.

"It is because he is mad," I argued. Even though I was unsure how much this man could claim the title.

I did not believe in excuses. I believed less in labels. Every man was responsible for his actions. I should know. My actions tortured me daily, with no possible end in sight.

I straightened my shoulders, letting my own steadying breath out.

"This is not your fault, Anna," I announced. "Do you hear me? You did not place a scalpel in this man's hand. You did not tell him to write these pathetic words or perform these atrocious acts. This is all on his conscience. Whether that conscience is affected by insanity or something else. It is on him. Not you. Never you," I added, and then wished wholeheartedly I had not.

It told too much. More than I could afford.

She lifted shaded eyes to my face, searching for something I would never taint her by offering.

With a swift glance away she said, "Something else? You said insanity or something else?"

"Yes," I agreed, unsure how to explain my reasoning. "I think..." I began.

"There is more to his madness than natural causes," Anna finished for me.

I couldn't help it; I smiled. She finished my thoughts for me. How cruel this world was to place such beauty within reach, allowing me the dream, and cursing us both should I take it.

"But what?" she mused.

"I fear I do not yet know." But I would discover it.

Anna looked back down at the letter, her finger tracing the pattern and slant of the writing style.

"I don't trust this," she admitted.

"What do you not trust? His words?"

"The delivery. The misspellings. The letters inverted, the script misaligned. What is this flower, do you think?"

I stared at where her finger pointed. I knew the answer, but was reluctant to share it. Even with Anna.

Thankfully she didn't wait for my reply.

"The location. It's been chosen with forethought. He knew he'd be writing to me. He knew before he killed her that he could use the location as proof of his intelligence."

"The cherubs with horns," I murmured.

"Heralding love," she agreed. Her eyes lifting to mine. "It is not only me he knows, is it, Inspector?"

Heaven help me, but she was magnificent. In or out of a surgery, this woman shined.

To my detriment.

"No," I finally acquiesced. "He knows something of me."

"The Barracks. Your
'not so private operations room.'
The fact that you won't commit."

Don't say it. Please
.

But this was Anna. My fearless Scarlet Suffragette.

"The fact that you won't commit to me," she whispered.

"Anna," was all I could manage.

"Why is that, Andrew?" she pressed.
Damn her.
"Think you not he will divulge your reasons for you, long before you do?"

Damn this man! This man who mimics my nightmares. Who knows my secrets and threatens
everything
.

"Please don't ask," I begged her.

She looked down at the letter, then placed it next to the box on the bench with great care. As if any sudden movement would break her.

This woman could tear me apart.

"Sooner or later, Inspector," she murmured, "I'll stop asking. Stop trying. I'll simply stop."

No. Yes. Damn it!

"Sooner or later," she said almost too quietly to hear, "I'll move on."

My heart ached at the implications, even as my head told me to let her go.

She was not mine. Never had been. Never could be.

I picked the letter up, and slipped it into my jacket pocket.

"Perhaps, Miss Cassidy," I forced myself to say, "I've been waiting for just such a thing."

Then took up the parcel and walked from the room.

It was only when I emerged on the sidewalk that I realised I'd forgotten my cane. And had walked out of Anna's home without feeling a blasted thing.

Twenty

You Did Everything

Anna

A part of me was ripped away at his departure. My lungs perhaps; I could not seem to breathe. It wasn’t my heart, that organ beat too swiftly; the pulse at side of my throat throbbing enough to draw attention. My shaking hand reached up and wrapped cold fingers around my neck.

I struggled to get air. Staggering against the bench, my body sagging, my eyes watering, my chest aching.

I had my evidence now. I knew the truth of it.

Then why did his words hurt so?

Perhaps, Miss Cassidy, I've been waiting for just such a thing.

I let a slow breath out, then straightened my shoulders, lifted my head. My eyes scanned the surgery with impartiality. Seeing what it is the inspector saw when he chose to visit here. Worn surfaces, bare floors, tinted glass bottles and gruesome instruments designed to uncover a body’s secrets.

We were much alike, the inspector and myself. I uncovered death’s secrets. He uncovered the murderer’s.

But a team, of any sort, we would never be.

Another breath in and out and then I forced myself to my feet and in search of Wilhelmina. I had a wealth of mistakes to atone for.

I found her in the parlour, Hardwick nowhere in sight. Mina sat quietly on the chaise longue, staring out the window at the grey day beyond. The heavens had opened up and cried its own tears.

“Cousin,” I said softly, my heart in my throat, that ache in my chest magnifying.

Dull eyes swept across the room to me, then clarity suffused the blue. Wilhelmina sucked in a sharp breath, and then straightened her skirts, gaze averted as though she couldn’t bear to look at me.

I crossed to the chaise and took a seat without invitation. I would not let her hide from this.

“I am sorry,” I started, but she only interrupted, holding up a pale hand to forestall me.

“He was right,” she said on a whisper. “There are things you cannot share. I know this. But, Anna, Mary too?”

“Three so far,” I confirmed. Three and there would be more. He had a taste for it now. Not only the death, but the aftermath; the letters; the gifts. The gloating.

“The newspapers have remained quiet,” Mina commented, returning her gaze to the dreary street.

“They have not been informed, but I believe that might be changing. Three dead is a number that should not be hidden,” I remarked.

Silence and then, “How do you do it? How do you distance yourself from their names?”

Oh, Mina.

“It is not easy, cousin,” I murmured. “But essential.”

She remained silent for so long, I thought perhaps the conversation had run its course. Wilhelmina didn’t look any more distant than moments before, but her illness was sometimes hard to gauge.

I stared out the window with her, my mind on the women’s names, their faces, their injuries. The killer had become bolder. Less inhibited. The first death was but a chance encounter, I was sure. The number of stab wounds indicated a frenzy. Passion of a kind. They were not known, Margaret and this man who modelled himself on the Ripper. But in death they danced together to a macabre tune.