Free Fearless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 1): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series by Nicola Claire Page A

“Deeply, but only on one side. This wound was done while the victim was still alive, perhaps while they grappled. It would have bled profusely. Her clothing, although saturated with blood, has not stained the ground beneath it. However, the murderer would not have missed that fate.”
    She looked back at the alley, thoughts and extrapolations flashing in her bright eyes.
    “He sliced her thigh while she fought; while she was conscious enough to retaliate,” she said in summation. “She would have bled out quickly.”
    “Is that the cause of death?” I enquired. It sounded almost accidental. The rest a post-script, delivered when emotions were not running so high.
    “I cannot determine that here, but Drummond will at his surgery. He might also determine if the knife used on the thigh is the same as that used on the face. I would hazard a guess it is not.”
    “Guesses don’t catch criminals.”
    “No, Inspector, they do not. You need to have this body removed to the surgery and a complete post-mortem examination done within the hour. Rigor mortis will hinder certain discoveries.”
    I was sure that last was Anna’s way of showing her pique.
    “The stomach,” I said, returning her to her findings; as rudimentary as they had to be. “A departure from the original crime which could prove troublesome to link.”
    “You may have two killers on the loose,” she agreed, lifting her face to the approaching sound of cart wheels.
    I looked over toward Custom House Street, picking out Blackmore and Constable Mackey at the front of the vehicle. I wasn’t sure what had befallen them when Blackie had confronted the constable; my assumption was the superintendent being within earshot. I sighed. Blackie would suffer enough guilt for the both of them. Well aware of the need for discretion.
    “Of course,” Anna continued, still musing, offering a distracted wave in return to Blackmore’s greeting. “He could have just heard the cries at the first murder scene.”
    “Cries?” I enquired as the cart came to a stop several feet away. Blackmore and Mackey alighting, the latter hanging back uncertainly.
    “‘ The Ripper is here, ’” Anna explained, making Constable Mackey cross himself and Sergeant Blackmore suck in a sharp breath of air, puffing his chest out in a defensive manoeuvre I’d seen him effect a time or two before now.
    “Was that a cry at the first scene?” I enquired.
    “Repeatedly,” Anna offered.
    “Then it is worse than I feared,” I said.
    “It is that, sir,” Blackie offered. “The reporters are picketing the Station.”
    I opened my mouth to extol my disapproval, but remembered at the last moment that a lady was here.
    “Well, that does make the necessity to keep this one as quiet as possible more imperative,” I remarked instead.
    Anna ignored my statement, continuing with her assessment of the scene. “If he heard the cries and is emulating the Ripper,” she said, “then we can assume he was present for some time at the first murder scene.”
    I looked down at the petite woman beside me, once again dumbfounded at her astute observational skills. A tenuous link, but a profound one.
    “He hung around, then, the bludger,” Blackie announced.
    “Long enough to be affected by the crowd’s upset,” Anna remarked.
    “So who, exactly, was there?” I asked.
    We’d been over this. The street had been crowded; the Suffragettes offering a draw for many that morning. And the protest rally, mixed in with the election speech, meant all manner of walks of life were milling upon Queen Street.
    “The person you’re looking for is tall and strong,” Anna suggested.
    “Big like a shadow and lost all his marbles,” Blackie offered.
    “Carries himself like pugilist,” I clarified.
    “And knows how to wield a knife.” Anna again. She looked back into the depths of the alley, her face a mask of frustration and desire. She wanted at that body. She wanted to discover its secrets. Being denied