Silent Witnesses E-Book

Annelie Wendeberg

• Herausgeber: Annelie Wendeberg
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Arlington & McCurley Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 332

Beschreibung

Only two people in this world know my name. I am one. The other is believed dead.

Dr Elizabeth Arlington keeps her past buried. But when a woman is killed in a train accident, she falls into old habits and examines the body. All evidence points to murder. Soon, a second victim is found, and a photograph left at the scene incriminates Elizabeth. Now the prime suspect, she must hurry to catch the killer before the police arrest her. But when he strikes again, Elizabeth discovers a terrifying truth.

The Arlington & McCurley Mysteries continue the story set in the Anna Kronberg & Sherlock Holmes Mysteries.

Leseprobe

SILENT WITNESSES

AN ARLINGTON & MCCURLEY MYSTERY

ANNELIE WENDEBERG

Copyright 2018 by Annelie Wendeberg

eBook Edition

This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and names in this book are products of the author's imagination. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN: 978-91-989003-8-5

Editing: Tom Welch

Cover Design: Annelie Wendeberg

CONTENTS

Annelie’s Bookstore

Bookish Shenanigans

Prologue

The First Victim

1

2

3

4

5

The Second Victim

6

Case Notes, June 7, 1893

7

8

9

10

11

The Third Victim

Case Notes, June 30, 1893

12

Case Notes, July 5, 1893

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

The Fourth Victim

21

22

23

24

Epilogue

River of Bones

Anna Kronberg Mysteries

Keeper of Pleas Mysteries

The 1/2986 Series

Annelie’s Bookstore

Bookish Shenanigans

Acknowledgments

ANNELIE’S BOOKSTORE

BookBub

PROLOGUE

Only two people in this world know my name.

I am one.

The other is believed dead.

* * *

If there is a memory that best describes those balmy weeks of late May and early June, it is that of a small, silent child sitting under a mulberry bush.

Nothing seemed to escape her notice, those sharp grey eyes she inherited from her father. She would watch Zachary’s every move — how his black hands grew paler as a dusting of loamy soil covered his skin, how his sun-bleached shirt darkened along his spine as he plucked and dug and mowed. How his large brown eyes twinkled in the shadow of his straw hat.

Whenever I think back to those days, I see myself standing at the bay window, gazing out into the garden, watching my daughter and her fascination with the world, and wondering what it was that made her so quiet.

She was two and a half years old and had not spoken a word.

It was the time of late spring cleaning. Margery excessively aired out the house, washed the lace curtains, knocked the dust out of mattresses and rugs, and polished tables, cupboards, and floors until our home smelled of beeswax and linseed oil, with a faint bite of turpentine.

Those were our days of peace and quiet, a time that was much too short and far away.

With each day closer to Klara’s third birthday, my fear of Moran grew. The man had hacked off my index finger with sadistic pleasure, shot me in the shoulder and very nearly killed me.

He was a constant itch at the back of my neck. There was not a night I didn’t lie awake going through all the precautions I had taken over these last years. And I always came to the same conclusions: Anna Kronberg had disappeared. Moran would not find us. My daughter and I were safe.

How blind I was.

THE FIRST VICTIM

1

All the silent witnesses … the place, the body, the prints … can speak if one knows how to properly interrogate them.

Alexandre Lacassagne

Corey Hill clipped the sun in half. Houses lining the embankment were painted orange, and a fiery red was bouncing off their windows. The Charles River swept past me. A crew of rowers stroked the calm water, their boat as sleek and white as a tern.

I shut my eyes, inhaled the scents of muck and burning coal, and could almost picture the Thames. And the city I’d once called home. The men I’d loved and left.

The air was growing chill. It was time to go.

I slung my bag over my back, and mounted my bicycle. The brisk ride through the Common, across the channel, and down Dorchester Avenue pumped heat through my body as darkness began to descend on Boston.

I turned into Savin Hill Avenue and trundled to a halt some distance from a freight train. For a heartbeat, I thought it abandoned — an old toy forgotten in the middle of the road. But there was movement, lights and noise. Lanterns danced like fireflies around the engine’s snout. Cries pierced the rising fog, and farther east, a ship’s horn blew.

Cold sweat broke out along my spine, goose flesh followed. My heart kicked my ribs as my mind hollered, Not Klara! Not Klara! Despite the unlikeliness of a small child climbing a picket fence and walking two hundred yards through the neighbourhood unnoticed.

But even the strongest logic could not put a damper on the fear I had cultivated for years.

I dropped my bicycle by the side of the road, and ran up to a clump of people waving their arms and throwing harsh words at one another. I squeezed past two burly men, asking what had happened. Irritated murmurs and an elbow to my side were the only replies. Eventually, they parted, and my gaze fell on a man who sat folded in on himself. Head between his knees, he heaved and wept. His hat lay in the grass.

I crouched down and touched his shoulder. ‘What happened?’

‘I…I…’

I waited, but that was all he managed.

‘He saw her too late. Couldn’t stop the train. She was… I mean…we think it’s a woman.’

I looked up at the man who had spoken. The bruised sky reflected off his spectacles — two flecks of dark violet in a soot-covered face. ‘He’s the driver?’

The man nodded.

‘He ran over a person?’

Another nod.

‘And you are?’

‘Name’s Smith.’

‘Dr Arlington. I’m a physician. When did this happen?’

‘Um… A few minutes ago?’ He cleared his throat and pulled at a small chain that dangled from his trouser pocket. ‘Eleven minutes.’ There was a click as he snapped his watch shut.

‘Have the police and the coroner been informed?

‘I…’ He blinked. ‘I’m only the stoker, Miss.’

‘Summon them. And point me to the victim, please.’

‘Which…part do you want to see first?’

Throats were cleared, eyes dropped. The stoker’s gaze stumbled up along the railway.

‘I need a lantern,’ I said, snatched it from one of the bystanders, and walked away before he could protest.

I had only ever seen one railway accident — a collision of a passenger train and a costermonger’s cart. The man had died on the spot. His screaming horse had had to be shot. That train hadn’t been going fast. But this…this was a disaster.

I forbade myself to think too deeply about the shreds of white fabric snowflaking the grass, the dark liquid spattering steel and snowflakes and earth. The gloom leaching all colour from the blood.

The muttering of onlookers faded, the snatches of enquiries of who, when, and why.

My gaze snagged on something golden, a wisp of silk wrapped around a wheel. I bent down and held the lantern close to it. A lock of fair hair. Blood.

Klara’s hair was dark and short. I pressed a fist to my heart, gulped a lungful of air, and made my way toward the engine.

Bits of scalp trailing long hair splattered track ballast and anchors ahead of me. I almost stumbled over a bump covered with a dark, checkered blanket.

More than a decade of medical training and still my stomach dropped at the sight. I directed light to the blanket, picked at a corner, and pulled.

It was barely recognisable as a head.

The lower jaw was missing, as was half the scalp, the skin of chin and cheeks, and one ear. Moths fluttered in the beam of my lantern. One caught its powdery wings on the victim’s lashes. The forehead was badly abraded, eyebrows shaved off. Blood crawled from the neck wound.

I knelt and inspected her eyes. She’d died with her eyes open. They were clouded, her pupils constricted, the whites bloodshot. I touched my finger against one eyeball. It felt cold.

Carefully, I turned the head face down. The vertebrae had been ripped off, and the large foramen was visible. I slipped two fingers through the opening and into the cavity. The brain was lukewarm.

Frowning, I wiped my hands on the grass and shrugged off my bag.

I was found several minutes later. Or rather my legs poking out from beneath the engine were found.

‘May I ask what you are doing here, Miss?’

An overly authoritative voice. He must be a police officer. I inched back out and heard the fabric of my jacket crackling against rock. A seam gave.

I wiped my palms on a handful of grass, brushed off my knickerbockers, and stood.

‘PC Lyons, Boston Police Department.’ The man had yet to extract his hands from his pockets, lift his hat in greeting, or abandon the cigarette that hung from the corner of his mouth.

‘Dr Arlington. I was about to examine the torso.’

A lazy lift of his eyebrows. His gaze slid down to the mangled shoulder joint peeking out between two wheels.

I shone the lantern onto the mess. ‘She was dragged quite a distance before the train came to a halt. Her head lies about ten yards farther down. One foot was severed as well, and is on the other side of the tracks. I need to move her to reach her rectum. Perhaps you could assist me?’

He stopped chewing his smoke. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I measured the temperature in her brain, and found it to be sixteen degrees too low. I need to take her rectal temperature for comparison.’

‘You…what?’

‘As I said, I’m a physician.’

He took the lantern from me and knelt down to peek under the train. ‘Why were you taking the temperature of the…dear God!’ The light wobbled as he pressed his face into the bend of his elbow.

Before he could drop the lantern, I took it from him. ‘Has the coroner been notified?’

‘Umpf,’ he squeezed into his sleeve.

‘The core temperature was twenty-eight degrees Celsius. Or eighty-two degrees Fahrenheit. Whichever you prefer. Body temperature lowers by approximately one and a half degrees Celsius per hour after death. The accident occurred less than fifteen minutes before I took the temperature of the brain. The neck wound indicates that the head was severed by the train — meaning the head hadn’t had time to cool down faster than the rest of the body. But I need to make sure that the temperatures do match before I draw my conclusions.’

PC Lyons had regained some of his control. He stood, slid a hand into his pocket and pulled out a fresh cigarette. With trembling fingers, he struck a match and lit his smoke. The flare gave his eyes a devilish glint. ‘Meaning to say?’

I refrained from asking whether the police didn’t educate its officers on the most basic post-mortem procedures, or whether he’d slept through it.

‘It means that the victim must have died around noon,’ I explained. ‘She must have been placed on the tracks when darkness fell. The train schedule should narrow it down for you. Is a post-mortem surgeon on the way?’

‘The coroner has been informed,’ PC Lyons said and sucked at the cigarette as if his life depended on it.

I couldn’t interpret the flat tone of his voice. Perhaps he was trying to appear hardened, but I found it useless to ponder the matter. ‘Would you help me move the body so that I can take the rectal temperature?’

The ember pinprick near his mouth flared and quivered.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Two people won’t fit under there anyway.’

I crouched down. ‘Should anyone wish to move the train, I’d be much obliged if you would stop them.’

The track ballast crunched and shifted under Lyons’ boots. ‘Should have told them yourself before you placed yourself in harm’s way,’ he muttered.

Again I squeezed between train and sleepers, the track ballast cutting sharply into my elbows, hips, and knees. I placed the lantern next to the body, calmed my breath, and let my eyes roam.

She wore the pitiful leftovers of a chemise and stockings. Skin was torn from her belly, breasts, and hips. Bones protruded through flesh. A kneecap hung limply from her leg. Blood was everywhere, and yet the total amount could only be a pint. And much of it had clotted before the force of the impact ripped her open.

‘Well, then,’ I muttered and got to work.

Upon my huffing and grunting, PC Lyons grew worried and peeked under the engine. Seeing that I was tugging on a bloody thigh, his pale face disappeared at once. ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed.

‘I’m moving her so that I can take her temperature. She’s on her back and I can’t reach her rectum without the risk of breaking the thermometer, so I will measure inside her vagina instead.’ That was probably a bit of information too delicate to share with the good constable.

‘Her eyes are cloudy,’ I continued. ‘And her blood has already clotted. More evidence that her death occurred several hours earlier.’

Lyons said nothing.

‘Aha!’ I said more to myself than to Lyons. ‘The temperature in the vag…of the two body parts is identical.’

I wiped off my thermometer, stuck it back into its cardboard cylinder, and into my bag.

Then I touched the victim’s lower abdomen, pushed bits of intact skin around, and pressed into her flesh. ‘It appears she was pregnant. I mean…with child. Possibly fifth or sixth month. From the state of her skin, I’m guessing her to be between twenty-five and thirty-five. Rigor mortis present in the extremities was released by the impact of the train.’

I examined her limbs down to her clenched fists. ‘Her hands are cold, as one would expect in this season…’ Unfurling the stiff fingers of her right hand took some effort. ‘No blood or skin under her fingernails as far as I can see.’

Rocks crunched as Lyons shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘It would be best to wait for the coroner.’

‘I’m qualified to perform post-mortems, Constable Lyons. It is imperative to examine the body as soon as possible. If you would write down the address of the coroner, I will send him my report tomorrow morning.’ I bent back the fingers of her left hand. Something white — or yellow? — was stuck to her palm.

I picked at it and held it close to the light. ‘I’ve found a flower petal in her left hand. Hmm. From a rose, I believe. Yes, definitely, a yellow rose. A bit early for roses, isn’t it? But it might have been grown in a hothouse.’

I directed the light toward Lyons’ boots. ‘It would be best to block off the area, and ask that the train not be moved until all evidence can be collected in daylight.’

2

I scrubbed the blood off my skin, and dropped my clothes into soap water. Shivering, I wrapped myself in nightgown and robe, and slipped into my bedroom.

An oil lamp silhouetted Klara and Zachary — he on the floor with his back against the bed frame, legs stretched out, a toe sticking through a hole in his sock, and she in my bed, her chin resting on his shoulder, and her hair a frizzly halo.

Both looked up from a book as I clicked the door shut.

'We fought a cobra,' he said.

'Oh?' I knelt on the bed and kissed Klara's head. She ducked, showed me her claws and teeth, and hissed. I poked my finger into her belly. 'Are you the vicious mongoose and I the poor snake?'

Her eyes flared. She shook her head.

'All right. I'm the mongoose.' I grinned and nipped at her throat. She wiggled and squealed, making my ears ring. 'And now you are wide awake. In the middle of the night.'

Zach pushed off the floor and placed the book on the nightstand. 'Have you eaten?'

'I'm fine.'

At that, Klara jumped up, her small face brimming with expectation. 'Poh!' she said, bouncing on the mattress.

'Ah, the mongoose is hungry, I see. Perhaps, we can find cobra casserole in the kitchen?' He held out his hand, she grasped it and slipped from the bed.

'In that case, I'll have some too,' I said and followed.

* * *

I learned from the morning papers that the railway had not been blocked for further investigation. Had I been male, PC Lyons might have agreed with my suggestions. Possessing a modicum of diplomatic talent might have helped as well. Nor was I well versed in the womanly art of making men believe that my superior idea had been theirs.

The police arrested a tramp. The man had neither name nor papers. He'd been one of the bystanders, the short article read, and had yet to speak a sensible word.

Not one of these developments surprised me.

I sipped my coffee. The wool blanket itched at the back of my neck, and the old wicker chair poked a stray twig into my backside. I twisted and scooted about until a somewhat comfortable position was found. Then I shut my eyes and tipped my face toward the morning sun.

With the warmth of spring soaking my skin, and the sounds of birds and soft wind in my ears, London couldn't have felt farther away. Two and a half years ago, on a grey November day, I'd stepped off a train from New York. From the shelter of my arms, Klara had blinked her blue-grey eyes up at me. Weary from a two-week journey across the Atlantic, I hadn't even found the energy to smile at her.

And right there and then, a furious northeast tempest had slammed into us, ripping off my hat, upturning my umbrella, and driving a torrent of icy rain in Klara's face. We were soaked to the bone within the few short moments it took me to wave down a cab. Klara hollered until we reached our hotel, and had drawn a bath to warm our frozen limbs. That same night she fell ill. We spent more than a week in bed, her feverish body curled against mine, her hunger ravenous.

Boston couldn't have been more unwelcoming. And yet, despite that cold first embrace, it felt like returning home.

I lowered the coffee cup to my lap and squinted at the gently sloping garden — the grass kissed by dew, spiderwebs, and golden light. There was a flutter in my stomach, and I asked myself why I had ever left Boston. And for what?

Eight years ago, my reasons had been clear enough: It had made little difference then whether I worked in Boston or in some antiquated European country. I’d lived disguised as a man, so the countless restrictions women were facing hadn’t applied to me. But that life had come with a price: I couldn't make friends, for they would ask questions that were too private and impossible for me to answer. Even more awkward were the young ladies unsubtly hinting I might take them to social events. They had worried me to death.

I huffed a laugh. Dr Anton Kronberg was reportedly chased across the Atlantic by wanton girls. Wouldn't that make an interesting headline.

Now, everything had changed. Medical schools for women had sprung up in the American North, and I could live without the need to bind my breasts and sneak from one hiding place to another. I could simply do my work and talk openly — as a woman! — about patients, surgeries, and cures. It was delicious.

Addictive, even.

What turns would my life have taken had I stayed in Boston and not left for London?

A gentle tap tap of small feet behind me was the answer: I wouldn't have met the man who'd fathered Klara, wouldn't have thought it possible for me to conceive, and I wouldn't have murdered my husband. Nor would I have met the two men who came to mean so much to me. One, a thief and gentle giant. The other as sharp as he was sensitive — a man who feared intimacy more than his own death.

Strange, how moments of happiness always brought back dark memories. Stranger yet, that I occasionally wondered about the "what-ifs." Where was the need for that? I was happy with what I had and what I was.

Perhaps that was just how my mind worked. Possibilities and impossibilities wanted to be analysed. Wasn't that how one learned? By reflecting upon the past, on the errors and successes — all melting into one another, changing with time, experience, and perspective? Only with reflection had I felt able to grow, to make peace with what had happened and what I had done, hoping that one day I would be a little wiser.

Tap tap.

I pretended to be oblivious to Klara sneaking up on me. I placed the cup on the floor and began to snore softly. She was very close now.

Tap tap.

I snored louder.

She attacked with a high-pitched scream that made me worry about the window panes. I shot out my arm and poked her in the stomach, showed my fangs, and produced my best and most evil snake hiss. Then I grabbed her and wrestled her onto my lap (she was a rather noisy and wiggly mongoose), and blew a raspberry against her cheek. She twisted and bit my neck in retaliation.

'I love you, my little monster,' I said and brushed my nose against hers.

The fast report of heels on floorboards announced Margery's approach. 'God's nightgown!' Her bosom was pumping dramatically. 'Did someone stick a pig on our porch?'

'It was a mongoose catching a cobra. And the wicker chair is coming apart. Either that or I'm sitting on a hedgehog.' I rose with Klara in my arms, who seemed undecided whether her physical form was that of a mongoose or a clingy octopus. 'Do we still have some of that delicious cobra casserole in the larder?'

Margery narrowed her eyes. 'Just don't say the gardener did the cooking.'

* * *

We took breakfast in the kitchen (sans cobra casserole). It was the first room to catch the early morning sun, the first to be warm in winter. It was the place where we ate and talked, and shared our silence.

Klara sat on my lap, dismembering a slice of bread until only a ring of crust remained. She placed it on her head like a crown, then blew bubbles in her milk. A heartbeat later, she spat milk across the table.

'Well, now, young lady!' Margery said sharply.

Crying, Klara hid her face in my shirt. On some days, she reverted back to the maturity of a nine-month-old. It worried me. Other times, she didn't make a peep for a day and a half, and committed herself to calm observation of birds and beetles. She either focused on a task for hours on end, or wasn't able to focus at all.

And then there was the fact that she could read. At twenty-six months, her fingers began following the lines we read to her. Zach tested my theory by "reading" the wrong words to her. Words that weren't printed where her small fingers touched the page. She'd thrown herself on the carpet and hollered for twenty minutes.

Zachary sniffed at Klara's cup. 'The milk has turned.'

Margery took it from him, tasted it, and grunted. 'Hum. Still have a gallon left of that. Should make some nice clabber.' She busied herself dabbing at the puddle on the tablecloth, and checking the contents of the icebox.

Klara had stopped crying and was staring at her hands — two chubby starfishes on white linen. Zach's large hand reached out to cover both of hers, and she leaned down and gave him a slobbery kiss on his wrist.

Margery placed a mug of fresh milk in front of Klara, and then turned to Zachary to discuss a new variety of zinnias she wanted him to grow, and talk about the roof of the annex that needed fixing.

My thoughts drifted away, along railway tracks, over shreds of clothes and skin, and the face of a dead woman I had stared at, trying to find something familiar. Perhaps the coroner would know more.

When Margery stood and brushed crumbs onto her plate, I looked up and asked, 'First patient at nine?'

She nodded.

About an hour and a half, then. That should be time enough to write reports for the police, the coroner, and the post-mortem surgeon. I tweaked Klara's pigtail, kissed her neck, and transferred her to a chair.

'I'll be in my office,' I said, and made to leave.

Catching my brief glance at the sink, Margery pushed out her chin. There were limits to her flexibility, and a mistress who dabbled in the affairs of the housekeeper was far from acceptable. Two years before, she'd thrown a fit when she'd caught me beating eggs, flour, and milk for Yorkshire pudding.

* * *

Halfway into my report, I was interrupted by a knock on the door. 'Come in.'

Margery stuck her head into my office. 'One Mrs Heathcote is here and asked to see you. She has no appointment, but says you are friends and it's urgent.'

'Hattie Heathcote? Has something happened?' I asked, but the woman in question was already peeking over Margery's shoulder.

The door shut. Hattie was beaming.

'No one died, I take it?' I said.

'Quite the opposite.' She sat in the chair across from me and placed her hat on the desk. 'I believe I am with child.'

I pushed my reports aside and grasped her hands. 'Wonderful news! Did you come to tell me, or because you need a physician?'

Blood rose to her cheeks. Hattie was a beautiful woman. She always made me think of Snow White — raven black hair, skin the colour of new milk, her body fine-boned and graceful. What made her stunning were her light blue eyes. And now the blush. She had the intensity of a diamond in the evening sun.

'You know that I wasn't…wasn't able to carry my last two babies to term.'

'I didn't know. I'm sorry.'

She waved me away. 'I'm twenty-five, have two beautiful daughters, and no reason to complain. Robert, my husband, he has been… He wants a son. And so I was hoping that this time…' Her chin began to wobble.

'You are worried you might lose another child.'

'Of course I am!' She dashed a tear away. 'I've had two miscarriages. Who's to know if this one will make it?'

'It's all right, Hattie. Now, tell me about the previous pregnancies, and what your family physician suggested.'

Hattie talked. About the pains that began in the fourth or fifth month of her pregnancies, the bleeding. About the elderly doctor who wouldn't do much but pat her hand and ask about her diet. She wanted a lady physician, and it had to be me. Her husband didn't approve, but he wanted an heir — as though the Boston elite were royals and there was a throne to be occupied — and so it was decided that I was to prevent a miscarriage at all costs.

What she didn't expect was that my physical examination would extend beyond touching her abdomen through her dress.

I washed my hands as Hattie shook down her skirts. She cleared her throat, her gaze following the patterns of the rug.

Clearly, she needed time to compose herself, but I couldn't give her that. I needed answers. 'I can't help but wonder if your husband helped your miscarriages along, Hattie.'

Her head snapped up. 'No! He is ever so gentle when I'm in the family way.'

'He beats you up only when you are not pregnant?' My crude choice of words made her flinch. But I found bruises around the genitalia much cruder than words could ever be.

'No. You don't understand. It's… It's just games that we play. He likes it a little rougher. A little…birching, here and there. Am I… Am I not supposed to please my husband?' She was defiant now. Shoulders squared, spine straight.

'You are a grown woman. You know what you want and what you don't want.'

'Precisely.' Suddenly, she deflated a little, then pulled back her chair and sat. 'Don't tell anyone, please.'

'Communication between a doctor and her patient is always confidential. And you are my friend, Hattie.'

'That's the problem. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to come here. You might tell Warren.'

'Warren? Your brother? I've never even met him. Honestly, Hattie, I don't ever talk about my patients' issues with anyone but my patients.' I took her hand in mine and squeezed it. ‘All right?’

'Oh! I almost forgot! Warren is coming home. And it's about time. You have to meet him, Liz. We'll all be there. It's going to be one of our nights. At six or seven o'clock he'll be back, he said. Oh, please come.'

'Tonight?'

'Didn't I say that?'

'A Freak Consortium night…' I mused, waiting for Hattie to wink with both her eyes — a hilarious thing she would do when she was impatient, or making a joke. It made her look like an owl after too much coffee. When she clapped her lids, I laughed. 'Well, why not.'

She thumped a fist on the desk. 'You will love him!'

'My good friend's seafaring twin brother? I'll probably be jealous and hate his guts.'

3

'And then those hairy beasts raced past us, scantily dressed in white linen trousers falling short of the knee, and armless, throatless shirts. Imagine the shock!' Eliza's voice drowned in collective chuckling.

I almost snorted my wine out through my nose.

Hiccuping, Eliza poked Margaret in the ribs. 'And you thought they were inmates fleeing some lunatic asylum.'

Margaret raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s what you thought, I didn't. I had too much fun watching you blush to tell you about the Hare and Hounds Club runners.'

'No hats! And bare legs!' Eliza squeaked and collapsed into Margaret's lap.

Margaret lit a cigar, leaned back and puffed it, smug as a cat. She hid her auburn curls under a bowler hat and her long legs in pinstripe trousers. I wondered what she would say if I told her I'd lived disguised as a man for years. She would probably laugh, box my shoulder, and ask me to adopt her.

Margaret touched her fingertips to Eliza's cheek, and Jerome used the moment of distraction to snatch the cigar from her. He stuck it between his teeth and puffed once, twice, and then returned it.

Glowering, Margaret readied her sharp tongue to fling insults at him. She was cut off by a bang. The door to the room burst open. A knapsack was thrown in and a dishevelled man followed.

The sharp contrast of blue eyes to black hair — so much like his twin sister — identified him as the prodigal heir of the Amaury family, and the owner of this townhouse that we frequently abused for…well, planning to "overthrow something," as the others called our meetings.

According to Hattie, Warren ran every time his mother tried to arrange a bachelor's ball for him. He'd last disappeared just before his sister dragged me from a rehearsal of the Symphony Orchestra to a drinking hall to meet her friends — the Freak Consortium — which had been roughly three months earlier.

Warren was holding a handkerchief to mouth and nose. Blood soaked the front of his shirt.

Jerome jumped from his armchair. 'What the dickens happened? Who did this to you?' He cracked his knuckles for good measure. Jerome's fists were ready, as always. But for the sake of his father — Judge Fletcher, who had extricated him from several tight spots before…well, before finally threatening disinheritance — Jerome was trying to master the art of self-control.

He didn't like it much.

Broad, dark, and with a violent streak, Jerome was Uriel's antipode. No one really knew why the two were best friends.

'Sit,' Uriel said and tugged at Jerome's waistband, effectively dumping him back onto the chair and snuffing out his wild temper.

Warren mumbled, 'Gobbeb Lubber,' around his handkerchief, and kicked the door shut.

'What?'

'Goh-beb Lubber.'

'He quoted Luther,' Hattie translated.

'Huh-hum.' Warren raised an index finger. 'I bould nob fmell fe foul odour of your name!'

'Well, at least you didn't use the quote with the farts and the mouth. That's progress.'

A soft cough announced the butler, Owens. 'Will you be needing this, Sir, or may I send the maid to take it away?' He pointed an impeccable white-gloved hand at the knapsack.

Warren mumbled something and waved the bag away. Owens, without ever changing his expression of utter neutrality, curled a pinky around the strap, and carried the knapsack from the room, holding it at arm's length.

Warren followed him with his gaze until he was gone. 'How bib he bo fhat?'

'I hope he sends refreshments,' Hattie said and gently tugged Warren's hand from his face to reveal his injury. The view of his swollen, bloody nose tinged the skin around her eyes green.

‘Is it broken?' she asked me.

Warren's gaze followed Hattie's. 'Who'f fhat?'

I emptied my wine, stood, and held out my hand. 'Doctor Elizabeth Arlington, pleased to meet you.'

He eyed me with curiosity, then wiped his palm on his trousers, and took my hand in his. 'B-bwarren,' he said. His gaze fell. His grasp tightened as he turned my wrist. 'Inberefbing.'

He was instantly poked in the gut by his sister.

I extricated myself from his grip.

'You have no manners whatsoever!' Hattie hissed at him. And then to me, 'I'm sorry, Liz. He's horrible. Always had been.'

'Well.' I wiggled the remaining fingers of my right hand. 'It is interesting.'

'A dog ate it,' Jerome provided, earning himself a whack on the forehead from Margaret.

'That's what she said, wasn't it?' He rubbed his brow.

I'd lied, of course. The truth lay in the same pit where I'd buried my name and my past.

With a groan, Warren lowered himself into an armchair, snatched the wine bottle from the table and put it to his mouth. He flinched at every swallow, but drained a good portion of it, and then clamped the bottle between his legs. 'Gods, I'll nebber geb used to ib. Gebbing on a ship makes me ill, gebbing obb a ship makes me ill. Perhaps, I shoulb just sebble down.'

Margaret snorted. 'Why not try not to get punched in the face?'

'You have to tell us all about your trip. We're running out of material,' Eliza said.

'Doesn't she habe enoub queer sb…sb…stories to tell?' he thrust his chin out at me. 'Her tongue smacks of continental life.'

'I've lived quite…sheltered, Mr Amaury. There is no queer story to tell.' An easy lie that was met with a tilt of his eyebrows.

'Mister Amaury?' He looked about the room. 'Is she not one of us?'

'She is. Hush now. Liz, check his injury, please. He might have splinters in his brain, the way he talks.'

'All right.' I moved to sit on Warren's armrest. He jerked back.

'I'm a physician, I won't hurt you more than absolutely necessary.'

'And that is supposed to ease my terror?'

'Hold still.' I grabbed his chin and turned his face toward me. His eyes widened.

'How was Chile?' I said by way of distraction.

'Huh?'

Gently, I ran my fingers along the bridge of his nose, feeling for signs of a fracture. 'The tag on your knapsack read "Valparaiso."'

There was a patch of dark stubble at the edge of his jaw. He must have shaved hastily, perhaps without a mirror. His black hair curled at the nape of his neck, partially concealing a deep scratch that was fresh but had stopped bleeding. Bruises were beginning to bloom around his throat. His collar was loose, a button missing. 'But that wasn't a fight with sailors, was it. You must have disembarked in New York, but got roughed up less than half an hour ago.'

'Hrmpf.'

'This might hurt a bit.' I applied gentle pressure to his nasal bone.

His eyes watered as he sank farther down in his chair.

'Could you hear the crunch?' I asked.

'Wish I hadn't.'

'That's the fractured pieces of bone grinding against each other. Put a cold rag on your face, or ice if you have it. And don't quote Luther for three weeks.'

He snorted, bringing forth a gush of fresh blood. Mortified, he clapped the handkerchief to his face and accidentally bumped his nose. He groaned in pain.

'Someone throttled and punched you. Did you pass out? Did you sustain head injuries?' I asked.

He shrugged.

I tapped his cheekbones and ran my fingers across his scalp. 'No fractures as far as I can see.' I placed my palm over one eye, checking the reaction of the other pupil. Then I leaned in and sniffed. 'Cheap gin on your lips. Filthy wood shavings in your hair. Minced meat for a nose. Tsk! Your parents will be scandalised if word of your nightly activities reaches their ears.'

He narrowed his eyes. 'Do you have a problem with me?'

'You salivated into my vintage Bordeaux.' I threw a pointed glance at the wine bottle in his hand. 'A major offence.'

He held the bottle aloft, squinting at the blood-red liquid. 'M'pologies.' Then he put it to his mouth and drank.

'When your sister poked your ribs, you didn't flinch. I assume nothing's broken there?'

He coughed. 'Got kicked, but not bad.'

'Hmm… Lean forward please.' I probed his ribcage, but he didn't seem to feel pain. 'If your kidneys hurt or you find blood in your urine, consult a physician at once.'

'Hrmpf,' he said again and tipped more wine into his mouth.

'Hopeless case. Avoids doctors like the plague,' Hattie said.

I slipped a card from my purse and handed it to him. 'We usually help to avoid the plague.'

'You should see her work with a bone saw,' Jerome said, with a lopsided grin and a flashing incisor. Warren glared at him.

Margaret slid her feet off the table and sat up straight. 'Didn't we want to make a decision tonight?'

Uriel looked up at me.

The Freaks knew I had inherited a little money from my late husband, but they had no clue how much it really was. Even Hattie would pale at the amount. Unfortunately, they believed I'd also inherited the wisdom of how to best invest money.

They didn't know I’d grown up in poverty and found discussions of investment strategies more than boring. To grow one's own wealth not by hard work but by shuffling it from one pot to another was disgusting. So I merely said, 'I'm not an investor,' hoping they would leave me alone.

Jerome threw back his shoulders with a derisive laugh. 'Coward.'

'Ah!' cried Warren, waving a fist at Jerome, 'I am tired of the pestilent voice of your sirens!'

'She told you not to quote Luther,' Jerome grumbled.

Warren made a rude gesture with his hand.

Ignoring the two, I turned to Uriel and said, 'The treasury crisis might or might not cause a recession. I have weighed the risks and decided not to act on it. That doesn't mean that you can't shuffle your money around. Why do we need to decide on anything together anyway?'

'We don't,' Uriel said. 'It's only that no one wishes to be alone in making a stupid decision.'

'So we make stupid decisions together?'

'Er…yes,' Margaret said, snatched the bottle from Warren, rubbed her sleeve over its mouth, and drank.

'I understand that you are worried. Many people are. But it's rarely the wealthy who suffer most from a financial crisis. So if you ask me where I would put my money, my answer is soup kitchens. Give to the destitute. Which is probably not what you wish to hear.'

'Why wouldn't we?' Hattie asked.