☆ ᴡᴀᴛᴛʏꜱ 2024 SHORTLISTER!! ☆
A tragic misunderstanding. A murder. A secret. An unlikely partnership. A spirited countess and an enterprising racketeer.
~~~
Manchester, England. May 1925.
The Roarin' 20s. An era of glamor, decadent parties, jazz mus...
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Daphne couldn't remember the last time she'd seen her cousin so distraught. Rose hadn't stopped pacing since the moment they'd returned to Daphne's flat. Back and forth, back and forth, the length of the parlor, over and over.
Perched on the sofa in her own state of unease, Daphne poured tea into a pair of white teacups. Her hands shook, and she gnawed relentlessly at her bottom lip. James Gallagher's French lover was dead. Dead. Found in the canal. The day after her arrival in Manchester. The day after telling Gallagher a life-altering secret.
This was no coincidence. Nor had it been an accident. Once the other officers had arrived on the scene, the constable shooed the steel workers away and pulled Daphne aside. He'd then proceeded to inform her that ‘the drowned woman’ hadn't drowned at all. She'd been strangled.
“Seen alotta drownings. This ain't one. There's no froth or foam in or around her mouth and nostrils. Y'see?” the constable had said, pointing at Geneviève's discolored face. “But she's got all kinds o' marks on her neck. Finger-shaped marks. Lass was dead before she went into the drink.”
His commentary, delivered with such apathetic flippancy, disturbed Daphne. Was a bit of compassion too much to ask? Job aside, he was still human.
Her cousin continued on her repetitive trek, punishing the worn area rug with each turn about.
“Rose,” Daphne said. “Please stop pacing. Come and have some tea.”
Rose halted in her tracks and spun around. “Tea?” she exclaimed. “How could this abominable state of affairs possibly be improved by tea? Geneviève is dead! And it was my employer who murdered her! He, or someone on his orders!”
“We're English, Rose. A cup of tea is the remedy for everything,” Daphne recited from their Grandmamá's book of decorum. She patted the sofa cushion beside her with a shaky hand. “Now, let me be clear, the direful nature of the situation isn't lost on me. I am not belittling the poor woman's death or the sinister implications behind it. I'm simply suggesting we keep level heads and talk this through. You are in close quarters with that man. For the sake of your safety and wellbeing, he cannot even begin to suspect you know anything about this.”
With an anguished sigh, Rose collapsed on the sofa next to Daphne and put her head in her hands. “I told her to write that letter, Daph. I told her to tell Mr. Gallagher where she was staying. This is my fault! First Dmitri, now Geneviève! I'm cursed!”
Aggrieved by her cousin's pain, Daphne wrapped her arms around Rose and pulled her into a snug embrace. “You are most certainly not cursed, Rose,” she murmured. “You are one of the kindest, most selfless people ever to walk the streets of this rotten city. Geneviève's death is no more your fault than was the death of August. Don't you dare blame yourself. Rose? Are you listening to me?”
Rose's arms encircled Daphne's waist, returning the hug. “I'm listening,” she said, her voice breaking. “But the fact remains that Geneviève is dead, Daphne. By Mr. Gallagher's hand. Directly or by proxy makes no difference. I knew he was dangerous, right from the start. Before I met him, even. But this... Well, I suppose it hadn't occurred to me that he was a murderer. Should have. After everything Jimmy told me. Am I really so foolish?”
