☆ 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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Mr. Gallagher looked different. There was no physical change, but to Rose's eye, there had been a transformation. He was no longer a stern, apathetic businessman. He was a murderer.
Were she not so frightened of him, her contempt would likely have manifested in the form of biting words or disdainful glares. But as things stood, she held her breath as he greeted her the following morning.
Rose observed that he seemed a bit more himself today. Less haunted. More focused. He left shortly after Rose arrived, stating that he had a meeting with the current owners of the coveted empty lot.
“Gonna talk 'em down,” he said on his way out. “Not sure how long this'll take.”
Rose forced a smile onto her lips. “Best of luck, sir,” she responded.
“Luck's got nothin' to do with it,” Mr. Gallagher growled as he marched down the stairs.
Oh, I'm sure, Rose thought, disquiet festering in her mind. You make your own luck. By any means necessary.
【♖】
The day passed at a glacial pace, though far less eventful than Rose had anticipated. Mr. Gallagher came and went several more times, always hurried, never loquacious, and with his signature glower firmly back in place.
Never once did he carry the latest issue of the Post, or pause to ask Rose unusual questions. For the time being, it seemed she was safe from discovery.
Per William's instructions, Rose went to the Cavendish Kettle upon the work day's end. Once there, she had a cup of tea and perused a copy of the newspaper that a pair of gentlemen had left behind. Daphne's article, simply entitled Unknown Woman Found in Canal, appeared on the second page, and consisted of two short paragraphs.
Rose read the article with a sense of foreboding, but true to her word, Daphne had written the story to be as brief, vague, and unhelpful as possible. No specifics. Not a single word regarding Geneviève's dark skin, Parisian attire, or the marks on her neck. She was simply ‘a young woman,’ with no name, no description, and from nowhere.
Sighing in relief, Rose folded the newspaper and set it aside. Mr. Gallagher couldn't possibly feel threatened by that article. Good.
However, her relief brought forth an instant twist of guilt deep in her stomach. Nothing about this was ‘good.’ Mr. Gallagher would get away with murder, and little Jacques would grow up an orphan. That poor boy.
At half past the hour, Rose gave Mr. Cavendish a wave in farewell and moved on to the next phase of William's instructions. She made short work of the trek to Daphne's flat, and once there, rapped lightly on the door.
A moment later, the door burst open and Daphne greeted her with a smile. “Why, if it isn't Miss Appelbaum! Hello!” she announced theatrically. “Please, come in.”
