The Viper E-Book

Annelie Wendeberg

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

Beschreibung

The explosive finale of the Arlington & McCurley Mystery series.

As an inspector at the Bureau of Criminal Investigation, Quinn McCurley is expected to uphold law and order. But beneath his respectable veneer hide deception, bloodshed, and dangerous alliances.

Dr. Elizabeth Arlington, a shrewd physician with a harrowing history, finds herself caught in Quinn's murderous past. When her life and those of her children hang in the balance she must make an impossible choice: trust the man who has deceived her or escape back across the Atlantic with her children, leaving everything behind.

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

Leseprobe

THE VIPER

AN ARLINGTON & MCCURLEY MYSTERY

ANNELIE WENDEBERG

CONTENTS

Annelie’s Bookshop

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

Epilogue

Keeper of Pleas

Anna Kronberg Mysteries

The 1/2986 Series

More…

Acknowledgments

Copyright 2024 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: 978-91-989003-4-7

Proofreading: Tom Welch

Cover Design: Annelie Wendeberg

Bonus content at the end of this book: Preview of Keeper of Pleas

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BookBub

I can’t say it better than Andrew Forrester,

who created one of the first female detectives in literary history:

It may be hoped that there are

errors on every page,

and also that no entry is

‘quite too dull.’

PROLOGUE

Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don't have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant?

Kafka

Boston, 1896

When Inspector Quinn McCurley spotted an incongruous five-dollar bill lying on his desk, he first assumed it to be part of a new case, a piece of evidence. Perhaps Sergeant Boyle or Chief Tukey had dropped it off for his perusal. Other than himself, they were the only ones with keys to his office.

On second glance, he noticed a chilling difference. Just below the "FIVE SILVER DOLLARS," where one would expect to find the phrase, "payable to the bearer on demand" a grim confession was displayed instead:

I am a killer.

Below that was a perfect imitation of his signature — of his current alias, to be precise.

Quinn forgot to breathe.

Reflexively, his hand reached for the note but stopped an inch short of touching it. His first instinct was to tear it up and burn it in the ashtray.

But that would change nothing.

A wave of panic rattled his bones. His neck felt itchy with sweat. Who had managed to get through the locked door? Who would even have the nerve to break into the office of an Inspector of the Bureau of Criminal Investigation, for heaven's sake?

Quinn scrutinised the door and window for signs of forced entry but found none. The lock must have been picked. He rummaged through his office for signs of missing files or case notes but came up empty. Nothing had been moved, taken, or damaged.

The counterfeit note was the only thing out of place.

His lungs froze. Was it possible the burglar had used a key? Could it be a corrupt copper who placed that note on his desk? He trusted Boyle implicitly, but what if the chief…

No. Impossible.

The only dirty copper with a key was himself. Because that was what he would soon be, a dirty copper, he had no doubt. That counterfeit note could have only one purpose: as blackmail by whoever made it and left it there for him to find.

How could the blackmailer know about his past? But what if…

What if those who’d arranged to place that note were his past? Bile welled up in his throat as he realised it wasn’t only possible, but plausible.

Defeated, Quinn sank onto his chair and buried his face in his hands.

No one in Boston knew his roots, he’d made sure of that. For a penniless Irishman, it had been no small feat to claw his way up the ranks of the Boston police force. He’d managed to dodge the dark side of the law for years. It hadn’t been easy for a man like him. But now…

Now all he’d accomplished was threatened by an innocuous slip of paper, a piece of bleached wood pulp bearing a signature that looked exactly like his own.

He should have seen it coming.

Carefully, he spread out the five-dollar counterfeit note between his fingers.

I am a killer.

It wasn’t even a lie. If it had been, his life would be so much easier.

1

For weeks I’d been dreading talking to Zachary and Margery about the counterfeit gang. I’d kept them mostly in the dark because they weren't easily fooled and had a habit of jumping into action before all the necessary facts were gathered. Margery especially had difficulties being patient.

On paper, Margery was the housekeeper and Zach the gardener. But to simply call them "servants" would be grossly understating the roles these two played in my life.

Neither of them had ever shown any interest in bowing and scraping, and I cherished them for it. Well, they had attempted it in the first couple of days in my employ. But such things are bound to change drastically when the supposed prim and proper mistress of the house made outlandish requests of her gardener such as refitting the basement for boxing and target practice so that extracurricular nightly activities with a Webley Mark I revolver and a sparring partner would not disturb the neighbours.

As we settled around the kitchen table, I still wasn't sure how much to tell them and how much to withhold.

Zachary, dressed in his usual garb of grass-stained corduroy trousers and a light blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up and ready for the next job, was piling a second breakfast onto his plate, oblivious to my nervousness and the exasperated glance his wife Margery threw at the mountain of food he was about to devour.

With a grunt, Margery pulled out her chair, sat down, and narrowed her eyes at me. ‘You look like someone is about to die,’ she said.

I winced. So much for my "cool and controlled" exterior.

Rolling my empty teacup between my fingers I replied, ‘We have a decision to make. Maybe not today, but soon.’ I swallowed to clear the knot of tension from my throat before continuing, ‘I have reason to believe that the counterfeit gang is searching for Arthur—’

Abruptly, Margery clonked her cup on the kitchen table. ‘Counterfeit gang?’

Zach pushed yesterday's evening papers toward her and tapped on an article about counterfeit notes found at two Boston banks.

The Boston Post, Saturday, June 2, 1894.

Boston Banks Besieged by Fraud! We relay a most perturbing tale of trickery infiltrating the strongholds of our esteemed financial establishments. Our revered Secret Service reports the alarming presence of masterfully crafted counterfeits in two eminent Boston banks. The counterfeiters have beguiled even seasoned bankers with their skilfully etched banknotes, casting a shadow of doubt over our banking system. Under the pioneering leadership of William P. Wood, the Secret Service — tirelessly battling currency fraud since the Civil War — utilises modern tools such as photography and Heath's Counterfeit Detector to combat scoundrels. Yet, the artful counterfeiters' craftsmanship renders detection a remarkable test. Nonetheless, faith remains in our stalwart protectors as they persevere to safeguard our economy. Despite this moment of alarm, we urge no fear but support for our resolute guardians in the Treasury Department. Their unwavering dedication to quelling the counterfeit menace continues to shield our nation's currency against those who seek to disrupt its integrity.

‘And how doyou know about this?' she asked her husband with a pointed glare.

‘Liz and I discussed it last night after I tucked Klara into bed.’ To Margery's chilling gaze, he hastened to add, ‘And agreed at once that the three of us have to talk about this first thing in the morning.’

She swung her attention to me. ‘And for how long exactly have you known about this?’

This was going precisely as I’d feared it would. Sighing, I leaned back in my chair. The wood of the backrest produced a faint pop. The morning breeze wafted through the kitchen window, bringing with it the fragrant scents of peonies in full bloom and freshly cut grass.

‘Arthur helped me put it together,’ I answered. ‘We already knew from the orphanage records that the boy had been purchased anonymously. The staff never revealed the buyers' identities to the police. It's unclear whether they didn't know who bought him, or if they were too afraid to identify the men. But when Arthur explained his duties to me, it was evident he was forging signatures and engraving copper plates for printing banknotes.’

Arthur was a deaf boy. Maybe six or seven years old. No one seemed to know when or where he was born. He was discovered by the police the previous September, huddled next to a decaying corpse. We agreed to take him in until the authorities could locate his family.

As it turned out, Arthur’s home was an orphanage full of small corpses. He’d stayed with us since.

‘How sure are you of this?’ asked Zach.

‘Absolutely sure. The police found high-quality copper shavings in his pockets when he was found. The way Arthur described his job to me made it clear he had a good understanding of how counterfeit money is made.’

‘Inspector McCurley told you? About the procedures, I mean,’ Zach asked.

I nodded. ‘We discussed it, and he agreed with my assessment. The problem is that Arthur is a witness. He can identify the counterfeiters and that makes him a liability for them. And he has a talent the counterfeiters are coveting. He forged my signature like it was nothing to him. All he needed was one good look, and a pencil to put it to paper.

Margery's gaze shifted to the window that overlooked the garden, where the children and their tutor, Annie Lowell, were solving equations and practising sign language.

Unspoken truths weighed heavy on my chest. Bitter memories clogged my throat. How on earth could I warn Margery and Zachary without sending them into a panic? They needed to know that Arthur was in danger, but blind fear would serve no one, least of all Margery.

‘We have a few options,’ I continued. ‘We can wait and hope the Boston PD apprehends the criminals before they find Arthur. We could also assist in the investigation, I guess. Or we can leave everything behind and start fresh somewhere else.’

‘But that's extreme!’ Margery exclaimed. ‘Moving away? Starting all over?

‘I agree with you. It would be an extreme reaction to a problem we’re not even sure exists,’ I answered. It was a lie. I had considered leaving Boston, but I wasn’t ready to start a new life all over again.

Zachary frowned. ‘But they are killers. They murdered the man Arthur was with… Hartman? Hartworth?’

Averting my gaze from Zach, I said, ‘Charles Hartwell, an investigative journalist. As far as we know, he was killed by the orphanage staff. But we have no proof.’ Again, an outright lie. The gang had thrown Hartwell off a roof, and Arthur witnessed the murder.

‘And who is we?' Margery asked.

‘Inspector McCurley and I. For Arthur's safety, we’ve let no one know he’s connected to the counterfeiters. Well, the counterfeiters know, of course.’ That, at least, was the truth.

Zachary leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, giving me his signature “what are you up to now” look. ‘You could have led with that last night and instead of saying that we might have to move to New York or California! Honestly! We could have saved our nerves for some other catastrophe.’

I hoped he wouldn't press me for more details, especially with Margery in earshot.

‘What's your plan, then?’ she asked.

‘To stay. For now,’ I replied. ‘I’ll gather more information on the counterfeit gang, find out how serious the threat is, or if there even is a threat. I need to know how the gang operates, how valuable Arthur might be to them, and if they pose a threat to him at all. Only then can we decide how to protect him, or if relocation is the best solution.’

I glanced outside toward the garden where Arthur and Klara had begun scaling an apple tree while Annie sat with her back against the trunk. 'I'd rather not disrupt their lives any further. Especially not Arthur's. He's already been through too much.'

‘Agreed,’ Zachary said after a moment of thought. ‘But no matter what happens, I trust Inspector McCurley to handle it.’ He offered me a reassuring smile.

I produced a small nod. ‘I’ll visit the new public library tomorrow and dig through their newspaper archive.’

‘Why not just go directly to the inspector? He'll have all the information you need,’ Margery suggested.

‘I would prefer not to involve him.’

‘Whyever not?’ she pressed.

I sighed. ‘Because I'm withholding information from the police to protect Arthur. McCurley is aware of this, but he doesn’t act on it because he, too, wants to ensure the boy's safety. You know better than anyone the cruel injustices and prejudice black people face in this country. But America isn't all that much kinder to the Irish. As far as I know, McCurley is the only Irish police inspector in Boston. If I were to involve him even more, and someone finds out he’s helping me withhold information about an ongoing case, he'd be ruined.’

I didn't mention that Quinn's troubled past could resurface and destroy his career in an instant. I also didn't mention that Quinn, too, had been owned by a man when he was young, forced to do his bidding.

And I definitely would never mention that I couldn't face being near Quinn again. I was too cowardly to examine what was between us.

‘For Arthur's sake, you should reconsider,’ Zach said firmly.

I dropped my gaze at my empty tea cup and slowly nodded. ‘A compromise, then. If it becomes clear that these counterfeiters pose a real threat to Arthur's safety and well-being, I will contact McCurley. But if it seems they'll leave the boy alone, there’ll be no need to bother him or the police.’

Zach raised an eyebrow, his gaze piercing right through me.

Deep in my bones, I suddenly knew that despite all of my careful planning, things would not turn out how I hoped.

2

I took the train from Savin Hill into Boston, then dragged my bicycle up and down slippery stairs, through downpours and puddles. When I reached Copley Square, not even the foul-smelling chicken on a costermonger’s cart ahead of me seemed more dishevelled than I. Vowing to take the streetcar next time instead, I locked my bicycle to a lamppost and knocked the mud off my soaked knickerbockers.

The stern gaze of the public library's porter followed my progress up the stairs to the entrance. I gave him a sheepish half-smile, relieved I wasn’t the only person trailing mud across the marble floors.

This was my first time visiting the McKim Building, which had opened its doors to the public only weeks earlier. Some sections were still under construction, and I hoped the newspaper archives would already be accessible to the public.

Stepping into the vestibule, I navigated my way through a gaggle of visitors led by a guide who was praising the grand architecture and interior design, ‘…magnificent sculpture of our esteemed Sir Henry Vane, setting a tone of refinement and sophistication! Proceeding forward into the McKim Lobby, home to a grand staircase flanked by lion sculptures…’

I pushed my way through the throng of people and searched for someone who could point me toward the archives.

News reporters had made a racket about Bates Hall, and when I stepped through its doors I understood why. The reading room was bustling with readers and onlookers alike. A good portion of those standing were craning their necks to admire the grandeur of the vaulted ceiling soaring above, supported by pillars of white marble and illuminated by soft light falling through tall windows.

Oddly enough, the new library did not smell any different than had its ageing predecessor: Beeswax, polished oak, a hint of turpentine, and the comforting off-vanilla aroma of old books scented the air.

An attendant told me that the newspaper archive was located on the ground floor. He politely asked me to leave my damp jacket and gaiters in the cloakroom and pointed me toward the elevators — horrible contraptions that people awkwardly shuffled into, then tried to avoid getting the tail of a coat or hem of a dress caught between one floor and the next.

I took the stairs instead.

* * *

The man behind the front desk in the newspaper archives introduced himself as Edmund Whitaker. He was tall, had sombre eyes and a bitter tilt to his mouth. His hair and beard were as dark as the sky just before a November rainstorm. Behind thick spectacles, his eyes peered at me with suspicion, not quite focusing on my face. Despite the softness of his voice and his somewhat grumpy exterior, he made the "mum" sound like a soothing whisper.

Suppressing the urge to stand on my tiptoes and lean closer to him for better understanding, I asked him to kindly point me to the National Police Gazette archive.

He shot me a sardonic glance and turned away without a word. I followed as he steered toward one of the many towering shelves filled with stacks upon stacks of newspapers. He gestured at a small mountain of pinkish paper muttering something that sounded like ‘there,’ and sauntered off, leaving me to my own devices.

Mr Whitaker's reaction to my inquiry didn't surprise me the least. The Gazette was a sensationalist piece of toilet paper — only with fewer splinters — that advertised electric devices to “restore manhood” as well as “rubber goods” and cards that showed “men and women together” as they described it in a roundabout way. But if you looked past the cover that more often than not sported females in various states of gratuitous and fumbling hand-to-hand combat, you'd find reports on notable crimes.

I held on to a sliver of hope that the Police Gazette could provide me with a quick overview of America's noteworthy counterfeit cases much faster than if I were to rummage through the entirety of the Public Library's newspaper archive.

Only minutes into digging my way through the Gazette, I stumbled across a lengthy and rather infuriating article praising the Milan Conference and its supposed positive effects on the deaf community. The reality, however, was bleak: The education of deaf children had become a national mission to force them to act as though they could hear, sometimes going as far as to withhold sign language from them because it was seen as a crutch, not as a useful, and often their only, means of communication. The needs of deaf children were entirely disregarded in favour of avoiding discomfort for those who could hear.

A wave of gratitude toward Annie washed over me. Not only was she a kind and compassionate young woman, but she also understood and accommodated Arthur's delayed development and unique learning style.

It served as a reminder that I was there for Arthur, but my focus was on the counterfeit gang.

I heaved another stack of Gazette issues onto my desk and opened the newest issue.

* * *

When my stomach complained angrily about the lack of food, I realised that I had been searching for hours. Unfortunately, all I had were reports on two counterfeit cases involving well-made bank notes.

Mr Whitaker, who seemed to have vanished from the library during my research, suddenly popped up at my desk, inspecting the piles of various newspapers I had accumulated.

'The Black Eagle scandal,' he murmured, his spectacles perching low on his nose. ‘Interesting case. Very interesting.’

I leaned back in my chair, puzzled at his change in attitude.

‘Silver certificates were of such high quality they even fooled bank officials,' he continued. With nimble fingers, he pushed through the assorted papers on my desk. 'And here, the Irish American counterfeiters. They made fakes of almost anything; gold coins, silver certificates, nickels. A great number of those arrested for counterfeiting held jobs as artists and printers.’

‘This fascinates you?’ I asked.

He produced an apologetic shrug and a soft, ‘It is a bit of a hobby of mine. When I was young, I wanted to be a journalist, you see. Back then, a third or so of all banknotes were counterfeit money. Most were of very low quality. Still, many families were ruined.’

Including his own, I surmised. Nodding, I lied, ‘It ruined my late husband's family. The culprits were never found.’

Curiosity sparked in his expression, but societal norms prevented him from prying into personal terrain. So I provided an unspecific, ‘It occurred in Britain a few years back. But with the recent news of skilled counterfeiters being reported by the Boston Post, I couldn't help but wonder whether…um…they came from Britain.’ I shrugged helplessly. ‘It may seem like a silly assumption, but the case has caught my interest.’

‘The Gazette isn't exactly known for its reliability.’

‘Oh? Well, I only heard they specialise in crime so I thought I'd look there first.’ Another helpless shrug, and with a lowered voice I added, ‘It's quite an awful paper.’

‘Yes. Well.’ He fingered the corners of a yellowed news magazine on my desk. After a drawn-out pause that made me wonder how much longer he wanted to linger silently, he said, ‘It might be wise to be careful. Skilled counterfeiters don't work alone, you see.’

Looking up at him, I blinked and smiled kindly with a strong dose of cluelessness. It had the desired effect.

He pulled in a deep breath and explained in painstaking detail that skilled criminals of any kind are more often than not under the protection of criminal organisations, and corrupt policemen are on such organisations' payroll.

‘Oh. That isn't good, is it?’

Another measured breath. He pushed his glasses further up his nose and leaned a little closer to me. ‘What it means, miss, is that if you continue digging deeper, you may unknowingly draw their attention and put yourself in harm's way.’

‘Oh please!’ I waved a hand and rolled my eyes. ‘I’m not a threat to anyone, least of all seasoned criminals.’

He sighed and started sorting the jumble of newspapers into neat piles. ‘Surely you didn't spend hours here just out of curiosity?’

‘Well, I…’ I made a point of glancing around the room. Four men were searching through the archives. They all appeared to be journalists with the usual pencil and notebook small enough to be tucked into a coat pocket.

Lowering my voice to a whisper, I said to Whitaker, ‘To be perfectly honest, I am researching counterfeit cases for a book I am writing about the counterfeiters that nearly ruined my late husband's family. The names and locations will be altered, of course, and there will be elements of fiction blended in, but I want to make sure my descriptions of the criminals, their techniques, and the police investigation are as accurate as possible.’

Whitaker straightened with a small grunt and wordlessly walked away with my newspapers in his arms. I rose, gathered up my notes, and prepared to leave when Whitaker addressed me softly, ‘If you give me a week, I will find reports that may be of interest to you.’

I clapped my hand to my chest and thanked him profusely, as would be expected of a woman who posed no threat to anyone.

* * *

Although the point of my visit to the Public Library was to avoid attracting unwanted attention with my enquiries, least of all that of the police and the counterfeiters, I lacked the patience to wait an entire week for an old librarian to deliver information that might or might not be of interest. A part of me longed to exchange thoughts on the counterfeit case with Quinn. Another part shrank back at the mere thought of being near him again, while yet another part wanted nothing more than to repeat our first kiss.

As I made my way back to the train station, I went through my mental notes. Using hand signs and gestures, Arthur had told me that he and two men had engraved copper plates, with him being the one responsible for forging signatures. The gang was made up of six men and one woman, who appreciated Arthur's skills. It seemed unlikely that they would let someone go who could describe their illegal activities in detail, would be able to identify every single one of them, and had a skill they coveted.

The Secret Service had conducted an extensive investigation into the case and raided multiple suspected counterfeiters' workshops in Medford, only to come up short. It appeared the counterfeiters had been tipped off about the raids and had hastily vacated their operations before the authorities arrived. I could only assume Arthur's gang was connected to these workshops, though I could never be certain without solid evidence.

Quinn had been looking into Charles Hartwell's death and potential ties to Arthur and his orphanage. In a stroke of luck, Quinn discovered Hartwell's diary which held the only significant clue linking the man to a counterfeit case: a remarkably well-crafted imitation bill tucked between its pages.

The police had also discovered trace amounts of copper shavings in the pockets of Arthur’s clothes — copper of such quality as was used in printing plates. 

All of Hartwell’s notes were rather diffuse. Not once did he provide names, locations, or any details that would make it easy to identify the deaf boy. Nonetheless, with some effort, it was possible to match the descriptions in Hartwell's diary to Arthur.

To make matters even worse, Hartwell's last entry confirmed our worst fears: There was a corrupt police officer who had his fingers in the counterfeiters' purse.

Quinn and I knew that Arthur had seen Hartwell's murder, but to protect the boy, Quinn had not included that in his reports. The looming question was whether the counterfeit gang knew Arthur was an eyewitness to the murder.

Hartwell's investigation had posed a threat to the gang, so they made sure he disappeared. I was certain that they would have no qualms about getting rid of Arthur too, even though he was just a young boy.

To protect Arthur, Quinn kept the diary, the counterfeit bill, the information on the corrupt police officer, and Arthur's witness account of the murder hidden from everyone, including his chief and Boyle.

By concealing evidence from both the Medford and the Boston authorities, Quinn had put himself in a precarious position.

Unfortunately, the Boston PD had a record of Arthur's legal guardians: Quinn and myself. If the officer who was working for the counterfeiters happened to come across this information, it would put the boy in great peril.

The one small silver lining in this disastrous situation was that the Secret Service had taken over the case from the Boston PD. The officer involved with the counterfeiters would have a difficult time obtaining any shred of information about the ongoing investigation.

The Secret Service detective I'd met weeks back called this counterfeit case a highly coordinated and hazardous conspiracy, unlike anything the Treasury Department had encountered before. They were convinced that the group in Boston was the same notorious gang they had been pursuing for over two years across the nation.

* * *

Soaking wet, I finally reached the train station with water dripping down my stockings. The moment I made to hoist my bicycle onto the train bound for Savin Hill, the wind picked up and whipped my wet hair around my face. A man on the platform cursed and clutched his hat to keep it from blowing away, then pulled it low in his face. The collar of his dark coat was turned up against the rain.

I had a strange feeling that I had seen him before.

Disgruntled commuters jostled me until my shoulder bag nearly slipped my hold. With shock, I realised the man on the platform had been walking by when I locked my bicycle to a lamppost before entering the library.

His attire was nothing suspicious on a rainy day like this. If he had remained quiet and simply turned away to fix his hat, I wouldn't have noticed him.

With a shiver that had nothing to do with the weather, I eased my gaze back to my bicycle and fiddled with a pedal as though it was about to come loose in some way. I couldn't linger forever, so I shouldered the bicycle and boarded the train. Outside, the man in the dark coat nonchalantly strolled past my compartment. Perfectly inconspicuous, and probably regretting his prior slip. He was lanky and tall, perhaps a head or more taller than I, though difficult to discern from my vantage.

He walked with the spring of a man used to running long distances. His coat looked new from the tailor, and somehow I had the feeling it didn't fit his frame quite right. As though he preferred a different style altogether.

When he disappeared from my sight, I fought the urge to open a window, stick my head out, and track his every move.

3

As I sat down in the prickly wicker chair on our porch, a knot of dread in my stomach tightened, and I realised I had unintentionally gathered quite a crowd of individuals with hostile intentions towards me and my family.

The greatest threat was Colonel Moran, my late husband's right-hand man. When I was pregnant with Klara, he had hacked off my index finger, shot me in the shoulder, and swore to take my daughter away from me on her third birthday. That day had come and gone without a peep from the man. But the delay did not guarantee my daughter's safety. It only meant he had problems with punctuality.

Ever since the day Moran and my so-called husband had broken into my cottage, abducted me and held me prisoner, I've never felt entirely safe. Even though I'd fled to the other side of the world, I was always on edge, anticipating an ambush.

The second option was the counterfeit gang. They might be planning on taking Arthur or silencing him. Why they hadn't tried already, I wasn't sure. Resources were perhaps an issue — though adept at creating fake money, kidnapping a child was another matter entirely. If the Boston police got wrapped up in a kidnapping or killing, it would bring an additional law enforcement agency to the chase and that would be unprofitable for the counterfeiters in the long run, to say the least. Perhaps they were biding their time to see if Arthur would incriminate them. Should that seem likely, the police officer on their payroll would inform them and the counterfeiters could still send someone to silence Arthur before he could give a witness statement.

The third contender was Mrs Haywood, wife of the notorious Railway Strangler, Colin Haywood. After Quinn and I had killed Haywood in self-defence that nightmarish evening, she'd tried to have me arrested for manslaughter. While rather unlikely, I couldn't rule out the possibility that she might send someone to follow me or even harm my family. People could act irrationally when they were hurting.

Ah, and there was option four: Quinn himself. Not to harm, of course, but to protect. He told me in a very cryptic, roundabout way that his acquaintances were making sure Moran would never make it to Boston. I knew in my bones that Quinn would have asked his men to keep an eye on Arthur and me. But would that be enough to keep the counterfeit gang from putting their hands on us?

I realised that I couldn't decide on my next step without first sorting out who was following me, and who wasn't.

Sipping my tea, I studied the scene before me. Klara and Arthur lay stretched out on a checkered wool blanket, facing each other, her small fingers carefully tracing the letters of a book as she read aloud. His hazel eyes peeked from beneath his brown bangs as he watched, stopping her when she went too fast, or tapping the page to prompt her to continue.

Klara had taught herself to read before she was three and was now helping Arthur learn his letters. She made sure to enunciate the words clearly while moving her finger over the letters on the page. When lipreading became too difficult or if he needed help with a specific word, they used hand signs.

It had taken only days for Arthur and Klara to grow close. Although three years old, Klara had been virtually mute until mere hours after Arthur showed up. Since then, there was no stopping her from filling the world with words for them both. Protecting my daughter from strangers became Arthur's mission, deeming all adults a threat until proven otherwise. Life had not treated Arthur kindly. He had no grasp of the concept of family, and what it meant to have parents who loved and cared for him. He must have spent all or at least a significant part of his short life in an orphanage. A place — as we later learned — that made it a habit to imprison and abuse their charges until they became too weak and ill, at which point they dumped them in the orphanage’s privies or the nearby river and forest. Arthur had led us to the remains of the children that he’d considered brothers and sisters. He was an old soul in a child's body, and I couldn't help but wonder if he somehow felt responsible for the suffering the other children had endured.

He'd survived what so many hadn't.

The way he hovered around Klara to make sure nothing and no one hurt her made it clear he’d tried to protect the other children at the orphanage before being sold to the counterfeiters.

My heart broke every time I thought about Arthur’s previous life, every time I saw him placing his small body between Klara and a passerby. I desperately wanted the boy to know safety, happiness, and love.

Even if Arthur weren't so wildly protective of my daughter, this was his home now and we were his family.

I would protect him with teeth and claws.

Which left me with only one option.

Sighing, I set aside the tea and stood.

I approached our telephone the children had adorned with red ribbons and drawn quite a horrendous face on. We subsequently baptised it “Rosie.”

The operator put me through to the Boston PD, and Boyle's voice sounded from the other end. I asked if I could leave a message for Inspector McCurley, but a mere two seconds later Quinn said, 'Elizabeth?'

My mouth dried up.

'Sergeant Boyle, a little privacy, please?'

Although Quinn had spoken softly, I heard him loud and clear. The connection was impeccable that day. I could even hear Boyle close the door to Quinn's office.

'Elizabeth? Are you all right?'

I cleared my throat. 'Yes. Apologies for bothering you. I just... I have a quick question for you. Are any of your…old acquaintances following me?'

'Excuse me?' Every small rasp of his tense voice was audible.

'Are any of your—'

'No,' he said, low and gruff.

'Oh good, then—'

'Describe the men to me.' There was a new urgency in his tone.

'It's all right, Quinn. I'm sure it's nothing. I spotted the man only once...well, twice. No need to worry about—'

'You sound like a cornered rabbit.'

I scrambled for an excuse to hang up. 'Klara is calling for me. I need to—’

He cut me off, 'I'll be at the boat house at eight o'clock tonight.'

My breath hitched. 'No! It's not—’

A loud click and Quinn was gone.

'—not necessary…’ I stared at the receiver. 'Damn.'

'What was that about?' Margery asked, bustling past me into the kitchen.

Exhaling a groan, I picked up the receiver to once again ask a certain friend for a favour. The voice on the other end sounded like Owens the butler drowning in a sea of metal shavings.

'Hello, is that you, Owens? May I speak to Warren, please?’ I said. There was a lot of crackling and hissing on the other side. I repeated myself, this time raising my voice nearly to a shout.

After what seemed an eternity of scratchy mumbling and distortion, a faint voice said, ‘Mr Amaury, sir, Dr Arlington is on the telephone.’ A clunk and more crackling.

I hated telephoning.

I'd almost given up on the connection when Warren said, 'Liz? Is that you?'

'Yes, it's me. Can we meet? I have a question. And maybe...a favour to ask.'

Warren paused for a moment. 'Sounds urgent.'

‘Um. Perhaps. Does tomorrow at two o'clock suit you?'

'Let me check. Owens? Am I free tomorrow early afternoon?'

A moment later, Warren said, 'Looks good. Where do you want to meet?'

'Your new apartment?'

'Erm... Are you sure?' he asked.

‘Why, are you worried?'

A nervous laugh. 'Well, you've never seen me like this, so yes, I am worried.'

I tried for a calm tone while using enough volume to be heard on the other end. 'Warren, I’m treating patients in the slums almost daily. Do you think anything can shock me?'

A long pause, and then, 'You d-d-d-did not j-j-just say th-that, Elizabeth Arlington! Do you really think I’ve s-s-sunk that low?'

For a moment, I felt bad about rattling Warren so hard that he fell back into his childhood stutter. But then I remembered that he enjoyed roughhousing, both mentally and physically. ‘Warren, you live in an apartment fit for the upper middle class. Ninety-nine per cent of the American population would trade their hovel for yours in a heartbeat. I absolutely do not think you have sunk low.’

He grunted, and asked, ‘Should I invite the Freaks?’

‘I’d like to speak with you alone.’

‘Oh! Are we catching another murderer?’

‘May I remind you that you did not catch the Railway Strangler, rather you led him straight to my door.’

A prolonged silence followed. ‘I’ll never forget that, Liz. I still feel horrible about it.’

‘Telephoning is giving me a headache. We talk more tomorrow, Warren.’

After we said our farewells, I asked Margery to tell Zach to invite Georgie for dinner the next day. He and his friend Freddie were newsboys who occasionally worked as informants for me. Payment was accepted in coin and Margery's blueberry muffins. Georgie was as sharp as a whip, but I had my doubts about Freddie.

‘Don’t think I don’t know you’ve got secrets with this counterfeit case,’ Margery said. ‘We’re going to have a long conversation, Elizabeth. You’re not getting away that easy.’ She unpointed her finger from my nose and bustled away to find her husband.

No, it wasn't over. It was just beginning.

***

After dinner, I unlocked the hidden door in my bedroom and made my way through the tunnel toward the boat house. When the recession had rolled in, Margery and Zach had prepared for the worst and transformed the tunnel into a well-stocked larder with enough provisions to feed an entire battalion — defending against an economic apocalypse that never happened.

Neither did they know there was no shortage of funds. An inheritance of three million dollars in gold was enough to last us many lifetimes. Zach and Margery knew I had some money, but they'd probably die from an aneurysm if I ever told them how much.

When I reached the end of the tunnel, I pressed my ear to the door of the boat house and listened. Faint scrunching noises from rodents chewing on their supper. Ticking of furniture beetle larvae. Distant lapping of water against the muddy shore.

I lowered the flame of my lantern, undid the three bolts I installed soon after I discovered the tunnel, and stepped through the door. 

I'd left the inside of the old boat house unchanged, frozen in time. Cobwebs hung thick from the ceiling and dirt carpeted the floor — all seemed undisturbed since my last visit.

Tiptoeing across the small space, I pricked my ears for any noise, but there was only silence and the soft crunch of my footfall. I peeked through the grime-covered window to survey the area before calling out softly, 'Are you there?'

'I am, but don't open the door,’ Quinn murmured.

'Is someone watching?' I asked, my nerves tingling as the moments ticked by. 'Quinn?'

'What happened, Liz?'

Was he asking why I'd left with hardly an explanation and a weak apology?

He'd ever only called me Elizabeth. His softly spoken question melted a barrier inside of me. My forehead pressed against the cracked doorframe. A hundred words filled my mouth, but I settled on, 'You are a police inspector, Quinn. You are so far up the hierarchy, you’ve even got your own office and telephone.'

'You know I wouldn't rat you out. So why—'

'Because I know you wouldn't rat me out,' I interrupted.

A soft laugh, almost bitter. 'Are you trying to protect my virtue?'

I groaned. 'Quinn, I'm withholding evidence. Not only that, I—'

'Listen to me, Elizabeth. I will say this only once, so listen carefully. I was a criminal. Not just a petty thief or pickpocket but someone who killed people for money. The man Quinn McCurley is nothing more than an invention, a construct that’s allowed me to leave my old life behind. You can't protect me, and it's not your job anyway. I killed for money. I did it with my bare hands. Never forget this.'

Dumbstruck, my gaze shifted to the window. He was nowhere in sight, but I knew he must be leaning against the doorframe, hidden from view. Only once had he shared with me a glimpse of his past as a pit fighter who’d grown up in the slums. I’d known there was more to the story, but never did I expect anything like this.

He continued, his voice a rumble, 'Describe the man you saw in detail.'

I opened the door a small crack, knowing he'd warn me if anyone was nearby.

His silhouette filled the entrance as he stepped in and shut the door gently behind him. A few droplets of rain sparkled off his coat as he pushed the hat away from his face. The small light from the lantern glittered in his eyes.

'I know you don't want to see me,' he began. 'But this is more important than personal preferences. We both made promises to Arthur, and we both know the boy might be in danger.'

He waited for my nod before continuing, 'Now tell me exactly what happened.'

I relayed the whole story, and he listened without interrupting. Then he said, 'So you are already knee-deep in investigating the counterfeit gang. Why am I even surprised?' Shaking his head, he washed a hand over his face.

Something was wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I knew he was mad at me for dropping him like a hot poker. But that wasn't all. I felt it under my skin. Something about this version of Quinn McCurley made the hair on my neck rise.

'I take it you have a plan laid out on how to catch them and send them off to prison,' he said.

The crawling under my skin grew worse. Putting a smile on my face, I answered, 'I will distract and discombobulate while pulling the rug right out from beneath their feet.'

Quinn shut his eyes and steadily sucked in a breath, his nostrils flaring. 'Right. Doctor Elizabeth Arlington, the woman who would single-handedly wipe out the entirety of organised crime in Massachusetts. If you are open to suggestions at all at this point, why don't I tackle the rug-pulling while you do the discombobulating?' His expression shifted to one of cold determination as he met my gaze again. This was a man whose icy resolve intensified the more cornered he felt.

Why would he feel that way around me? 'Quinn, I'm sorry, I—'