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Sunday the 19th, quarter past nine in the evening

Eliza pressed down harder on the wound. Her handkerchief was already saturated with blood. With her shaking left hand she reached down to flip up the hem of her skirt. After ensuring the handkerchief was in place, she pressed her neck to her shoulder, and gripped the edge of her petticoat. With all her might, she pulled, until a large enough piece tore away. Gasping with the effort, she let the bloodied hanky fall away, and pressed the fresh bit of fabric to her throat. She glanced over to Oliver’s prone form. In the dim light, she could just perceive his chest rising and falling.

William, she thought desperately, where are you?

Sunday the 19th, ten o’clock in the morning

The only time the streets of London were quiet was a Sunday morning. Even then, quiet was a relative term. Oliver Fitzroy hurried through town, silently scolding himself for his lateness. Of course, he was not to know he would be required at the station until an hour or so after he was required at the station. But he scolded himself nonetheless, for the grave sin of irritating Duke.

Bustling past the desk sergeant, he travelled down the hall at a canter, skidding to a stop in front of Duke’s office. He knocked, and listened for the broad Scots voice to bid him enter– which it did so after only a moment’s pause. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, sir,’ Fitzroy panted, ‘only I was at church you see–’

Duke held up a hand to stifle the young detective’s excuses. ‘I am sorry to bring you in on a Sunday. But there was no one else I could trust to assist me in this matter.’

A golden feeling of pride burst through Fitzroy’s chest. ‘I–I am happy to help, sir!’ he stammered.

‘Grand,’ growled Duke, and tossed him a key. Fitzroy caught it ably– to his own surprise– and examined it. 

‘It’s very small, sir. Would not fit into a door, or even a trunk. Perhaps a drawer in a writing-desk? Or a ladies jewellery box?’ he turned it over in his hand, looking for clues.

‘It’s for handcuffs, Fitzroy. My handcuffs.’

‘Sir?’

Duke jerked his head to the left, and Fitzroy turned to see Miss Scarlet sat in the corner. Her left wrist bore one handcuff; its partner was shackled to Duke’s hat-stand. Open-mouthed, Fitzroy stared between Miss Scarlet and the Duke, utterly unsure of how to proceed. ‘Put the key in your pocket, son, and leave it there until I tell you otherwise.’ Still aghast, Fitzroy obeyed, tucking it carefully into the breast pocket of his coat. Duke ran an exasperated hand through his hair, before rather forcefully shoving on his own coat and hat. ‘And Fitzroy, do not, under any circumstances, release her until you have been told to do so by me. Do you understand?’

‘Erm… sir, I–’

‘Do you understand?!’

‘Yes! I shall not release Miss Scarlet until you have returned.’

‘No,’ Duke wagged a paternalistic finger, ‘not until I return, until I give the direct order.’

‘Yes, sir; when you give the direct order.’

Duke stalked to his door, flinging it open. He took a long look at Miss Scarlet, sighed deeply, and slammed the door as he went out. Not knowing where else to look, Fitzroy turned once more to Miss Scarlet. ‘Good morning, miss,’ he offered, unaware of the proper protocol for greeting a shackled lady.

‘Good morning, Oliver. I am sorry William has dragged you here on a Sunday.’ Fitzroy gave a vague nod in response. He did not wish to seem to be insulting the inspector by agreeing that it was most inconvenient to be dragged in on the Sabbath. ‘To tell the truth,’ she said with a grin, ‘I am sorry he has dragged me here on a Sunday as well,’ she gestured to her shackled wrist.

‘May I ask…’ he trailed off, uncertain how to proceed with the potentially delicate line of questioning.

‘William is being overprotective,’ she explained. ‘I am investigating a murder case– well, four murder cases– and when I tried to leave my home last night, he was waiting for me. He locked me in my bedroom, and then brought me here first thing this morning.’ Fitzroy was more than a little scandalised to hear Eliza refer to her bedroom, and averted his eyes. ‘He thinks if I am freed I shall immediately return to the scene of the crimes, and I’ll be in danger myself.’

Fitzroy, in truth, agreed with the inspector’s assessment. After a moment’s pause, a thought occurred to him. ‘Say, Miss Scarlet, you won’t try to trick me into unlocking you, will you?’ 

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

Sunday the 12th, half past eleven in the morning

Ivy gaped at the girl on the door-step. She was torn between a desire to slam the door in her face, or pull her inside before any of the neighbours could have a prolonged look at her. Ivy’s good training won out, and she pushed the door open wider, ushering the girl inside. She was afraid to ask to take the girl’s cloak– fearing she would be left wearing nothing at all if she were relieved of her outer garments. ‘What do you want?’ she hissed, hoping her Lizzie would not hear.

‘This is Miss Scarlet’s house, isn’t it?’ asked the girl in an accent which recalled East London gin-houses. ‘Only I come to ask her for some help.’

‘I am afraid the mistress is not in.’ She looked the girl up and down. ‘And I do not know when she shall return,’ she added, pointedly. 

‘I can wait.’ She crossed her thin arms over her nearly-exposed bosom. 

‘I shall bring you a page and pen,’ responded Ivy, evenly, ‘and you may leave a message for the mistress.’

‘Can’t write,’ she said simply.

‘You can talk, can’t you?’ Ivy retorted as her irritation grew. ‘You may dictate to me.’ But the girl shook her head.

‘I come to speak to Miss Scarlet herself.’

‘Well, as I have said, she is not–’ Ivy’s head sank as Eliza appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘Hello there,’ she said brightly, making her decent. ‘I thought I heard the bell.’

‘She said you wasn’t in!’ cried the young girl, sending an accusing finger in Ivy’s direction. 

‘Not in? Why, where should I be on a Sunday?’ Eliza stepped smartly onto the landing, and offered her hand to the girl. ‘I’m Miss Scarlet; are you in need of detective services?’

‘Agnes,’ said the girl, accepting Eliza’s shake. ‘There’s been four murders of young ladies this month and the police won’t do nothing.’

‘Four?’ Eliza was shocked. ‘I have heard nothing of this. These murders took place here, in London?’

‘They did.’ She held up a hand to enumerate them. ‘Lottie. Liza. Other Agnes. Bridgid. I went to the police myself and the desk sergeant said he’d arrest me if I didn’t sling my hook! Said he didn’t care none about what happened to prostitutes.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Eliza, sympathetically, as she reached out to grip Agnes’ arm. ‘You had better come through to my study; we can speak there. Ivy,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘do make us some tea.’

‘Very well,’ said Ivy. ‘Though I’ll not use the best china,’ she added under her breath, as she made her way toward the kitchen.

Tuesday the 14th, six o’clock in the evening

The night was already full-dark. Duke stifled a yawn as he turned the little dial on his gas lamp. He could hardly read the pages, though he was certain his blurred vision was owing more to his exhaustion, than to the dim light of his office. It can all wait, he decided, and pushed back from his desk. He extinguished the lamp, pulled on his coat, and was just reaching for his hat, when a knock sounded. He debated the merits of ignoring it, when the knock came again. ‘Enter!’ he called out in his most harried voice, hoping whoever was on the other side of the door would hear, and understand, his tone. The door swung open slowly, and he was utterly surprised to see Ivy.

‘Forgive me, inspector,’ she said, her eyes darting about the room, ‘it is late, I know, but I am most concerned for Eliza. You see, I am afraid she has done something rather foolish.’

Duke rolled his eyes. ‘Something foolish? Eliza? You don’t say…’

Ivy would usually join him in such sentiment, but his blood chilled when he saw she could only shake her head, her face frozen into a mask of fear. ‘Ivy,’ he began, leaning over to re-lit the lamp that he could better see her face, ‘what has happened?’

‘She has accepted a commission from a… a… madame ,’ she explained, her voice dropping to a whisper in the name of propriety.

Duke sighed. ‘A brothel is no place for a lady of Eliza’s quality, I agree with you, but she has visited any number of unsavoury places during her investigations. Whilst she can be a bit– well, more than a bit– impetuous and reckless, I do not doubt she–’

‘She is undercover!’ Ivy cried. ‘The past two nights, and this night, she has gone to the brothel posing as a…’ she could not bring herself to say the word.

‘You let her go?!’

‘I could not stop her, inspector! I have not been able to convince her of anything since she was twelve!’

‘And you did not think to come to me until now? On the third night?’

‘I am sorry,’ Ivy sank into a chair, and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Duke felt a stab of pity for her– he knew, better than anyone, how capable Eliza was at getting her way. ‘She begged me not to tell you. She said it would just be the one evening, but now it is three and I– I dread to think what could be happening there.’

Duke pushed a bit of paper to her. ‘Write the address, Ivy; I shall put a stop to this tonight.’

Sunday the 12th, one o’clock in the afternoon

Eliza had invited Agnes to sit, and tell her story from the beginning. She listened to the girl speak for an hour, telling the impossibly sad story of the murdered girls. Lottie had been throttled by the punter she was with, and he fled the brothel without being seen. Liza was stabbed as she exited the pub at dawn. Other Agnes had been beaten so severely, her madame could hardly identify the body from the battered face. Brigid had been struck by a blow to the head by something sharp and heavy, her body recovered just that morning. ‘And she only come over from Ireland two months ago!’ Agnes added, as though her recent arrival should have precluded her from such an end.

Eliza rubbed her aching hand, tired from the exertion of taking down all the particulars of the cases. She assured Agnes she would investigate thoroughly, and would not give up until she had found the culprit. 

‘I do believe you, miss,’ said Agnes, a little sadly, ‘but even if you isn’t able to find the man what done it, I thank you for looking. You done more for us than the police.’

‘I would not discount the police just yet,’ said Eliza with what she hoped was a comforting smile. ‘I have got a connection with an inspector and if I require it, he shall be glad of assisting me.’

Agnes raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘If you say so, miss.’

Tuesday the 14th, half past seven in the evening

Duke stood in the shadows across the street from the address Ivy provided. The house was non-descript– a mid-terrace built sometime late last century. Owing to the stream of nervous-looking gentlemen entering and leaving, he supposed Ivy had the correct details. He wanted to kick in the door, brandish his warrant-card, and pull Eliza out by her hair. He exhaled deeply, sending steam into the frigid night air. But he sensed this required delicacy. Ensuring his service revolver was carefully tucked out of view, he made for the freshly-lacquered door, knocking briskly. A young maid showed him inside to a small, empty, sitting-room. For a moment he stood in the room, trying to decide if an ordinary punter would sit or stand, when the door re-opened, and he was greeted by a middle-aged woman wearing far too much rouge.

‘I’m Mrs Ferndale,’ she said, taking up a place on the settee, and gesturing for him to do the same. ‘I do not recognise you, sir; this must be your first time at my establishment?’ Her tone was light and pleasant, and Duke, in spite of his agitation, fought to match her.

‘Yes. It is my first time. It was recommended to me by my friend and colleague Mr Smith.’ 

Mrs Ferndale smiled. ‘I know many Mr Smiths; all have left my establishment in complete satisfaction. I suppose you are called Smith as well?’

‘I’m called Stirling.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Is that where you hail from?’

Duke shifted in his seat. ‘No. Is it your habit to ask that of all your punters?’

‘ Clients, Mr Stirling; we prefer the word client, to punter. And no, I do not typically inquire into anyone’s provenance. It is mere curiosity. May I ask,’ she leant forward a little, ‘what sort of girl you are interested in? We cater to all manner of tastes here.’

Duke paused for a moment, pretending to mull it over. ‘Oh, I do like a blonde. And I enjoy– this is perhaps rather a niche request, Mrs Ferndale, but I do like a girl with spirit. One who can provide some interesting conversation before and after the necessities of the job. Someone clever.’

‘I’ve just the one, Mr Stirling. She is new to the house, but very skilled. Each of the gentlemen who have been with her have left twice as happy as when they arrived.’ Duke gripped the armrest with such force his knuckles went white. ‘Are you quite well, Mr Stirling? You look rather pale.’

‘It is warm in here,’ he choked out. ‘A whiskey would see me right, I believe.’ 

Mrs Ferndale rose to her feet, reaching for a small bell. She shook it, and the same maid who opened the door re-appeared. ‘Show Mr Stirling to room three, Rose; and ensure there is a full bottle of Glen Garoich for his delectation.’ Rose curtsied to her mistress, and with a quick nod of the head, indicated for Duke to follow. 

Sunday the 12th, five o’clock in the afternoon

‘No.’

‘You cannot simply say no, William.’

‘Yes I can.’

Eliza rolled her eyes. ‘I have already found that each of these women have worked at an establishment operated by a Mrs Ferndale. It has been but five hours since the case came to my attention, and already I possess this information! With you by my side, we can solve this very quickly, and these poor women will be able to rest in peace.’

Duke exhaled. ‘I appreciate what you are trying to do, Eliza, but it is too dangerous for you to investigate. I will not have you involving yourself in this sordid world of which you know nothing! These madames are often involved with gangsters and violent men.’ He paused, hoping she would agree with his sensible statements, but knowing deep down she would fight him tooth and nail. ‘It is getting dark; let me walk you home.’

‘I do not wish to go home; I wish to investigate this case. And perhaps it has escaped you, William, but murder is quite a serious crime. When there have been four, surely you ought to instruct your officers to investigate.’

‘We’ve not got the resources to investigate every time a whore or a drunk gets themselves hurt, Eliza.’ At her hurt expression, he softened his tone. ‘Perhaps tomorrow morning, if we’ve got the men, I can send Phelps to make some enquiries–’

‘You will not go yourself?’

‘I am too busy.’

‘You are too frightened.’

‘Pardon?’ Irritation caused him to draw himself up to his full height. He had no more patience for this line of conversation.

‘You do not wish for me to investigate because it is too dangerous– the brothel will simply be filled with gangsters– so I can only arrive at the conclusion that you are terribly frightened of what you may find there.’

Duke chewed the inside of his cheek. ‘If you possess no fear of the dark streets, then you take your leave, Eliza; walk yourself home.’

She crossed her arms over chest, and resisted the urge to stamp a foot. ‘For the last time, will you help me?’

‘No.’ 

‘William–’

‘No!’ Duke slammed his hand on his desk.

‘That looked rather painful,’ said Eliza, sincerely hoping it smarted.

‘It wasn’t,’ said Duke, rather too quickly, as he turned away from her to surreptitiously rub his sore palm. ‘Brothels and seedy public houses are no place for you, Eliza.’

Eliza scoffed. ‘So it is perfectly acceptable for other women to associate with that world, but not me.’

‘No. Not you.’

‘And why is that, pray? Do you believe I am weak? That I lack the brains or the courage?’

Duke pinched the bridge of nose, and squeezed his eyes shut. No one gave him a headache like Eliza. ‘Of course I believe you capable– more than capable– of investigating these murders, but I shall not stand by and see you place yourself in such peril for little reason.’

‘Little reason? Little reason?’ she repeated as she rose from her chair, full of passion. ‘Four women have been killed this month alone! And you will sit idly by and do nothing! Has it not occurred to you, William, that I am a woman? And so is Ivy? Does our safety mean nothing to you.’ Eliza wrapped her jacket tighter about her body. She crossed the room in but a few steps, and paused, gripping the door handle, half-hoping William would change his mind and prevent her leaving; and half-hoping she would be permitted to walk away into the night– to return to her investigations without his bothersome interference. ‘Eliza,’ he shook his head, ‘neither you nor Ivy are in any danger from this man. You are respectable ladies. If what you’ve told me is true, he targets only women of the night. And,’ he grinned, which caused Eliza untold further consternation, ‘unless I am much mistaken about your profession, you sell only your mind, not your… not the entirety of yourself.’

‘It is a body, William; I possess a body, much the same as you.’ She exhaled deeply, dropping her head. ‘Will you please assist me in this case?’ 

‘I will walk you home, Eliza, and–’ but she opened the door, and started down the hall, not listening to any more of what he had to say. She stopped by the main door certain, utterly certain, William would join her. As the beady eye of the desk sergeant bore into her back, she realised she would have to solve the case on her own. 

Sunday the 19th, noon

Fitzroy buried his head in his hands. He had not cried since he was a little boy, but in this moment, he rather felt he could burst into tears. ‘The inspector will skin me alive, miss!’ he moaned.

‘William needn’t know, Oliver!’ Eliza leant forward, and gave him a brief pat on the knee in encouragement. ‘He shall not return for hours yet.’

‘I gave the inspector my word, miss,’ he said soberly. ‘To engage in falsehood is sin enough, but on the Lord’s day…’

‘I had no notion you were possessed of such religious feeling, Oliver. But surely, you could not deny my need to step away for only a moment.’ Fitzroy shook his head. ‘Please, Oliver. Release me, and I shall return within minutes.’ Fitzroy’s agonies played on his face as he weighed Duke’s anger and Miss Scarlet’s dignity. After a moment, his shoulders slumped, and with a sigh, he produced the key from his pocket. He made her promise three times that she was only popping down the hall, and would return forthwith, before he unlocked the cuffs. ‘Thank you, Oliver,’ she said, with genuine warmth as she rubbed her wrist. She walked out of William’s office at a healthy pace, shutting the door smartly behind her. Travelling down the corridor, and out into the sunshine, she felt sorry for Oliver– she truly did– but her services had been sought and bought, and she would never let down a client.

Tuesday the 14th, quarter to eight in the evening

Duke drained a glass of whiskey, then another. He had been shown into a well-appointed bedroom to await Eliza– he hoped it would be Eliza anyway. A box of chocolates sat on a side table and he half-wondered if they were there for tasting, or if they served some new-fangled purpose during lovemaking. He paced a bit, sat for a bit, then paced some more. Not a patient man at the best of times, he was in utter agony thinking of Eliza in this place– there was a keen sense of dread in the pit of his stomach as he wondered what she might have done to make those punters so happy. Regarding the empty glass in his hand, he decided a third whiskey would not be out of the question. His heart stilled when he heard a knock at the door. ‘Come,’ he called. But it was only the maid, Rose; this time bearing a bowl of fruit. She regarded him strangely for a moment.

‘Are– are you uncomfortable, sir?’

‘No,’ he replied, rather too quickly.

‘Oh. Very well. It’s just that…’ she trailed off looking embarrassed for a moment. ‘It’s just that most gentlemen prepare themselves before the miss joins them.’

Duke realised that being fully-dressed in a brothel was likely to cause suspicion– though the revolver at the small of his back would create more of a problem for he and Eliza both. Aware that he may be invoking suspicions from Rose– who would no doubt report to Mrs Ferndale, he gave the young maid a tight smile, and stood, removing his jacket. He let his braces fall to his sides, and kicked off his boots. Unconsciously he reached for the hem of his shirt, but remembering the revolver, he stopped. ‘Perhaps it is strange, but I shall save the remaining undressing for the, er, miss , when she arrives.’

‘As you wish, sir.’

Sunday the 19th, half past one in the afternoon

Duke knew the moment he pushed open the door to his office, and spied Fitzroy standing by the window, chewing his thumbnail, his eyes fixed into a vacant stare. He sighed.

‘Please accept my apologies, sir,’ Fitzroy stammered, ‘but, you see, she said–’

Duke held up a hand to silence the young detective, and crossed to hang up his coat and hat on the now unoccupied hat-stand. ‘To tell the truth, Fitzroy, I’d have been more shocked if she were still here.’

Tuesday the 14th, eight o’clock in the evening

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of Mrs Ferndale and her employee. ‘Mr Stirling,’ she said proudly, sweeping into the room, ‘this young lady is our newest acquisition, and, from what I hear, a rare talent. May I introduce Scarletta.’ He was briefly proud of Eliza, that she did not allow her recognition of him to be betrayed in her countenance. She was clad only in a turquoise wrap, which illustrated the charms which lay under its thin silk fabric. ‘Scarletta,’ said Mrs Ferndale, ‘this is Mr Stirling. I trust he shall leave here quite content.’

‘Yes, Mrs Ferndale,’ Eliza replied, in a sing-song voice which made Duke’s blood run cold. When she was satisfied that Mr Stirling had been well-attended by Rose, Mrs Ferndale bowed out of the room.

Nobly averting his gaze once the madame had taken her leave, Duke handed Eliza his jacket, which she slipped on, preserving her modesty. ‘You cannot imagine the shock I had seeing you here!’ she laughed, taking up a place on the bed. ‘Why, it took every ounce of acting skill I possess to keep neutral. I half-wonder if my true calling is the stage, rather than detection.’ Spotting the box of chocolates, she leant over, and began to scrutinise the label.

Duke was aghast. ‘This is a laughing matter to you?’

‘You know, you do go very Scots when you’re angry,’ she said lightly, popping a chocolate into her mouth. ‘Ooh, you must try the hazelnut.’

‘You have not seen the anger of which I am capable, Eliza.’

Sensing the danger she was in, Eliza carefully replaced the chocolate box on the table, and hugged Duke’s jacket tighter to her frame. ‘I know what you are going to say, William, and yes, I suppose coming here and posing as a prostitute is a very dangerous pursuit, but you refused to help these women. So I felt I must.’

‘ Posing as a prostitute,’ Duke spat. ‘Is that all you’ve been doing? Posing ?’

‘William, what are you suggesting…’

He gestured wildly to the recently-closed door. ‘She– Mrs Ferndale– said you had many punters visit you in the last two nights, Eliza, and I am–’

‘ Clients, William. They’re called clients .’ 

Swallowing the urge to throttle her, Duke continued, at once incredibly angry, and desperately afraid. ‘What did you do to those men, Eliza?’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘I have said, William, I am only posing in this role.’ She reached for another chocolate. ‘I paid them.’

‘You paid them ?’

‘Yes. I offered them double my fee to not only keep quiet, but to tell Mrs Ferndale how pleased they were with my services.’

The knot in Duke’s stomach loosened. He knew she would not lie. Exhaling deeply, he eased his braces back up to his shoulders, and sank into the chair to pull on his boots. ‘We are leaving. Now. Keep my coat on, aye?’

‘I cannot. I have not solved the case.’

‘Eliza,’ he stood again, towering over her as she sat on the bed. ‘You can walk out with me now, or I can throw you over my shoulder and carry you down the stairs. It makes little difference to me how we leave this place, only that we leave this place. If you care to preserve your dignity, I suggest the former option.’

Eliza gave him a pitying look. She reached a hand to the wall, and rested it on the ornate wallpaper for a moment. She stood, and unwrapped his coat from her body, pressing it into Duke’s chest. ‘I am sorry, William. I do appreciate your concern, but I must stay.’ She turned and pulled back the bedding, wrinkling the sheet as she went. Then she ran her hands through her hair, mussing the usually-elegant chignon. ‘Mrs Ferndale will be here in fifteen seconds to see you out. I beg you to leave without incident. She’s got an armed man on staff,’ she added, dropping her voice.

‘Why should she come?’

‘I am disappointed you didn’t notice, William. Perhaps you’re losing your touch.’ He did not return her cheeky grin. ‘There’s a concealed button on the wall there,’ she gestured to where she had touched the paper. Upon closer inspection, Duke could just perceive the protuberance. Before he could declaim on the prowess of his touch, Mrs Ferndale was flinging open the door. Duke spun around rapidly, and pulled on his coat, hoping she did not catch a glimpse of his revolver.

‘That was… rapid,’ she offered, politely as she might. Eliza gave a little nod and pushed past. 

‘I shall see you again,’ he called to her retreating form, but Eliza did not turn. Desperate as he was to fulfil his promise of carrying her out of the house, if indeed Eliza was correct– and he assumed she was– and there was an armed guard lurking in the shadows, he did not wish for a gunfight. Nor to reveal his identity.

Mrs Ferndale escorted him to the door, and he assured her that despite the speed of their visit, he was duly satisfied by Scarletta’s handiwork, and expressed his desire to return. Stepping out into the frigid night air he craved his bed, but with a sigh, he turned left, and made for Eliza’s residence. He would be there when she returned home.

Friday the 17th, half past nine in the morning

Eliza held her breath as she slowly and quietly pushed the key into the lock. Upon reflection, she was not entirely certain why she felt the need to hold her breath, as she was outside, and the house was empty. Even if she had not held her breath, and the house was occupied, no one could have heard her breath. But nonetheless, she clamped shut her mouth whilst she unlocked the kitchen door. She stepped in, silently as she could, locking the door behind her. She placed her bag on the table, and found a vase in one of the cupboards. Filling it with cool water, she pulled the yellow roses from her bag, and arranged them carefully in the vase. Beside it, she placed a box of the exquisite chocolates which she had pilfered from Mrs Ferndale’s. It would not entirely appease Ivy after a night of worries, but she thought it made a fine start. After all, she had not wished to remain away from home for so long, but she knew William would have been there on the Wednesday, waiting for her, and she wished to avoid that unpleasant scene. Satisfied with her efforts, she decided to go upstairs and treat herself to a long, hot bath. Ivy had gone to market, and Eliza figured she had at least an hour, if not slightly above, to prepare herself.

She trudged up the kitchen stairs, exhausted, and annoyed that further income had been lost in order to pay for her hotel room. But it would be worth it, she reasoned, once she had found the killer of these poor women. And she was so close– she needed confirmation of the alibi, but she was certain the killer was–

An arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her backward into the sitting room. She reached back to claw at the assailant’s face, but he squeezed, tight, and she leant forward, gasping for air. She was roughly deposited onto the settee, and when she heard that familiar voice, the fear in her heart changed to righteous anger.

‘Where have you been, Eliza?’

‘How dare you!’ she panted, attempting to stand up as she caught her breath. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. ‘How dare you manhandle me like that? What is the meaning of this, William?’

‘The meaning,’ he said, slowly, whilst reaching out to push her back to her seat, ‘is that you have upset Ivy. You have been acting with complete disregard for your safety. And,’ he added, running a hand through his hair, ‘with complete disregard for my sanity.’

‘I shall make my amends to Ivy,’ she responded, smoothing her skirts as she climbed to her feet, ‘but I asked you for help, and you refused. I will not apologise. In fact, I would like you to leave, William.’ 

‘Very well,’ he stormed toward the door. ‘But if I see you in that brothel again, you’ll learn an entirely new meaning of the word manhandle. ’ The sitting-room door slammed, and moments later, so too did the front door.

Sunday the 19th, half past two in the afternoon

‘Mr Stirling, how lovely to see you again.’ Duke received Mrs Ferndale’s greeting with a polite nod. 

‘You were correct, madame, about Scarletta and her acumen,’ he said. ‘I hoped she would be available this afternoon.’

‘I have the most excellent intuition, you see,’ she replied, sweeping into the sitting-room, and beckoning Duke to follow. ‘I can always tell when a girl will–’ a scream from above stairs put a sharp end to Mrs Ferndale’s thought. Duke, regretting he did not bring his revolver, leapt to his feet, and flung open the door. ‘Mr Stirling! Mr Stirling!’ she called, scurrying after him, quickly as she could manage in her voluminous skirts. At the top of the stairs, Duke paused, waiting to see if the woman screamed again. He craned his neck to look down the hall, but saw no obvious movement in either direction. ‘Mr Stirling!’ panted Mrs Ferndale, nearly breathless from her exertions. ‘There is no need for alarm.’

‘A woman was screaming.’

‘Yes, yes. You see, some of our clients have got rather particular needs, and–’  a second scream tore through the hall, and Duke ran in the direction of the sound. He gripped the door handle, but found it to be securely locked.

‘The key!’ he called out to Mrs Ferndale, but as she continued her protests, he took decisive action, and kicked in the door. At once he was struck by relief, to not find Eliza therein– but that was soon replaced by anger as he spied a cane-wielding man standing over the young, screaming girl. The man began to protest at the interruption, but Duke swiftly removed the bamboo instrument from the man’s hand, still frozen in midair. He broke it over his knee, wincing as he went. Stepping into the hall he roared, ‘Phelps!’ as his colleague emerged from a nearby room. As he was instructing his detective to cuff the man, Mrs Fernadale once more found her voice.

‘What is the meaning of this?!’ she cried, reaching for Duke. ‘What the devil are you playing at, Mr Stirling?’

‘I am called Wellington, Mrs Ferndale; not Stirling,’ he said as he withdrew his warrant card. ‘And that,’ he pointed to his colleague, wrestling on the floor, ‘is DS Phelps.’

‘Policemen…’ she said vaguely, wholly confused. ‘But I do not–’

‘There have been four prostitutes murdered this month, Mrs Ferndale. And from our investigation we have determined they have all worked in your establishment at one time or another.’

Mrs Ferndale puffed up, offended. ‘And you suppose I have had something to do with it all?’

‘Perhaps,’ burred Duke, stepping closer so Mrs Ferndale would have to look up to meet his eye. ‘Perhaps a man with tastes such as that,’ he gestured to the room where Phelps was dragging the client away, ‘took things a bit too far; got carried away. Seriously hurt one of your girls and you helped him dispose of the body.’

Mrs Ferndale slapped him across the face. Duke reeled. ‘How dare you,’ she hissed. ‘I treat these girls like my own! When they are living under my roof they get the best of everything. Hot meals every day! Warm beds! One day off each week! I can direct you to many of my colleagues who do not take such considerations with their girls.’

‘I could have you arrested for striking me, Mrs Ferndale. And I would ensure you got hard labour for the offence.’

Mrs Ferndale scoffed. ‘You may try, Mr… Stirling ? Was it? But when the magistrate hears that you are a regular punter–’

‘I thought you preferred the word client, Mrs Ferndale.’

‘You hardly deserve that respect. You were hardly a client. You lasted all of, what, five minutes?’ she smirked. My, my; when the magistrate hears that… ’ As Duke was weighing the potential injury to his reputation, Eliza emerged at the top of the stairs. She started when she saw Duke. ‘I heard the shouting,’ she said, pulling her wrap close, ‘I must say I am relieved to see it is only you, William.’

‘Get dressed,’ he ordered. ‘You’re coming with me now.’

‘William–’ 

Unwilling to belabour the point, Duke shrugged, and gripped her forearm, pulling her down the stairs behind him.

Sunday the 19th, four o’clock in the afternoon

‘Get me a fresh handkerchief, son.’

‘I cannot leave you alone.’ Fitzroy stood up a little straighter. ‘And you shall address me as Detective Fitzroy, Mr Smith.’ Mr Smith snorted in derision, splattering more blood across the table. Fitzroy winced. 

‘You can get me a handkerchief, son, or you can wait for your governor to return and no doubt he shall instruct you to collect one.’ As if summoned, Duke entered the room, slammed the door shut, and sat down heavily. ‘What is your name?’ he asked Mr Smith, with no preamble.

‘Smith.’

‘Your real name.’

‘Smith,’ insisted the man, with a smirk.

‘Very well,’ said Duke, climbing to his feet. ‘Fitzroy, have him brought to the cells. He can stay there until he remembers his real name.’ 

The man paled. ‘Oi! You can’t lock me up for no reason!’ he called at Duke’s retreating frame. But the inspector was in no humour and slammed the door on his way out of the room. Mr Smith shifted his gaze to Fitzroy once more. ‘Why you smirking, boy?’ he sneered. ‘When I am released from these shackles–’ he shook his wrists with some attempt at menace. 

‘I am not smirking, sir,’ sighed Fitzroy. He reached into his pocket for his own handkerchief, and offered it to the man. ‘You should tell the inspector your real name. He is a fair man; he would not keep you here longer than he ought to if you are honest. Besides, it is the Lord’s Day; one especially should not bear false witness on a Sunday.’ The man spat on the floor– too close to Fitzroy’s foot. He pushed himself off the wall, artfully dodged the bloody mucus, and told the man he would return in a moment. ‘I shall have you removed to the cells, as the inspector ordered.’

Sunday the 19th, four o’clock in the afternoon

Eliza scurried through the alley, trying not to be seen from a high window. She was not surprised that she was refused admission to Mrs Ferndale’s by the front door, but she hoped one of the maids would recognise her, and offer her into the kitchen. Graceful skirting piles of rubbish and dank, suspicious, puddles, she made her way to the servant’s entrance of the fine house. Inhaling, she tried the door handle. It was unlocked. She opened the door slowly, peering inside, and saw no one. She slipped in, shutting the door silently as possible. 

‘Miss?’ Eliza jumped, as she was addressed. She turned quickly, and saw Rose behind her. 

‘Oh, hello, Rose,’ she said, clutching her chest. ‘I had not heard you come in. I had not heard you in the alley either. You must have been walking behind me…’ Eliza offered her a smile, but it was not reciprocated

‘Yes, miss. I was, miss.’

Her smiled faltered, but the even expression on Rose’s face did not change. ‘It is unusual that someone could creep up on me,’ she said slowly, ‘my father taught me very well the value of paying careful attention to my surroundings.’ The maid cocked her head slightly, but offered no reply. ‘I rather flatter myself skilled at noticing not only my environment, but the people around me…’ she trailed off as Rose took one, then two, steps toward her. ‘Rose, why did you–’ she noticed the young woman swinging the heavy pot at her, but could not move out of the way in time.

Sunday the 19th, six o’clock in the afternoon

Fitzroy was carefully typing his case notes when Phelps swung open the door. He stared at Fitzroy, chewing on an apple for a few moments, relishing in making the young detective squirm under his gaze. Fitzroy cleared his throat.

‘May I help you with something, DS Phelps?’

Phelps belched, and wiped some errant apple dripping from his chin with the back of his hand. ‘Your man in the cells says he’s willing to talk.’

‘Mr Smith?’

‘You’ve sent more than one man to the cells today?’

‘Well… no.’ He started to ask Phelps to get the inspector, but the DS was plodding down the hall before Fitzroy could rise from the chair. Straightening his waistcoat and replacing his jacket, Fitzory made for Duke’s office.

‘The suspect from Mrs Ferndale’s is willing to talk, sir,’ said Fitzroy, after being admitted by the inspector.

‘Two hours,’ said Duke, regarding his pocket-watch. ‘Not very long, that, for a man who likes to play rough.’

‘Sir?’

‘Er, don’t mind me.’ Duke stood and put on his own jacket. ‘Has he been brought up?’

‘Yes, sir. They’ve put him in the interrogation room.’

‘Very well. And Fitzroy, have someone call at Eliza Scarlet’s home. I want to make sure she is there, still.’ He started down the hall at such a pace, Fitzroy struggled to keep up with him. Duke nodded Fitzroy into the room, and the younger detective took up his former spot leaning against the cool brick wall. But Duke paused by the door.

‘Tell me your name,’ he called to the man.

‘I shall report you to your governor! You’ve no call to send me to the cells. I was nearly stabbed by some urine-soaked drunk!’

‘Tell me. Your name,’ Duke repeated, enunciating each word carefully.

His shoulders slumped a little, ‘Paulson. George Paulson.’ and he cast an irritated look toward Fitzroy. ‘Tell the boy to get me some water’

‘His name is Detective Fitzroy,’ Duke leant over the table, ‘and you will not give orders to my men, Mr Paulson. You are going to tell us what you were doing at Mrs Ferndale’s establishment.’

‘What I was doing there? I suppose it was the same thing you were doing there, er, inspector.’ Fitzroy flushed and averted his eyes from Duke. He was more than a little shocked to hear the inspector had taken relief in such a place.

‘I was there, Mr Paulson, to investigate a series of murders. And at this moment, you are our prime suspect.’

‘Murders?’ he looked from Wellington to Fitzroy. ‘I don’t know anything about any murders!’

‘What were you doing to that young lady, eh?’ Duke narrowed his eyes. ‘She’s screaming her head off and you’re stood over her wielding a stick.’

‘I– it’s–’ he shifted in his seat. ‘I wasn't going to hurt her!’ he pleaded, ‘I just like to bruise them. A bit.’ Fitzroy felt faint. He pressed his palms to the wall to steady himself, and hoped Duke did not notice. He felt deep disgust at the man’s casual admission to bruising these ladies, but he could not work out why such a thing would be appealing.

‘There have been four women murdered, all of whom worked for Mrs Ferndale at one time or another,’ explained Duke. ‘The first was called Lottie; she was killed on the night of the 5th. Liza was killed on the 8th. An Agnes– Other Agnes as she may have been known– was killed on the 10th. And Brigid, fresh from the Emerald Isle, was murdered on the 11th, or perhaps the wee hours of the 12th. Can you provide an alibi for each of those evenings?’

Mr Paulson furrowed his brow as he considered the dates given. He looked at Duke– this time his expression was more fearful than arrogant. ‘I am a magistrate,’ he said quietly. So quietly, neither of the detectives were certain they’d heard him correctly. Duke and Fitzroy exchanged a quick glance.

‘Magistrate, you said?’ inquired Duke.

‘In Rochester. It will be very easy to verify my whereabouts for the sixth, eighth, and tenth, as I know I was hearings then. Mr Douglas was the other magistrate in town but he died last month– influenza, before you think to accuse me of another murder– and no suitable replacement has been found. So I am the sole magistrate and I am in court nearly every day.’ Duke nodded to Fitzroy, who understood the signal to mean he was to telephone the police in Rochester to verify the story. He let himself out of the room, still mulling over the shocking revelation that this horrid man not only received satisfaction from bruising women, but that he was a magistrate too. Reflecting on the potential for abuses of power distracted him, and he nearly walked into Phelps. The detective sergeant slapped a bit of paper onto Fitzroy’s chest. Fitzroy winced as he reached for it.

‘What is it?’

‘You can read, can’t you,’ mocked Phelps, as he pressed past him. Fitzroy unfolded the page and saw it was a message from the officer who had been dispatched to the Scarlet residence. Miss Eliza was not at home, and Miss Woods had not seen her since Duke departed with her that morning.

Sunday the 19th, six o’clock in the afternoon

Eliza wondered why her bed was so cold. And so hard. Wrenching open her eyes, she realised she was not in bed, she was on a stone floor. Groaning with the effort, she pulled up onto her elbows. The left side of her face throbbed, and she remembered, with horror, what had happened. She prodded her cheekbone and nose, and when she was satisfied they had not been broken, she moved into a seated position.

It was dark in the room. It smelled damp. There was a light peeking in from under the ancient wooden door. She inhaled through her nose– amongst the damp, she could smell coal. I am in a cellar, she deduced.

She slowly rose to her feet, her head swimming. She tip-toed to the door, and tried the handle. Locked. She pressed an eye to the keyhole and tried to see what was outside. It was a kitchen, but disused. Covered in dust and lit by a single lamp atop a table. She heard the breathing behind her just in time to duck. 

The fireplace poker slammed into the wooden door. Rose gasped at the sharp impact, and dropped the poker. Eliza shoved her backwards, then dove to the floor to retrieve the weapon. She pressed the pointed end toward Rose’s face. ‘Why did you do it? Why did you murder those women?’

Rose looked bewildered. Eliza thought she would attempt to deny it, but the maid just shook her head, pityingly. ‘Why ever not?’ Eliza’s blood ran cold.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘They’re just whores. No one to miss them.’ She began to shift from her position on the floor, and Eliza thrust the poker closer. 

‘That’s as may be, but it does not give you the right to harm them!’ 

‘Even though they harm us?’

Eliza scoffed. ‘How have any of these women harmed you?’ But Rose offered no more reply. She continued to meet Eliza’s gaze, appearing neither angry at having been caught, nor remorseful for her actions. ‘Where are we, Rose?’ persisted Eliza. ‘Is this Mrs Ferndale’s?’

‘No.’ 

‘Well, where are we?’

‘You’re the one playing at detective; you tell me.’

‘I am not playing , Rose. I am a private detective. With my own business!’ Eliza took half a step back. ‘We are in a cellar. We must be rather close to Mrs Ferndale’s– I am not a large person, to be sure, but you would have struggled to transport me far from her property, at least without attracting attention.’ The maid remained impassive, giving away nothing. ‘I believe I saw scaffolding on the house adjacent to Mrs Ferndale’s,’ Eliza continued, ‘which means it is likely the house is unoccupied. It would be very simple for a maid to pass unnoticed, or perhaps unseen, into a rear kitchen door of a home not her own. Maybe you were friendly with some of the servants in this house, and they told you where a spare key was kept. Breaking in would not be required. Well, Rose– have I detected adequately?’

‘You are correct,’ she said evenly.

‘But I suppose the question of where we are is rather irrelevant in the face of the murders you’ve committed. But I can assure you, my deductions in that matter are just as sharp.’ Eliza waited for some sort of reaction, but Rose looked impassive as ever. ‘The women you killed,’ Eliza began, ‘it would have been very easy for you to follow them away from Mrs Ferndale’s. Or,’ a horrifying thought occurred to Eliza, but as she stared into Rose’s large green eyes, she rather felt it plausible, ‘or you offered to walk with them. There is safety in numbers, after all.’ A knot formed in Eliza’s stomach as Rose’s face split into a grin. 

‘By, but you are clever, miss. I did offer to walk with them. All except Agnes.’

‘What did you do with Agnes?’

‘She is here. With us.’

Eliza frowned. She took another half step back. ‘Her body was taken to the morgue.’

‘No, no; not Other Agnes. Just Agnes. The one who called on you.’

Her stomach churned. ‘What have you done, Rose?’

‘Need you ask, miss?’ With a sudden movement, Rose kicked Eliza’s leg as hard as she could, and when Eliza involuntarily bent forward with the impact, Rose shoved her into the wall. Eliza gasped in pain, and despite herself, dropped the poker. Rose recovered it, and jammed it toward Eliza’s throat. She could feel its cold iron point pressing into her flesh. 

Sunday the 19th, eight o’clock in the evening

Duke banged on the front door of Mrs Ferndale’s. He could feel Fitzroy’s eyes on his back. He did not wish to distract the young detective from the serious nature of his duty, but he feared it was too late for that wish– young Fitzroy was clearly preoccupied by the various admissions he’d heard that day. Particularly in regards to Duke having visited this establishment. The door swung open.

‘Good evening, Rose,’ said Duke, smartly stepping over the threshold without waiting for an invitation. ‘I would like to see Mrs Ferndale without delay.’

‘I shall see if she is available, Mr Stirling. Please, won’t you and your associate wait in the parlour.’ She showed them into a room he had not seen before– covered in teal wallpaper and orange settees, it rather gave the impression of a peacock. Rose curtsied, before closing the door behind her. Duke took up a place by the fire, leaning on the mantel. Fitzroy was unsure where to stand, where to look, what to do.

‘Have you something to say, Fitzroy?’ 

‘No, sir,’ Fitzroy responded, rather too hastily.

‘Have you revised your stance regarding lying on the Sabbath?’

Fitzroy inhaled. ‘Why did she call you Stirling? Why do you know her name? How often do you come here? Does Miss Scarlet know you come here? Do you frequent other brothels, or only this one?’ He looked expectantly at Duke. ‘Sir,’ he added. He figured it was important to be polite even when interrogating one’s governor about his more salacious habits. But before Duke could address any or all of Fitzroy’s barrage of questions, Rose returned, showing Mrs Ferndale into the room. The madame was clearly irritated by Duke’s presence, but she took up a place on one of the squishy orange settees, and regally adjusted her skirts before addressing him.

‘I understand you are in need of my assistance, inspector.’ At the mention of his title, Rose’s head whipped around, and she blushed crimson. Poor lass will think she’s in trouble, Duke thought.

‘Yes, Mrs Ferndale. I am looking for Scarletta.’

Mrs Ferndale shrugged idly. ‘I have not seen her since you removed her from my premises.’ She shook her head. ‘I shall have a devil of a time replacing her, you know; she was my top earner.’

‘You ought to know, Mrs Ferndale, she was only posing as a prostitute. Her name is Miss Eliza Scarlet, and she is a private detective.’ Mrs Ferndale’s jaw dropped for a moment, before she regained her composure. Duke continued. ‘You see, one of your girls engaged her to find the man who has been terrorising prostitutes. She came here undercover, and was in fact, paying all those pun– clients– double her fee to speak highly of her skills.’

‘A woman detective?’ Mrs Ferndale queried after a period of silence. 

‘She is the daughter of the late Mr Henry Scarlet, God rest him, himself a renowned detective. And,’ he added, ‘my mentor.’ He started to pace about in front of the fire, his agitation, and his exhaustion, both close to getting the better of him. ‘Miss Scarlet’s safety is of paramount importance to me. If you have seen her since our rather expeditious departure this afternoon, you must tell me. If you have heard from her at all, you must tell me. I insist that you speak to all the girls working here to see if they have seen or heard from her.’ Though she clearly resented being given an order in her own establishment, Mrs Ferndale departed, promising she would speak to each girl. When she had left, Duke cast his eyes to Fitzroy for the first time since the interview commenced, and, had the occasion been different, he might have laughed at the look of sheer shock writ large on the young detective’s face. He knew what the boy would need to get through the rest of this day. ‘Rose? Might you bring us…’ he began to ask for some of the delightful Glen Garioch he’d had the week before, but stopped when he saw her expression. If Fitzroy was shocked by the revelations he’d heard, Rose was positively distressed. Her face was white; her pupils large and fixed into an unfocused stare. ‘Rose? Are you well?’ She did not reply. He took a few steps toward her. ‘Rose?’

She snapped her head up, and fixed her eyes on his. ‘Yes, sir. I am well, sir. I am– I had little notion of Scarletta’s– Miss Scarlet’s true identity.’

‘There is no need to be frightened, lass,’ he offered, genially. ‘And you needn’t worry about being in any trouble, just because we’re police. We only want to find the man responsible for these dreadful murders.’ He gave her what he hoped was a broad, comforting smile, but she did not return the gesture. ‘Now, my colleague and I are rather thirsty this evening. Might you bring–’

‘I must away!’ she cried, and before Duke could finish his request, had flung open the door and gone out at a swift pace.

Duke turned to face Fitzroy once more. ‘Follow her.’

Sunday the 19th, twenty-five to nine in the evening

Quiet as a church mouse, Fitzroy slipped out of the sitting room, in time to see Rose hurriedly descending the stairs toward the kitchen. He attempted to match her pace without being seen or heard. He tip-toed down the worn stone stairs, and saw her put on a coat and hat, before going out the back. He counted to ten, before following her out into the frigid night.

Rose climbed the steps from the kitchen up to the street, and, to Fitzroy’s surprise, went down the stairs of the adjacent property. He ducked low, fearful she may have seen him as he ascended the conjoining steps, but she neither paused, nor turned her head. He followed in her footsteps, once more counting to ten before slowly pushing open the door to this kitchen. It was all in darkness, and holding his breath, he could discern no sounds or movement. He pushed open the door a little wider. ‘Hullo?’ he called out. ‘Police!’ He was answered by a faint moan somewhere to his right. ‘Police!’ he called again.

‘Oliver?’ it was no more than a whisper. ‘Oliver, is that you?’

In the faint light cast by the street-lamp, he could see what he thought must be the coal cellar. Exhaling deeply and praying for bravery, he opened the door. Blinking in the darkness, he could just about recognise the shapes of two figures before him. One laying on its back; one slumped against the wall. 

‘I’m a detective,’ he said, in a tone which he hoped conveyed authority.

‘Oliver, help me.’ The slumped figure reached out a hand, and as he gripped it, and stepped closer, he saw it was Eliza.

‘Miss Scarlet! What has happened? Let me help you up!’ But his hand slipped out of her grip. He could feel the dampness on his palm, and when he turned over his hand, he could see that it had gone red. ‘Miss Scarlet–’ he began, in horror.

‘It’s not so bad as it looks,’ she breathed. ‘But we must leave at once.’ 

He crouched down, and reached for her waist. He could feel her trembling. ‘We shall return to Mrs Ferndale’s, and ring for a doctor straightaway,’ he said, as he looped her arm across his shoulders, keeping tight hold of her wrist. ‘There may even be a doctor inside her establishment,’ he ventured, as he pulled her close. ‘Er, do forgive the familiarity, Miss Scarlet, but I think you may be too weak to walk.’

‘Think nothing of it Oliver,’ she said, with effort.

‘And the other person,’ he jerked his head toward the prone figure, still unmoving, ‘are they…?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘Who is it?’

‘I shall tell you everything when we’re safely away, Oliver. But she may be back soon. Rose may be back soon.’

‘She is here.’

Eliza reached up to grasp Fitzroy’s lapel. ‘She is here?’ she hissed, fiercely. ‘Where?’

‘Well, I saw her–’

‘Have you got a revolver?’

‘No, I haven’t. But the inspec–’

Eliza tugged him toward the door. ‘There is no time, Oliver! We’ve got to go now!’ But the rustle of skirts told her they were too late. As Fitzroy stood to address Rose, she swung something heavy at him; the sickening thwack of metal on flesh said she had made contact with some part of his body. In an instant, he fell to the floor beside her. 

Sunday the 19th, ten to nine in the evening

Duke could feel the perspiration forming at his brow, and at his temple. The house was uncomfortably warm– well of course it is, he mused, it is heated with the undressed in mind – but for an anxious policeman pacing in front of a fire, it would not do.

He flipped open his pocket-watch. It had been more than thirty minutes since he had sent Mrs Ferndale away; more than twenty since Fitzroy had been dispatched to follow Rose. He found himself making a fist with his right hand, and pounding it into his left. He could hear Eliza’s voice in his head, and whilst she was correct– you should have listened to me, William, and helped investigate! – it annoyed him greatly. Perhaps even more annoying was the fear that he may never get to hear her say those words. 

There was a small cough. He turned around to see Mrs Ferndale in the doorway. ‘Scarletta is not here, inspector. She has not been seen since you, with such little thought to her propriety, removed her from the premises.’

‘And you’re certain of this, Mrs Ferndale? Your girls are quite certain?’

She drew herself up to full height. ‘I am not the one who concealed my identity, Mr Stirling.’ He thought to remind her that he had been undercover, and thus obliged to use a false name, but he decided against it. 

‘Very well, Mrs Ferndale. But if it emerges that you have lied to me tonight; if you are concealing Eliza in this house; if any harm should come to her as a result of your lies, know that I shall do everything within my power to make your life an unequivocal misery.’

Mrs Ferndale’s eyes widened. At the first, he assumed his threat had worked. But she arched an eyebrow, and grinned. ‘Spoken like a man in love,’ she said quietly.

‘I am a detective inspec–’

She waved a hand regally as a queen brushing away some irritating interloper. ‘You may be a policeman, but you are still a man . I saw the way you looked at her this afternoon.’

‘I wanted to throttle her this afternoon.’

‘Throttle… embrace. They are often two sides of the same coin, inspector. In my line of work–’ she stopped, her brow furrowed. ‘Did I not leave Rose here with you?’

‘She took her leave. Seemed rather upset.’

‘Oh. I imagine the presence of you and your constables has made her nervous. She had some… well, she is a good girl, really, but there was some to-do with a husband. I do not like to pry, I know that she left his household. Perhaps she feared you would bring her back.’

‘Was he cruel, do you know? Adulterous?’

‘As I say, I do not like to pry. I extend those in my household the same courtesy as the clients. But I rather had the impression he deserted her, and she was forced to leave their marital home.’

Something nagged at Duke. ‘He left her for another woman?’

Mrs Ferndale gave an noncommittal gesture. ‘I suppose so. I really do not like to pry.’

The nagging became louder. ‘I need to find Rose, Mrs Ferndale.’

Sunday the 19th, five past nine in the evening

When in doubt, a hatpin will always do. Eliza was certain that was something Ivy used to say. But for the life of her, she could not recall the situation in which such a remark would be helpful. Regardless of its long-forgotten context, Eliza grunted in pain, pulling herself to her feet. She pulled a hatpin from her hair, and stumbled toward the door. She knocked at it, and shouted for Rose. She felt certain the young maid would still be nearby, no doubt mulling over how to murder Eliza and Oliver, as well as dispose of three bodies. She’ll be frightened, and she’ll make a mistake, thought Eliza. She hoped to convince herself of that fact as she waited behind the door, hatpin outstretched.

After a few moments, she heard the rustling of skirts, and a gentle click of shoes on stone. Rose pushed open the door, and with every bit of strength she could summon, Eliza thrust the hatpin into the girl’s neck. Rose screamed, and the force of her movement sent Eliza and Rose tumbling to the floor. Eliza heard the poker crash down, and she furiously hunted for it in the near-dark whilst Rose moaned in pain. She thrust the poker in Rose’s direction, wielding it like a broadsword.

The maid grabbed the hatpin, and withdrew it from her flesh, throwing it to the floor. ‘No whore will best me,’ she retorted, and though her face was largely obscured by the darkness, Eliza could feel the anger and resentment radiating from her.

‘I am a detective, Rose.’ Eliza considered a moment. ‘Even if I were a prostitute, I would be just as worthy. There is no shame in supporting oneself, or one’s family, by the means available.’

‘There is no worth in prostitution!’ Rose’s voice grew louder, amplified by her physical pain. ‘They are an ill on society! An ill on families! They take husbands away from wives who love them!’

Eliza nearly dropped the poker. ‘Is that what happened?’ she asked, incredulous, adjusting her grip on the iron. ‘Your husband deserted you for a prostitute?’ Eliza nearly pitied the girl. ‘Oh, Rose. Everything you’ve done was because of a humiliation? You’ll– you’ll hang for these murders, Rose; don’t you see that?’

‘No whore will best me,’ she repeated darkly, diving for Eliza. But Eliza had anticipated the movement– she could sense the girl’s mounting anger and figured she would lash out– so she stepped back smartly, and swung the poker in Rose’s direction. Rose flinched, and Eliza, with all her might, shoved her against the wall. There was a crack as the back of her head struck it, and she crumpled to the floor alongside Fitzroy. She stood over the maid for a moment, until she was satisfied she could see her breathing. I wonder if it’s a greater kindness for her to die tonight, instead of hanging,  she thought grimly, before setting down the poker, and crouching beside Oliver. She tapped his face, but he did not stir. Sighing, she gripped his ankles, and pulled him out of the coal cellar. Though he was not a particularly large man, her loss of blood and all that had happened that night made the task enormously difficult. But after several minutes at that labour, she had pulled him clear of the door, and was able to lock Rose in.

Panting her efforts, she dragged herself out of the kitchen and up the stairs, intending to find someone at Mrs Ferndale’s who would call the police. The moment she reached the top of the stairs, and began to stagger down the alley, William emerged from the kitchen door at Mrs Ferndale’s. She might have cried. ‘William,’ she croaked. When he looked up to see her– covered in blood and caked in soot– he went pale. ‘William, you must get a doctor–’

‘What has happened?’ he called out, as he sprinted up the stairs, two at a time. ‘Have you been stabbed? Shot? Beaten? Has he– has he touched you?’ He stood in front of her, forgetting all propriety as he reached out to better see the wound in her throat. 

‘There is no he; Rose is responsible for the murders. She is in the coal cellar, unconscious. And, I am sorry to say, she is alongside the body of another girl.’

Duke nodded. ‘I had my suspicions after Mrs Ferndale said her husband left her.’ DS Phelps appeared on the kitchen steps, flanked by a few bobbies. Duke turned to address them. ‘Phelps, remove Rose from the coal cellar; take her to hospital and see she is properly shackled there. Smith,’ he addressed one of the constables, ‘ring for a doctor for Miss Scarlet. O’Neill, there is a body in the coal cellar. Cover it, and wait for the coroner.’

‘Oliver will need the doctor, William; he is unconscious.’

‘And you are covered in blood.’

‘It is nothing.’

‘Is it someone else’s blood?’

‘No.’

‘Then it is hardly nothing, Eliza.’ 

Phelps and a constable emerged from the adjacent property, Phelps carrying Rose by the shoulders, the constable by her feet. Grunting with the effort, they unceremoniously dumped her by the railing, Phelps leaning down to shackle her to it. Eliza’s instinct was to insist she be treated with more dignity, but as the cold night air touched the wound in her throat, she silently debated the quality of mercy. ‘Fetch a blanket for her,’ called Duke, walking toward the house. He stood over her pathetic figure, just beginning to stir. ‘She’s still a woman, after all.’ Phelps grumbled something Eliza could not hear, and the constable was dispatched to Mrs Ferndale’s. He returned a few minutes later, and Duke placed the blue quilt about her person. He gestured to Phelps, the two of them went down into the kitchen– she assumed he wished to collect Oliver personally.

Indeed, the two detectives came slowly up the stairs, each with one of Oliver’s arms around their necks. Phelps looked utterly repulsed at having to extend some kindness to the young man. ‘Go on ahead of us,’ panted Duke. Eliza started to protest, but at the look in his eye she gave way. The party marched into Mrs Ferndale’s, who greeted them with little enthusiasm, but showed them into the peacock room once more. When Oliver had been safely deposited on a sofa, and Duke and Phelps went out to watch over the prone figure of Rose, Eliza sat with Mrs Ferndale and explained all to her: she apologised for her deception, but insisted going undercover was necessary. She expressed sorrow at Agnes’ death, and promised Rose would be brought to justice for her crimes. Mrs Ferndale was a woman of the world, and she accepted all the intelligence Eliza offered with grace and dignity. Eliza could see she was a little shaken, so she offered to make to tea. ‘Perhaps with a drop of brandy in,’ suggested Mrs Ferndale.

Sunday the 19th, eleven o’clock in the evening

The voices were vague and faraway. Then he felt someone patting his cheek, firmly, but without harshness.

‘Shall I take a swing at him, guv?’

‘That won’t be necessary, Phelps.’

Fitzroy groaned, and slowly opened his eyes. The inspector stood over him, looking concerned. Phelps was by his side, decidedly less worried. He tried to sit up, but Duke pressed him back into the sofa. ‘Sir, it’s Rose! She’s got Miss Scarlet and she’s hurt here and there’s a dead woman in–’

Phelps sneered. ‘Bit behind on the times, you are.’

‘Oh that is enough, Phelps,’ sighed Eliza, pushing past the sergeant. ‘I am here Oliver, and I am quite well. Now, rest.’ She patted his hand, and gave him a broad smile. Fitzroy let his head fall back against the cushion. 

‘You hear that,’ Phelps whispered, ‘the woman who saved you is saying you’ll be right as rain.’

Eliza scoffed. ‘It is also the doctor who said that, Oliver. Pay no one else any mind,’ she gave Phelps a pointed look before rejoining Duke and Mrs Ferndale.

‘Yes,’ purred Phelps in a mocking tone, ‘you just ignore that nasty man.’

Fitzroy blinked up at the ceiling. ‘Is it still Sunday?’

Phelps glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. ‘For another hour or so.’

‘“We will rejoice and be glad in it”,’ Fitzroy recited, before slipping into sleep once more.

Sunday the 19th, ten to midnight

Eliza stifled a yawn. For the first time that night, she felt tired. ‘William,’ she said quietly, ‘I think I shall go home. Will you call on me tomorrow, to let me know about Oliver?’

‘I am going with you.’

‘That will not be necessary. If you are concerned for my health, I can take a cab.’

Duke stood, crossing his arms over his broad chest. ‘I am going with you.’

‘My God, you are stubborn, William,’ Eliza sighed.

Duke tutted. ‘If Fitzroy were conscious he’d scold you for taking the Lord’s name in vain. Especially on a Sunday.’

‘It is fortunate he– no, of course it is not fortunate he is unconscious,’ Eliza said, crossly. Duke said nothing, but reached for his heavy coat, which was draped over a chair. He put on his hat, and held the coat to her. ‘Really, William, if anything I have proved tonight that I am more than capable of minding myself–’ but Duke pressed his coat into her arms. 

‘Eliza,’ he said, in a warning tone she had come to know all too well. She heaved a dramatic sigh, and slid into his coat. She snuck a subtle sniff as she pulled it around her chin. It smelled of whiskey and smoke and something sharp which she could not name, but it delighted her nonetheless. 

‘I half wonder if I should not stop here tonight,’ Eliza said, frowning. ‘After all, I have promised to help Mrs Ferndale make arrangements for Agnes’s burial. And to help with the expense of it. Oh, don’t look at me like that William; it will not cost much to give that poor girl some dignity in her rest. Perhaps you should take me with you to the station tomorrow morning. I should like to present when Rose is questioned. Now, I know you would not wish me to be there, but I feel a woman’s presence would be helpful. And I need–’

‘What you need…’ Duke began crossly, before collecting himself. ‘I shall take you home to Ivy, who will be grateful for the opportunity to fuss over you and that injury. And I shall spend the night at your house. I don’t trust you not to flit away in the night again.’ She wanted to tell him there was little danger of that, now the case was solved, but she simply looped her arm in his, and let him lead her into the night.