Masking The Truth: Green & Scarlett, #1

By Max Parker

A VICIOUS KILLER

Join East India Company Agent Andrew Green and Bow Street Runner Scarlett Pembridge as they hunt down a brutal murderer in 1840's London. The opening chapter of the Green & Scarlett series arrives with MASKING THE TRUTH, a shocking tale of murder, corruption and revenge.

 

A SPY AT HOME

The Opium War has just broken out, and Agent Green is no longer required in China. Reassigned to a post inside of London's burgeoning Metropolitan Police force, Green finds that many of the injustices he helped to create have now landed on his home city's doorstep.

When the Met's lead detective throws Agent Green in at the deep end, his investigation into the city's opium smugglers will put him at odds with the one and only Scarlett Pembridge, Bow Street Runner and London's top bounty hunter.

 

A TANGLED WEB

Can a conflicted Police Constable and a determined Bow Street Runner set aside their differences to catch a killer and dismantle a shadowy drug ring? How far will Agent Green be willing to go to prevent interference in Company business? Can Scarlett resolve questions of humanity and justice when she discovers the killer's shocking motive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Green & Scarlett Publishing
• Release date: Jan 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922511010

Max Parker

One glance at a book and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for 1,000 years. To read is to voyage through time. - Carl Sagan. Max Parker is a writer based in Sydney, Australia. He is the author of historical crime thrillers such as the Green & Scarlett series. If you enjoyed this book, the best way to support Max and his work is to leave an honest review on the platform of your choice. To be kept up to date on new releases, sign up for the newsletter on his author page at https://maxparker.info Thank you for reading, we hope that you will hear Max’s voice in your head again soon.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

She almost had him , and she would rot in hell before she let him get away again.

The looks Scarlett got when she came back empty-handed last time had stung. Of course, they had blamed her womanhood, like no man had ever let a bounty get away. Hypocritical bastards.

In three years as a Bow Street Runner, Scarlett had brought in more bounties than anyone else. More than one of them had been killed in the field trying to catch up with her. Did they recognise that? Of course not. They resented her. Being the boss's daughter didn't help, they assumed that she got special treatment even when she did not. But being a woman compounded things, and any tiny mistake was always held against her. So, Scarlett always tried to make sure that mistakes did not happen, or if they did, that she corrected them quickly. And the prey she was hunting right now was just that; a mistake that needed correction.

The house was about a twenty-minute ride from the city centre, a small estate on the northern outskirts. It wasn't huge but it was large enough to sustain enough of a sheep farm that this prick didn't have to work himself. A two-storey farmhouse loomed at the end of a muddy driveway, with a smaller building adjacent where the slaves would have been housed, back when it was legal. Given that they had only started finding this deviant's victims within the last year, she couldn't help but wonder whether he had been as cruel to his slaves. They weren't here anymore, fleeing as soon as they had their freedom. And that said a lot.

Two women dead in as many weeks. She'd almost caught him red handed last time, but the bugger had slipped out the back while she was waylaid by the brothel owner. It was the latest of a string of young female victims, each found beaten and strangled. It wasn’t exactly high profile due to the nature of the victim’s work, but the brutality of it had caused Scarlett to take a personal interest. As terrifying as Hogg’s crimes were, her father hadn’t seemed too concerned about her going after him. Men like that were weak, poorly socialised, and above all cowardly. She’d gone after him alone on purpose, reasoning that he would not see her as a threat until it was too late.

Unfortunately, things had not gone to plan. Scarlett gritted her teeth at the memory of allowing the madam to waylay her for so long, a silly argument about jurisdiction and whether she had any right to come in and kick down doors. They argued, and all the while Hogg was in the back room throttling one of the madam’s girls. She barely seemed to care when she found out too, which only made it worse. One of the patrolmen had joked that he’d have just given the madam ‘five across the eyes,’ and while Scarlett had done so, it was only after another girl was dead. Scum, the lot of them.

She saw movement behind the curtains of the house, and so she made her way over to the barn at the side of the property, to make sure there was no one else there waiting to back the sick bastard up.

The door creaked loudly, and Scarlett tripped on the raised doorjamb when she stepped through. Stealth was not her strong suit. But she was tall, and could carry herself in a scuffle. Most of the time though, it was more efficient to resolve things at a distance, so she made sure to have her Colt at the ready in these situations. The English guns were pretty, but the percussion caps on the Colt revolvers got the shot off a bit faster, and that split second could really matter. They also didn't send sparks flying back into your face and hair. Scarlett was proud that she'd been able to convince her father that all of the Horse Patrol should have a Colt Paterson. The boys sure thanked her for that one, even if her father had winced at both the expense and the blow to his nationalistic pride that importing such weapons from across the Atlantic had caused.

Inside the barn the only light was the dim afternoon glow that flowed in through the windows, casting deep shadows and illuminating motes of dust in the air. Luckily, it was empty save for a few sacks of grain, a few hay bales, and a very dusty shelf with nothing on it but three seemingly antique cans of beef. A damp mustiness indicated that mould had probably taken the grain for itself, and it felt as if the air was sticking to the back of Scarlett’s throat, causing her to breathe through her nose. There were three sets of bunks, but all were bare of mattresses and linens, confirming her suspicions that the slaves were long gone. Probably left this maniac to his devices the moment the abolition law passed. She made her way back outside and checked behind the house. Sheep stood about munching grass, a few of them raising their heads and looking at her with dull eyes. She stood for a moment, carefully surveying the terrain which stretched out into a hillside. There was nothing to see except livestock, grass, and the occasional tree, for miles. The house then.

What's a lady doing visiting at this hour hmm?

She rounded back on the voice, and cocked the hammer of her Colt, pointing it at the man and startling him.

Whoa whoa whoa, he cried, heading back through the rear door into the house, no need for that, lass.

I'm Scarlett Pembridge of the Bow Street Runners. I have a warrant for the arrest of Brian Hogg. It’s over, put your hands up.

I haven't done anything wrong! he shouted, stepping sideways and back into the house." If she were a bit closer, she might have been able to take a shot at him, but he was a little too far away and if she missed him she would have a very scared and probably armed man hiding in that house.

She yelled, I am coming in, and if you've done nothing wrong then you will come quietly.

Scarlett went in the rear door where he had passed through, and as she did so a rifle came clubbing down over her arms, forcing her forearms down and sending her pistol to the floor. She dove forward in a roll, and scrambled to get at her gun. When she couldn't reach it, she instead grappled with the man, grasping the barrel of the rifle and pushing it upward. It went off, the closeness of the black powder explosion making her head hurt and her ears ring.

Still grasping the hot rifle barrel, she punched at his face once, twice, three times. He rocked back and she wrenched the rifle from him and threw it aside. The man got up and started swinging fists at her, which she deftly slipped, bobbing her head to the side, and down. This was what she was good at, but her father made sure she knew every fight was a risk. She was solidly built and knew how to use her size, but a man her height was almost always stronger. What you had to do was deliver as much violence as possible in as little time as possible, end things before they started. Fighting like a girl, he called it. It was funny, but true, as most men had a way about their fighting that allowed their opponent fair chances. The world wasn't fair and neither was Scarlett. She drove an elbow forward into his sternum, pushed him over, and hopped backward to the door where her gun was. She picked it up and trained it on him as he pulled himself to his feet.

Stop there.

He didn't move, but she could see something in his eyes. A wildness. She opened her mouth to speak but then he twitched, so instead she pulled the trigger and put a lead ball into his chest.

You didn't become the top bounty hunter in the Runners by taking chances.

CHAPTER TWO

Scarlett was always amused at how Detective Inspector Smythe's face reddened when he was angry. Partly because it was so rare, and partly because of the way it contrasted with his coal black hair which he always kept neatly combed. Her father’s office was small but comfortable, situated at the rear of the Runner’s headquarters on Bow Street. It was next to the stables which most people would have preferred to avoid, but Arthur Pembridge often noted that you could step out of that office and be on a horse within sixty seconds. Not that it helped nowadays, he hadn’t been in the field in years. Bookshelves ran the length of both walls, the volumes interspersed with various knickknacks from around the globe, and Scarlett often wondered how he had managed to travel so much before mother died. She watched the argument with a sort of voyeuristic amusement from one of the two green leather armchairs in front of her father's desk. Smythe remained standing, pacing back and forth as he spoke in a clear attempt to suppress outright anger.

You weren't supposed to kill him, Smythe seethed.

Arthur Pembridge was calm and cool as always. He never seemed to crack, no matter how aggressive bureaucrats got with him. She wished she could be like that, but she enjoyed disagreements too much.

He was armed, and he was a threat. Scarlett did what any Runner in her position would have done.

Is that so? Well I suppose we'll never know seeing as he's dead and can't give his side of the story.

Do you have an accusation to make, Smythe? Must be easy to point fingers from behind your desk at Scotland Yard. Don't forget that when your people can't bring someone in, it's us who pick up the slack.

Smythe stopped, and Scarlett thought she could see him enforce a concerted effort to calm himself. Deep breathing, eyes closed. She imagined that in his head he must have been counting to ten. His face turned a few shades lighter before he continued.

Lord Pembridge, might I suggest that perhaps your daughter was not the right person to send after Hogg. According to police records, most of her bounties come back... worse for wear. We need to send a team of people out to the property now to try and piece things together, you might have your reward but who is going to pay for—

This is the nature of the business, real criminals don't just surrender, especially if they face the noose.

With all due respect Lord Pembridge, I think you are forgetting that I was a Runner once too? I know how this goes, and I won't allow you to pull the wool over our eyes. While these people may face execution, they won't all meet that end. Everyone is entitled to a fair trial. The rule of law is not for its own sake.

Now that the integrity of the Runners was under attack, Scarlett couldn't help but to chime in, It's pure theatre. Why should we indulge your political point-scoring? You aren't fooling anyone with your stupid top hats.

Smythe looked at her, and then back to his own hat by the door. His demeanour loosened somewhat. Smythe always seemed to have had a soft spot for her, back when he’d been her father’s top man and second in command and then continuing after he left to join the police. He’d not seen eye to eye with her father since then, but she was thankful that he didn’t hold that against her as well. She still had fond memories of the times back when he was on the horse patrol. She was only a child then, and he'd been like an uncle to her. A heroic uncle who brought down crooks. She so admired him that she was still chasing Smythe's career records for most bounties, both in raw numbers and total pounds sterling. Later memories were of he and her father arguing, and then he was gone. She hated that he'd joined the police.

The police are the future, Scarlett.

Enough, her father retorted, I will remove Scarlett from the field for one month as penance.

What? That’s ridiculous! We hand hundreds of criminals over to the law every year, and the police think they can just come in and tell us how to do our business?

My decision is final. And yes, the police do have some jurisdiction here, Arthur glared at Smythe, even if it is debatable where it ends.

Smythe made a show of consideration, and responded, That is enough for now, He looked directly at Scarlett as he went on, Arthur, I do beg you, think of the future. The look he gave Scarlett was an odd one that made her feel like a freak show exhibit, and then he turned to leave.

Goodbye uncle, she called, feigning cheer as best she could, and then turning to meet her father’s gaze, sucking air through her gritted teeth.

Scarlett, I want you to know that you did the right thing. Hogg was not a good man.

Scarlett could feel her outrage rising again, Then why must I be punished?

The police are starting to have political influence over our budgets. If they don't feel like they're in charge they can make trouble for us. I can challenge them, but I will need time to work with my contacts in the Home Office.

It isn't fair.

You keep saying that, but Smythe is right about one thing, you do need to think about your future.

What future? Settling down with some gentleman and punching out some cabbage-headed brats? End up like Sarah? My life is at risk then, just the same as it is out there.

Think of our legacy—

Mother is gone. She's not coming back. You need to accept it and stop trying to make me become her.

Her father sat back down, ran fingers back through his dark, grey-flecked hair, and sighed.

Scarlett, I am sorry. We've spoken about this enough, I shan’t bring it up again. You find your own way in your own time.

Scarlett beamed. She felt lucky to have a father that supported her decisions. If she were anyone else's daughter, her position would be impossible.

Thank you, Father.

You're still on reception duty for a month.

Oh. Shit.

CHAPTER THREE

T he Crown is grateful for your Service.

They always said that before sending him off on the next assignment. Disingenuous bastards. Andrew Green shuffled anxiously in his seat in the small office on the second floor of East India House. The headquarters of the Honourable East India Company were rarely used to discuss secret operations, with commercial interests consuming the majority of both the floor space and the mental attention of the leadership here. The claustrophobic room reminded Andrew of the ship he’d returned to London on, and he was impatient to get out of there. The old building wasn’t the best possible arrangement, with only a few small rooms dedicated to Secret Committee business. This was partly due to the limited suitable locations within the building where an office could be both easily soundproofed and the doors concealed without it making the floorplan look strange. Fundamentally, the building was too narrow, but in London there wasn’t much to be done for it.

With all he had done, it was high time he got a promotion and a desk posting somewhere quiet and warm. A decade spent establishing the opium trade on the mainland of China, and after all his delicate politicking with local officials and forays into organised crime, it had all ended in blood and cannon fire. Andrew grimaced as the handler, in his ridiculous maroon company suit, droned on and on about the happenings of his assignments over the last who-knows-how-long. Andrew was there, why did he need to listen to this? These people always spent too much time talking and not enough time relaying information. Debriefing, they called it.

What Andrew knew for damn sure was that he'd made the company boatloads of money. Silver, actually. Literal boatloads of silver. Then it all went to hell because of one incorruptible official. Andrew had charmed countless contacts and assets for the company's benefit, and with such success that he had forgotten true believers existed. Lin Zexu had not only enforced the long-ignored opium prohibition, but ejected all the traders from Canton harbour, and dumped tonnes of cargo into the ocean. The Chinese officials seemed to only go one of two ways, they were either dilletantes of the minority Manchu elite, or overachievers pulled from the Han majority through an excruciating and years-long vetting system. Lin Zexu was such an overachiever, and a good man to boot, but Andrew Green had done his job well too, perhaps too well.

Despite the assignment's ignominious end, the suit informed Andrew that things in Canton seemed to have returned mostly to normal. Gunboat diplomacy was apparently quite effective. Her Majesty's Navy was now going to see to it that the good word was heard in the rest of China's ports too. Andrew got up and paced back and forth in the office as he listened. It all made sense, at least it did from here inside East India House. The opium trade with China was too important to let go, without it England would slip back into a deep trade deficit. The whole apparatus stretching the entire globe served a single purpose, profit. And by that profit, the benefit of the Empire.

When Zexu threw