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

but on occasion there were hints of gold amongst the charcoal to be found.
    “Go home, Anna,” he finally said. Softly. Carefully.
    I hated it.
    I glanced back down at Margaret, for fear the tears in my eyes would be discernible in the low lamp light. I cleared my throat.
    “Will you give me a moment with her?” I asked. “She was a close friend.”
    “I am aware, but this is a crime scene.”
    “And you think me incapable of such restraint? I was taught by the best, Inspector.”
    “That too I am aware of.”
    “Five minutes,” I countered, becoming desperate. “Two,” I offered as a final concession.
    “One,” he threw back and then shook his head in bemusement. “You could talk a beggar out of his rags, Anna Cassidy.”
    “Hardly,” I offered with a small smile.
    He looked away. “One minute and no longer.” He began to move off, his cane coming down in loud thumps, mirroring his disquiet. “And if you tamper with a thing in this alleyway, I will have you thrown in the cells.”
    I huffed out an amused laugh. Kelly was yet to follow through with that particular threat, and I’d heard it a time or two by now.
    I didn’t wait for him to fully disappear, but crouched down again beside my fallen friend and began to investigate her positioning and overall state more clearly. Fourteen stab wounds, one of which would have ended her pain in ten seconds flat. The rest caused unmentionable agony.
    “Oh, Margaret,” I whispered, rolling her over and checking her back.
    I settled her on her side again, having found nothing of interest, and noticed for the first time that she had bruises on her neck. I reached for the lantern, kindly left me by the inspector, to illuminate the marks. They were the size of fingertips, ringing her throat, the largest pressing in above her hyoid bone. I studied the site; it could well be broken, adding strangulation to the myriad of evil committed in this forgotten alleyway.
    Margaret faced her attacker. She fought back against a blade and superior strength.
    Her murderer looked her in the eyes, while he held her by the throat, immobile, desperate. She’d scratched, clawed at him, I should say. I glanced down at the ground, lifting the lantern high in order to detect faint marks.
    There. A scrape. Another. Scuff marks, all centred in the one place.
    I moved to her feet, checking her shoes.
    She’d hanged by his hold on her neck, while her feet sought purchase and her nails sought release.
    And while he’d stabbed her fourteen times.
    I was reaching for her clothing when I heard Kelly return. Blood would have stained my gloves by now, but I pulled them back in time to hide them from his sight.
    “I must insist now, Anna,” he declared as he came alongside me. I didn’t look up. I knew what I’d find. Not only concern and compassion, but his hand offered to aid me to my feet.
    Ordinarily I’d refuse the assistance; I am not incapable of rising to full height on my own. But my soiled gloves were the dominant reasoning for pushing up from the crouch without his aid, and not making eye contact.
    “I wonder sometimes,” Kelly remarked, moving off from the body, as though that would be sufficient to draw me away. “If you are in fact a lady beneath that independent façade.”
    “Does dependence indicate a lady?” I asked, offering Margaret one last grief filled look.
    By the time I turned to face the inspector, my eyes were dry and my chin was lifted.
    “Or does the simple fact I retain certain anatomical differences signify my sex?”
    “Anna,” Kelly said in a pleading tone. “If you will not act a lady, then please attempt to curb your tongue.”
    I looked up at him, wondering if his words were in fact true. Was that why? He didn’t see me as a lady. He never had. I may dress like one, but to Andrew Kelly I was nothing more than a meddlesome woman demanding acceptance in a man’s world.
    Just like the banker.
    “Very well,” I said, looking down at the ground and