Rosey Red With Blood on Her Hands: The Albion: 1892

By Natalie-Nicole Bates

The year is 1892. Rosey Rydall is a fiercely independent and entrepreneurial woman of the time.
The check-in girl at The Albion Hotel is only one of her jobs. In the background, she runs an informal body selling business with the town coroner, Anton Larsen. She also is a trusted friend and confidante of wealthy hotel mogul, Thaddeus Anderton. A friendship that is both loving and beneficial for both.
Two men love Rosey.
She haunts the dreams and existence of Marty Burke, a much married and respected police officer who looks the other way from Rosey's business, as well as the nighttime activities occurring in the basement of The Albion. 
The other is her partner in crime, Doctor Anton Larsen, a man of true quality who loves the dark and dangerous as much as Rosey.
When Marty's wife dies, and he turns his attention to Rosey, she spurns his attempts at possessing her. In turn, he threatens everything and everyone Rosey loves. She must now take bold and decisive action to rid herself of Marty or risk the lives of those who mean the most to her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Perfectly Poisoned Press
• Release date: Sep 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223941002

Natalie-Nicole Bates

Natalie-Nicole Bates is a book reviewer and author. Her passions in life include books and hockey along with Victorian and Edwardian era photography and antique poison bottles. Natalie contributes her uncharacteristic love of hockey to being born in Russia. She currently resides in the UK where she is working on her next book and adding to her collection of 19th century post-mortem photos.    

Book preview

1

It was the first time the business of death affected Rosey Rydall.

She had seen many dead bodies over the last few years. When she stumbled upon her first, a drifter on the riverbank who looked like he took his last breath a moment or two earlier, little did she know the business of death would be a lucrative one.

Sure, the discovery of the corpse surprised her, but it did not frighten her in the slightest. It was dead; it could not hurt anyone. In truth, very little frightened Rosey. A few years working at The Phoenix Hotel on Carlyle Street, and she had seen everything; fights, stabbings, drunken rampages. Violence broke out in or around the hotel almost every night of the week.

When she first took up employment at The Phoenix as a young check-in girl, the owner, Thaddeus Anderton frightened her. It wasn't his appearance that scared her so much. No, he was a stunning looking fellow.

It was his demeanor.

It was his reputation.

The fear did not last long. It ended the day Thaddeus had the audacity to pat her ass. She informed him if he tried this move uninvited ever again, he would pull back a bloody stump where his hand once resided.

His expression never changed. He blinked twice, and matter of factly stated that no woman dared to speak to him in that manner – ever – and any woman who even attempted to assault his person, well, they would not live to speak of it.

It was his tone that would have sent the average woman's blood cold. But Rosey Rydall was not an average woman.

Her expression did not change either, as she held her opponent's blue eyes to her brown, and replied, Well, Sir, I might die, but you will live the remainder of your life with a stump.

To which he threw back his head and laughed, and continued to laugh all the way out the hotel's front door. She could still hear him howling on the street.

The next morning, a large pink box tied with a wide red satin ribbon arrived by messenger to The Phoenix Hotel, to the attention of Miss Rosey Red Rydall. Inside was the most breathtaking dress of the finest satin, in a shade of the deepest ruby red. Her fingers trembled as she lifted the exquisite gift into her hands, and a card dropped from the folds of the dress and sailed gracefully to the floor.

When she finally chased it down, she read the grey notecard embossed with the initials TA.

I thoroughly enjoyed our banter, and I admire your moxie. Keep making me laugh. And always wear the color red. ALWAYS.

And she did.

Soon, shoes from the finest Paris couturier, corsets of whalebone and handmade lace, a gold choker, and dozens upon dozens of perfect red roses arrived for her attention.

Rosey knew everyone on Carlyle Street and beyond whispered about her relationship with Thaddeus, and speculated behind her back what she did to evoke such generosity.

Let them think what they wanted, she decided. It added more mystery into a perfectly friendly relationship between her, a somewhat humble check-in girl, and her much older, wealthy employer.

Who she now called a friend.

Yes, Thaddeus was indeed her friend.

And because he was her friend, he insisted she leave The Phoenix for The Albion, another of Thaddeus' establishments. On the surface, The Albion was a middle-class hotel catering to both short and long-term guests. Rosey had a room of her own on a women's only floor.

During the day, The Albion was an affordable lodging.

At night, in the basement, it became something more.

Something much more.

It was early morning now, on what should have been another mundane day.

She went about knocking on the doors of guests who requested a wakeup call, who were due to check out that morning or pay up for further lodging. When she first knocked on the gentleman's door and he did not answer, she thought little of it. Thirty minutes later, she returned and knocked again.

Still no answer. She pressed her ear against the door but heard not as much as a snore.

Maybe it was a sixth sense, but something was off.

Rather than knock again, and potentially wake other sleeping guests, Rosey ran for the stairwell, and down the stairs, holding firmly to the handrail to avoid any cracks in the stairs that could send her into a spill.

Luckily, Thaddeus was in the lobby speaking with a few guests. She waited near the stairwell, sight unseen, until he nodded to the guests, and headed to the door. She hurried to him and yanked on the back of his splendid mocha overcoat.

He whirled back toward her as if to see who dared to touch him in such a manner.

Rosey Red, what is it, girl?

Upstairs in one of the rooms, something is wrong.

His dark brows drew together. What is wrong?

I cannot get a reply in room 414. I saw to the man myself yesterday afternoon, and he insisted on a wakeup call at nine sharp. There was no reply at nine, and I thought perhaps he was sleeping in, but there was again no reply at nine-thirty and…

Thaddeus smiled wryly, exposing straight white teeth. This isn't The Phoenix, Rosey.

Indulge me, Thaddeus, she insisted.

He let out a sigh and rolled his blue eyes. Fine, Rosey, for you, I will waste my time. Lead the way.

After five minutes of knocking, Thaddeus shouldered the door, splitting the wood straight down the center. Once open, the hallway filled with the distinctive smell of gas from the heating system. Stepping into the room, it was soon apparent why the man never opened the door.

Stretched out in bed, fully dressed in a grey sack suit, and lace brogans, was the man Rosey checked into the hotel room yesterday afternoon.

Only now he was dead.

From the corner of her eye, she watched Thaddeus switch off the gas, and open a window.

Rosey could do no more than stare, her feet rooted to the floor, and she continued to stare for another thirty minutes until a familiar presence entered the room.

Good morning, Rosey. She heard the gentle, calm voice behind her.

Good morning? What an imbecile! It was the worst morning.

Hello, Officer Burke, she managed to find her voice.

Martin Burke.

A face she grew to know from her days at The Phoenix, where there was always one catastrophe or another that required police involvement. In truth, at one time, Marty Burke was a man she would consider marrying.

If he was not already married.

That didn't stop his attention toward Rosey. He was a man who suffered from a crisis of duality: the good married Catholic police officer on one hand, and the other, a lust-filled passionate man, who claimed to Rosey that she haunted not only his dreams but his existence as well.

Although remaining faithful to his marriage, Marty attempted time and time again to extract a promise from Rosey to marry him after his wife, who suffered from chronic illness of some sort, passed away, and a reasonable amount of time in mourning, perhaps two years.

Only Missus Burke refused to die.

That fact did not particularly concern Rosey.

Marty Burke was a serious man. A man of sometimes questionable faith, but a good provider. He also looked the other way from Rosey's side job.

But to Rosey, Marty did nothing for her as a woman. There was no spark, no sizzle on those rare occasions she thought of him or looked deep into his pale blue eyes. Sure, she could wait out his wife's ultimate death, allow the requisite two years of mourning on his part to pass, and then settle in as a wife and future mother of his children.

A boring, predictable life lived out by so many around her.

Right now, though, in a room with a dead man, it did not seem an appropriate time to rehash her relationship, correction, her non-relationship with Marty Burke.

So, what happened here, Rosey? Marty was all business now.

The man… She paused and attempted to clear her dry throat. A wave of dizziness passed through her. Whether it was the lingering gas in the room, her shock, or some combination, she was not sure. She pointed to the bed. He checked in yesterday afternoon. When I came to his room to wake him per his instructions, there was no reply to my knock. I waited for a while and came back to try once more to rouse him. When there was again no answer, I asked Thaddeus to open the door.

Under what name did he check in?

Patrick Hughes. Rosey did not usually remember the names or the faces of the many guests who came and went from either The Albion or The Phoenix. This man, who was now dead in bed, was a bit different.

He was nice.

And she might have inadvertently caused his death.

Did he have any visitors?

She shook her head. Not while I was here, none that I noticed, anyway.

Did he happen to tell you anything else? Where he was from? How long he was staying? Why he was in town?

Damn it, Burke, Thaddeus piped up. She is a check-in girl. I enlisted her to take money and assign rooms to lodgers. Not take a detailed history of their lives.

No, Thaddeus, she touched the arm of his coat. It is okay. I actually talked to him for a brief time. She turned her attention back to Marty Burke. Um, he said he had been in town for three days, and was working as a laborer. I do not know where. He told me he was very tired and wanted to sleep. He requested a nine o'clock wake up.

It was not all they talked about, but Marty did not need to know anything more about their conversation. It would not help with his investigation.

"You showed him the room, and that is it? Did