“The bloody hell it is,” I muttered under my breath. Profanity made me feel loads lighter as I stepped up into the dingy common house. I released the long hiss of breath that prepared every woman for a sticky, disagreeable job and got to work.
Luckily, Constable Fanshaw seemed to have had enough blood for the moment and lingered outside.
Hao Long bent to hold a wide, bladed pan to the floor while I scraped the clotting blood into it with something that resembled a flat broom, sans bristles. Once the pan filled, my assistant dumped it into the pail and put it down again to receive more.
Because of the sheer amount of blood, Hao Long filled more than five pans before we uncovered most of the floorboards beneath. On the last sweep, a grating sound accompanied a vibration up my arm, and our eyes met in confusion.
Gathering my skirts, I crouched down and reached into the flat dustpan brimming with crimson sludge. The blood wasn’t warm anymore, but neither had it cooled to room temperature as yet. It had the consistency of discolored honey left in the sun.
Something round and hard rolled against my searching fingers. I tried to grasp it, but it escaped. Then I found another and another. Eventually, I was successful in extracting an imperfect sphere the size and shape of a small, freshwater pearl.
Hao Long fetched a glass tube of peroxide and held it out for me to drop the object into.
We both watched in silent fascination as the blood bubbled and dissolved away. The gasp at the sight of what we uncovered rattled in my chest before it escaped.
At the bottom of the beaker, innocuous as you please, sat a single bead, its color distinct and unmistakable. I knew at once that there several more, judging by the grating sound they made on the tin pan. All shaped, pierced, and crafted by the deft hands and primitive tools of an artisan on a distant continent. Ultimately to end up in the leavings of a macabre crime.
Only one man of my acquaintance wore beads of this stark and startling hue. A color darker than the sky but lighter than the sea, shot through with ribbons of gold and black.
“Turquoise,” I whispered the foreign word as I’d heard it pronounced only once before. A rare stone, only found in America. And, in my experience, only worn by Aramis Night Horse.
The Tsadeq Syndicate’s lethal assassin, known as the Blade.
5
I should never have agreed to dispose of those bodies.
Once you did something like that for men like the Hammer and the Blade, the blood stained your hands, too. Not to mention, once you sold your soul to men like them, it was guaranteed that they’d ask you to do it again.
And so they had. Many times over.
I hated that I was a criminal. I despised that desperation and hunger drove me to do something unforgivable. At least, in the eyes of the law.
I’d heard wise men say the past should be left alone, that a person should only look forward. But there were those of us mired in the decisions we’d made and, as it seemed, we’d never stop paying the price for them. My experiences had led me to believe that we were products of our pasts, and though redemption and forgiveness may or may not be offered in the hereafter, I still had to protect my secrets lest I meet God before my time.
That knowledge didn’t stop me from frantically searching for any possible way out of the predicament I found myself in as I scurried up Fleet Street until it turned into the Strand. I didn’t want to break the law. Not again. But what choice did I have?
I clipped along as quickly as I could, fleeing the dreadful prickles of awareness that’d hunted me since Whitechapel. Something tickled the sensitive threads of muscle along my spine. Invisible, wicked fingers stroked the tender skin of my back through my many layers of clothing. I glanced around often, even ducked into a doorway once to ascertain if someone followed me.
I convinced myself that only memories stalked me through London. Nothing else.
No one else.
Very few hansom cabs braved the streets on such a night, and I’d not been able to hail one at this hour. I had the money; I should just acquire my own conveyance and employ a driver willing to work all hours.
It had seemed like too much of a bother until now.
Whores and revelers eyed me with curious suspicion as I swept past them. I couldn’t say I blamed them for staring, I knew full well what I looked like. Slight and buxom but too old at nine and twenty to be of much use as a whore in this posh part of town. Aidan had once told me that I was the prettiest girl in all of Ireland, both north and south. But I wasn’t a girl anymore.
My mother used to comment on my “endearing” bit of overbite and “adorable” freckles. According to her, both would keep me from true comeliness and thereby protect me from the sin of vanity. She’d been right, I supposed, though she didn’t live long enough to see me grown.
To the ladies of the evening, their customers, and the bohemians who owned these hours, I seemed like any genteel spinster with an expensive but sensible wardrobe—and somewhere important to be. They wondered where someone such as I was headed at this time of the morning.
I worried at the turquoise beads in the pocket of my pelisse, letting them glide and roll against my fingers with a surprisingly pleasant rattle. My mood gathered as much gloom as the threatening storm clouds overhead, as alternative options stubbornly refused to present themselves.
I simply couldn’t take them to the police. Could I? 4 Whitehall Place, the address of Scotland Yard, loomed scant blocks beyond. Between me and the Metropolitan Police stood the Velvet Glove, the Syndicate’s brothel, on the corner of Wych Street and the Strand.
I could have kept walking. I could have found Aberline and Croft and shown them the turquoise beads. They’d know as well as I to whom they might belong. They could follow their own conclusions. Inferences that Inspector Croft had already begun to speculate at.
I thought about Croft. Tenacious and untouchable as he may be around Whitechapel, he was no match for the Hammer. I didn’t doubt Croft’s strength or capability for violence, but he was only one man. The Hammer wielded an army consisting of not only brutes, rabble-rousers, pimps, game makers, smugglers, and gin peddlers but also policemen and members of parliament.
Not to mention one extremely efficient assassin.
One didn’t whisper his name to a shadow where the Hammer didn’t hear it. The darkness was his domain, full of his minions.
Sort of like the devil.
Though, if I’d had to take a gamble, I’d wager Lucifer himself is less connected in London than the Hammer.
Which was why I could not take the beads to the police. Someone on the Hammer’s payroll might see me at Scotland Yard. And even if they didn’t, odds were good that the Hammer would look into the Sawyer murder once suspicion had been laid at his feet. He’d find out I’d been called to the scene. If evidence were uncovered in the blood, chances were, I’d be privy to it.
Turquoise beads were enough to point a finger at Mr. Night Horse, but not enough to hang him. And if the Hammer suspected that I’d known about evidence and didn’t warn him, I’d find Mr. Night Horse waiting for me in the next shadow.
And then the police would find what was left of me come morning.
Or worse, they wouldn’t find me at all.
I supposed there was a chance that the Hammer would choose to treat me with pity or apathy and merely inform the police of my crimes. He could let them do his killing for him.
Because I’d swing from the gallows as a body snatcher for the deeds he bade me do.
As it so often did, guilt spread like hot tar spilled over my soul, impossible to remove. I’d considered turning myself in upon occasion to face whatever justice would be meted out. I desired to be good, to do the right thing. I’d even come close to confessing once or twice, going so far as to set my affairs in order.
In doing so, however, I’d reasoned myself out of doing what was right and did what was practical, instead.
I’d learned that Hao Long’s first wife had died some y
ears before and left him with three children. He’d taken a second wife. In the two years I’d known him, every time I saw her, she was in one stage of pregnancy or another. My employee may be a quiet man, but he was apparently a lusty one, as well.
I’d seen the squalor and desperation so many Chinese immigrants found themselves in, trying to scrape by and make a living on the docks or in factories, doing jobs too menial or dangerous for men who considered themselves better. They were paid less and treated worse than unionized Englishmen. It made me proud to say that my enterprise helped to lift Hao Long and his family out of such a situation. Though I feared that if something were to happen to me, his children would again know hunger.
London was in dire need of her innumerable migrant workers to function as the industrial capital of the world, but she wasn’t kind to them. It often caused me to wonder why they stayed.
It more often caused me to wonder what they left behind. If the squalid boroughs where they were allowed to live, not to mention the mocking jibes and rank mistrust they were subjected to by Londoners, were more agreeable than their own countries, the world must be incredibly desperate out there…
I thought about that whenever I felt sorry for myself. I was lucky that, with tenacity, dubious scruples, and a strong stomach, I’d been able to carve out a nice living for myself.
Because I looked like them. The people who held power. My skin was their skin. My eyes, their eyes. My tongue, more or less, theirs. Though I did speak the old language, as well.
But never in the presence of them. Because then, I’d be different.
And these days—or maybe always—different was dangerous.
Aside from Hao Long, I also needed to consider Aunt Nola. She hadn’t left my house on Tite Street since I rescued her from Bethlem Asylum a year ago. If there was a chance I’d be condemned to Hell for my sins, the place they would send poor Aunt Nola would make Hell seem like a holiday.
And I’d commit a mortal sin to avoid that.
Indeed, I already had. Several.
If I were completely honest, however, my motivations could all be boiled down to one. If I were locked away—or hanged—who would be left to pursue Jack the Ripper?
So, I did what I thought I must. I conducted the damning evidence to the Hammer, hoping to ascertain whether or not his assassin had murdered Mr. Sawyer. And if he did, was it with or without the Hammer’s consent?
An arm cinched around my waist with bruising force and yanked me into a dark alley between a haberdashery and a deserted café.
I struggled to inhale. To produce a scream that might bring whichever constable was on foot patrol in this district. But the grip crushed my ribs as a gloved hand clamped over my nose and mouth.
My vision alternately swam with violent sparks of light and blotches of darkness as my eyes latched on to a tall, red-brick building little more than half a block away.
The Velvet Glove.
I was only steps from the invisible perimeter of the Hammer’s domain. Had I made it maybe three or so more buildings, I’d have been within sight of the many brutes and brigands the Hammer employed to protect himself and his province. Oh, God. Whoever had me in his clutches must realize that. Had he predicted my intended destination?
As he dragged me deeper into the alley, I fought to get my feet beneath me. To find purchase. To suck breath into my burning lungs. If my assailant took me beyond the glow of the gas lamps, I’d never see the light again. Of this, I was certain.
Doing my best not to flail, I fumbled with the sleeve of my pelisse where I’d sewn a sharp, cylindrical pick, no longer or wider than a pen. A good jab with it had gotten me out of my fair share of scrapes. A small, spring-coiled knife that once belonged to my father was in my pocket, but I didn’t have time to reach for it. I cursed at how violently my cold fingers shook with terror, clumsy and stiff.
The hand over my nose and mouth blessedly released, and I gasped in what desperate breath I could, intending to give strength to the primal scream crawling up my throat.
The kiss of a cold blade beneath my chin turned my scream into a whimper.
“Show me your hands.” The dark whisper warmed my ear but turned my blood to shards of ice. My every muscle froze, my hand halfway into my sleeve. “By the time you find what you’re reaching for, I’ll have already drained you.”
I flinched as the knife bit into me and lifted my hands to demonstrate their emptiness.
My assailant laughed when he saw how they trembled, and the glee in that laughter made my eyes sting with tears.
My heart shriveled as the heel of my boot dragged out of the reach of the light.
He had me in total darkness. A knife against my neck. I expected, at any moment, the sharp glide of it across the thin skin of my throat. Would it hurt? Would I be sentient for long, struggling to breathe against the warm spill of blood into my lungs?
Through the windows of the darkened haberdashery, the Strand beckoned—no, taunted—past cheery shadows of feathered hats and tasseled frippery. Just out of reach.
Dear God, let this be a robbery.
“My purse hangs at the left side of my belt,” I stammered in a labored whisper. “My broach has a sapphire on it, though the pearls are paste, and there is a little gold bracelet beneath my right glove.” That would be enough to keep a desperate man in whatever vice he desired for at least a week, maybe more.
“I’m not after your jewelry, Miss Mahoney.”
Every part of me tensed with such strain, it ached. He knew my name.
Could it be Jack? Was this how I met my end? My throat slit in a dark alley. Just like Martha Tabrum. Just like Catherine Eddowes, Annie Chapman, Mary Nichols, and Elizabeth Stride. Was I to join their ranks? Another unfortunate woman lost to the clutches of vice and villainy in this, the greatest city in the world.
Only, I was not unfortunate. Not in the way the Ripper victims were. I did sell services, yes, but not sex.
“I do believe I’ll take the liberty of calling you Fiona.”
Even though it was silly to think so in such a moment, I fully expected the Ripper’s words to slither into my ear like a serpentine fiend. Instead, the breathy tone clung to the air in moist, cultured immensity. The pitch was all wrong, closer to alto than baritone, with a slight lisp. This couldn’t be the Ripper, could it? He sounded like a Nancy, all told.
As it often does, especially for us Irish, my terror turned to fury.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
His sound of delight washed my skin in vicious insects. “You know me, Fiona. You know what I’ve done.”
No, I didn’t. He didn’t sound familiar in the least.
“I don’t care what you’ve done,” I lied. “My only care is for what you’re about to do.”
“Can you hazard a guess as to what that is?”
My eyes squeezed shut, but the sight of Mary Kelly’s final moments presented themselves like a gory portrait, forcing my lids open once more. At least he’d killed her first, so she didn’t have to feel her flesh being carved from her bones. If it came to that, I prayed he’d afford me the same mercy.
“Tell me what you want, or get on with it,” I hissed, wishing fear didn’t shake the strength from my voice as I uttered what may be my last words on this Earth.
“I want to see my deeds through your eyes, Fiona.”
“What?”
“I want you to tell me, in precise and illicit detail, what you thought of my work in Whitechapel today.”
A spear of renewed terror pierced my guts, and I crumpled a little in spite of myself. My hands instinctively went to my middle.
A sharp pain at my throat did for my posture what no nun at St. Brigit’s ever could as the knife nicked my flesh.
“Don’t you dare drop your hands!” he hissed.
My hands snapped right back up into his field of vision, and I cringed at the note of panic lacing his voice. It was imperative that I do what he said. If I didn’t keep him calm, chances wer
e my throat would be opened from ear to ear.
I frantically searched my mind for the words and panicked when I couldn’t produce any. I’d all but allowed Inspectors Croft and Aberline to talk me out of truly believing the Ripper had anything to do with Mr. Sawyer’s death. Once Hao Long and I discovered the turquoise beads, I’d credited Mr. Night Horse with the deed almost exclusively.
“Erm,” I stalled with a shaky, throaty sound that died when I felt a little trickle of wetness slide into my collar. Blood. I attempted to swallow and failed, which was all right because my mouth was as dry as the piles of sawdust in the mill yards.
“They…they don’t think the Ripper is responsible for—”
“That I!” He gave me a rough jerk.
“That you are responsible for the…for what happened to Frank Sawyer.”
“What do you think, Fiona?”
It could have been the provocative way he said it, or the fact that I was fairly certain morning would dawn on my corpse, sliced to bits, in that alley. Whichever, it occurred to me that this might be the only time in my life anyone had asked me that question.
My opinion mattered to Jack the Ripper, did it? What did I think?
“I don’t—didn’t ultimately suspect you either,” I confessed with more confidence than I thought myself capable of in such a moment. “I mean, the other people you…killed were women, and posed in a rather lewd sort of way, weren’t they? Even though you castrated Mr. Sawyer, you put his trousers back on before you hung him upside down and all. No one could quite make sense of it.”
I tended to be a rather terse and quiet individual, not as much as Croft, but more than most. Until my nerves started to rattle. Then people in my direct vicinity looked for just about anything to use as a gag.
I prattled on as I was wont to do. “And you didn’t take any of the organs, did you? I mean, you admitted to frying and eating half of Catherine Eddowes’ kidney, and you sent the other half to the chairman of the Vigilance Committee. You always take something. Why not take from Mr. Sawyer?” The last was posed as more of a curious query than a demand.
The Business of Blood Page 5