Neither the Hammer nor the Blade believed my assailant was, in fact, who he claimed to be.
Part of me wanted that to be true.
I yearned to confess everything. To blurt to all and sundry what exactly had befallen me the night prior. But then Aberline would ask what I was doing on the Strand at such an hour. Croft would place me in the proximity of the Velvet Glove only moments before he, himself, visited the Hammer.
I risked a glance at him and found him regarding me oddly from beneath the shadows of his sooty lashes.
I could fabricate that I’d been called to work, I supposed, but the canny inspectors would require proof, and I had none. As far as I knew, there were no other violent deaths in London last night save for the one before us.
Drat, I thought glumly before castigating myself for wishing such ill on another for the sake of my own convenience.
A convenient murder. Was there ever such a thing?
“Couldn’t it be both?” Croft lifted his bowler hat away from his hair, threaded his fingers into the dark strands, and then replaced the brim low over his forehead.
“Both what?” Dr. Bond asked.
“The motive. Couldn’t the killer have carefully calculated this murder and still have been driven to do so by a…what did you call it?” He motioned to Dr. Bond. “An erotic mania.”
Both doctors shook their heads. “Calculation and mania do not go hand in hand,” Dr. Bond explained.
“Perhaps not.” Croft glanced at me again. “But I believe in a patient fury. In fact, I believe quiet fortitude is the most dangerous kind of rage.”
Unwilling to ponder his meaning, I extracted the tarot card from my jacket and held the picture over Frank Sawyer’s body for all to see. “You probably already considered this, but I wasn’t certain if you were aware the tarot deck contains a card with a man positioned just as Mr. Sawyer was. The Hanged Man.”
“We were, in fact, not aware.” Aberline snatched the card away, inspecting it closely. “Never pegged you for a spiritualist, Miss Mahoney, being a pragmatic Irish woman and all that.”
“I’m not. The deck belongs to my aunt.”
“Did she tell you what it means, by chance?”
I hesitated. There was the translation Aunt Nola received from her spirit guides, and then there was reality. “She mentioned atonement. Punishment, redemption, that sort of thing. Though, maybe you know someone more knowledgeable about widely accepted card meanings that might offer more insight.”
“See, Croft?” Aberline chuffed. “She’s a right handy girl to keep about. This goes hand in hand with your pittura infamante theory. Someone meant to punish poor Mr. Sawyer, here. The question is, wot for? Remind me of the crimes the Italians used to string a bounder up by his ankle for.”
Croft ran his tongue over his teeth, working a tense jaw to the side. “Small infractions, if you remember. The defamation of an innocent woman, libel, bad debts.”
“Like the debts Mr. Sawyer owed to the Hammer?” Aberline said ominously.
My heart leapt into my throat, almost choking my words out of me. “Mr. Sawyer? He knew the Hammer?”
“Can’t say he knew him, as such.” Aberline scratched beneath his top hat. “But he owed him, or rather his Syndicate, some money.”
The Hammer, that bastard, had lied to me. Not that I should be surprised. He was a notorious criminal, after all. But still, that he’d done so after my show of good faith, knowing what I had riding on the case, certainly demonstrated the trust and esteem in which he held me.
Or the lack thereof.
“That’s no business of hers,” Croft gritted at Aberline, his eyes flashing with an electric fury of the distinctly impatient sort.
Both the doctors and Aberline seemed about to spring to my defense, but I wasn’t one to leave such matters to a man. “That’s exactly what this is, Inspector Croft,” I spat. “My. Business. This is how I make my living. And this sort of information keeps me alive.” More than any of them realized. “I’m not hindering your investigation by being here or at the crime scene or anywhere else. Quite the opposite, in fact, as everyone else has pointed out. I aid in the solving of mysteries, and I’m bloody good at it. But what I can’t for the life of me figure out is why you’re so intent upon acting like a horse’s ass!”
His face looked as red as mine felt by the time I’d finished.
His Irish was up, as well.
“Better a horse’s ass than a rat,” he growled, stalking to a sideboard along the white-tiled wall and snatching Dr. Phillip’s morning paper. The twine disintegrated in his hands by the time he reached our speechless circle, and he violently thrust The London Evening Examiner at me.
I’d no doubt in my mind he’d have slammed it down on the table for all to see had there not been a stiff corpse to ruin the effect.
GRUESOME MURDER IN WHITECHAPEL! the headline read, with the byline beneath: THE RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN?
I took the paper, blinking at it in disbelief. “You think I went to the papers?”
“There are details in that article known to no one but those of us in Frank Sawyer’s rooms last night.”
“There was any number of people in the Sawyer residence last night,” I argued. “Maybe the press got to his wife. Or did you ever consider Constables Hurst and Fanshaw? They aren’t possessed of a full wit between them. They were speculating up a storm right in the middle of Dorset Street for any eavesdropper to hear. Then there was the man who drove the coroner’s cart and—”
“Let’s not forget your priest,” Aberline supplied. “Father uh—Fitzgibbon.”
“Fitzpatrick,” I corrected more sharply than I intended. “And Aidan’s not my priest. Though he is more circumspect than any man in this room!”
“Er—didn’t think of that,” Aberline muttered conciliatorily. “I imagine you attend mass closer to Chelsea than Whitechapel.”
That wasn’t what I’d meant. And I should apologize to kind Inspector Aberline for my sharp tongue, but it was in my best interest to let that lie. One day, I might not feel so defensive regarding all things Aidan Fitzpatrick.
Apparently, today was not that day.
“Why do you automatically assume I’m the leak?” I demanded of Croft. “Because I’m a woman, is that it? Because we can’t keep our flapping mouths shut?”
He stared at me. Hard. The scars on his knuckles stretching white over the bones as they curled into fists. “It’s because I don’t trust you.” He nodded to the congregation and stormed off, leaving everyone but Mr. Sawyer feeling more than a bit awkward.
“Don’t mind ‘im, Miss Mahoney,” Aberline patted my shoulder in a fatherly gesture, his accent thicker than usual. “he’s not slept yet, and who knows the last time he ate? We fellows are cursed with the constitutions of a bear if we’re deprived of eight hours, three solids, and afternoon tea. My Emma brings me sandwiches nigh every day at three o’clock. Croft doesn’t ‘ave no one to do such things for ‘im.”
“You’re very kind, but you don’t have to apologize for his behavior.”
“You’re not suspected of providing the press this information. You’ve been the picture of discretion before,” he encouraged. “But…maybe it’s safer if you avoid Croft and this case for a bit, yeah? If a devil like the Hammer’s involved, who can even imagine what dangers are in store?”
“Who can imagine?” I echoed.
I could. At least, I had a good idea.
“A good find, this.” He handed the Hanged Man card back to me. “Could be our key to unlocking the motive. I’ve a young spiritualist acquaintance, a surgeon, Artie Conan Doyle. Right good ‘ead for mystery, that chap. I’ll pen him and see what ‘e and ‘is lot make of this ‘anged Man.”
I nodded, trying to regain my composure. I hadn’t slept, either, or I’d have taken more care to keep Croft from getting beneath my skin and into my Irish blood.
“So, we are agreed we can publicly and categorically refute the Ripper rumors, then,” Bond p
rodded, retrieving his hat and cane. “Just some grisly counterfeiter, or possibly not even that.”
“I’d say so.” Aberline nodded. “Dr. Phillips?”
“I suppose it’s possible the Ripper has escalated his violence by conducting mutilations before death rather than after…” Phillips scrubbed at his sideburns thoughtfully, staring into the distance.
A tense silence followed, but I knew Dr. Phillips well enough to realize that he was merely speculating aloud.
“However,” he continued, “until we’ve one of his ghastly letters or, God forbid, another body, there’s really not enough evidence to point in his direction. Is there?”
“Something upon which we finally agree.” Dr. Bond plunked his top hat onto his head and bowed. “Good day, Inspector, Doctor, Miss Mahoney.” His bow to me was the deepest, and his grey eyes became even rmore opaque as they captured mine. “I expect we’ll meet again.”
And then, we were three.
“I’ll have my full autopsy report delivered to you by courier this afternoon,” Phillips said to Aberline.
“Obliged, Doctor.” Aberline tipped his hat and chucked me under the chin like one would a disconsolate child. “Chin up, Miss Mahoney. Get some rest.”
I nodded again, speechless, as he sauntered out. A certain shame sort of stole my words. It wasn’t difficult to lie to a blowhard like Croft. But to a good man like Aberline, keeping secrets in my pockets felt unnaturally heavy.
“Speaking of organs, you wouldn’t happen to have any extra livers on short notice, would you? Preferably a bit necrotic.” Dr. Phillips asked me. “Westminster Hospital is having a Hepatology lecture for surgeons, and I’d like to give that bounder Bond a what for in front of his chief of surgery.”
“I’m sorry?” I blinked over at him, feeling especially bleary now, and doing my best to calm my racing thoughts long enough to process his change of subject.
He studied me for a brief moment, his expression brimming with a knowledge of me that I obviously didn’t possess. Setting down the scalpel, he took up a curved needle and some thick, black thread. “Don’t you let that bully inspector get to you,” he advised, pulling the open flaps of Frank Sawyer’s middle together. “Were you on the playground at school, he’d be tugging on your braids and flicking bugs into your hair.”
I chewed on that thought for a strange moment. The hardest thing for me to picture, I found, was Inspector Grayson Croft as a little boy. He seemed like the sort of man crafted, fully formed, from stone and steel by some forgotten god of the north. It just didn’t seem as if he’d ever been cuddled by an indulgent granny or tugged the braids of some poor schoolmate he fancied—
My skin went cold all over.
“What do you think, does it seem possible?” the doctor prodded.
“Hardly!” I gasped. “You’re not suggesting Inspector Croft fancies me, are you?”
“About the livers.” He leveled me with a droll look before carefully placing the first stitch into the pale, dead flesh.
“I-I’ll have to look into it.” The paper clutched in my hands distracted me. “How many would you need?” I unfolded the paper to read the article, my heart climbing into my throat. It was all here. Every single detail of the Sawyer murder. The castration, the disembowelment, the fact that none of the organs were missing. The reporter made a few wild conjectures, that there might have been a letter the police were hiding for the sake of avoiding hysteria. But the facts were absolute.
The murder wasn’t but ten hours ago. How many people were even privy to this information by now?
“About seven, I should think.”
“Seven?”
“Livers, Fiona. Livers.”
“Right. Yes.” I checked the name of the journalist at the bottom of the article.
Thaddeus Comstock. I knew the name. He’d made quite the career covering the Whitechapel murders. If Jack the Ripper was the worst thing that had ever happened to Mary Kelly, he was the best thing for the unscrupulous Mr. Comstock.
“I will see what I can do,” I promised. “If you’ll excuse me, Dr. Phillips, I’m late for an appointment.”
“I need them by Thursday, if you’re able,” he called after me as I retreated. “I’ll even provide the ice!”
I hoped there was enough ice for Thaddeus Comstock.
Because I was going to kill him.
11
Just as I realized I’d forgotten to consult with Dr. Phillips regarding the turquoise beads, a rough hand snaked from behind the hospital gate, jerking me toward the shadow of the stone wall.
“What the devil?” I screeched, drawing the attention of a few wary passersby.
“Not the devil,” Croft rumbled. “Just me.”
“Little better than,” I spat. “Release me at once.” As imperious as I sounded, I glanced around for Aberline should I require rescuing. He was nowhere to be seen along the wide, cobbled streets in front of the Royal London Hospital.
Bugger.
Croft held me fast by one arm, but he leaned against the yellow stone wall, the picture of a man at ease. The way his shoulders rested appeared as though he propped up the heavy stone, rather than the other way around.
What must it be like, I wondered, to have shoulders as strong as a ballast? One might live their entire lives without fear of collapse buttressed by a strength such as his.
If they could stand his presence so long.
“You lied to me,” he accused.
I balled both of my fists to keep from fidgeting and stared him straight in the eyes.
“A guilty man looks down,” my father had once told me.
“You don’t deny it?” Croft’s face tightened over brutal bones as he released a heavy sigh. I’d disappointed him.
Not that it mattered.
“I’m not inclined to dignify your accusation with a response.” Of course, I wasn’t going to admit that I’d lied to him, especially when I wasn’t clear to which lie he referred. Only an idiot incriminates herself, especially without additional information.
My stomach flopped upside down, and my heart shrank several sizes as he studied me through the slits of his eyelids.
“During the Kelly inquest, you told me your father was an Irish garda. You swore under oath.”
It wasn’t a lie and was easily proven. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.
I settled on outraged.
Was Inspector Croft investigating me? After all this time?
“I never lied.” About that. “My father was a member of the Irish police.”
“He is no longer.”
“So?” I challenged.
“You claimed your family remains in Dublin.”
“They do.”
“You mentioned your brothers, all Mahoneys, were named Fallon, Finnigan, Flynn, Farrin, Fitzwilliam, and Fayne.”
I tried not to be impressed that he’d remembered them all. My dear, beloved brothers.
“Indeed.” As much agony as their names brought upon me, I fought a little giddiness, as well. It wasn’t often I had the opportunity to exploit the monosyllabic portion of the conversation with Croft.
See how he liked it, for once.
“There is no record of a Frank and Grace Mahoney living in Dublin. Neither could I find your brothers. They don’t have employment records, residences, licenses, travel papers… Not that the bloody Garda were much help, even to a fellow officer.”
“You’re not a fellow officer to them, are you? You’re a representative of the enemy. Why should they give you information about one of their own?”
He released me then. Testing the limits of his shoulder seams as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Are we at war, you and I? Are we enemies?”
We certainly weren’t allies. But perhaps that was as much my fault as it was his.
“I didn’t lie to you when I testified that my family remains in Dublin, Inspector. I never said they lived there.”
“Remains.” Beneath his sw
arthy complexion, he flushed an ashen shade. “I didn’t check death certificates,” he realized aloud. “I didn’t request the bloody cemetery records.”
He’d have found my entire family if he had.
And they were bloody.
So. Much. Blood.
“You’re…alone.” His gaze became softer than I’d ever seen it, his expression touched with pity—something I hadn’t thought him capable of.
“I’m alive.” My voice, on the other hand, was hard. Harder than I’d ever heard it. My bones felt forged of steel, though the heart beneath them seemed as fragile as glass.
I welcomed his pity even less than I wanted his suspicion.
“What happened to them?” he whispered.
“That’s none of your concern.” While I backed away from him, my brittle vulnerability threw up pikes of protection in hopes he’d skewer himself before breaching my well-built fortifications. “Their murders are not your case. They’ve been explained.”
But not avenged. Does anyone in this world really get justice?
“I think you’re the mystery that needs solving, Fiona Mahoney.” He looked as if he might reach for me again. Like maybe this time his touch would neither restrain nor repel me.
Wouldn’t that be a first?
God. He wasn’t about to…console me, was he? I could handle Croft’s antipathy. I’d come to expect it. But what the hell would I do with his kindness?
It might melt the fortifications I’d erected, leaving my glass heart even more vulnerable.
Hastily, I retreated several steps until I almost slipped off the curb and into the gutter of Whitechapel Road. “You want to solve a mystery, Inspector? Find Frank Sawyer’s murderer. Better yet, apprehend Jack the Ripper,” I challenged. “But don’t waste your time trying to figure me out. You won’t like what you discover.”
As exhausted as I was, I stormed off in the opposite direction of home, searching for a place that might provide me with some semblance of sanctuary.
And perhaps a few answers.
* * *
To see a sweet-faced child in Aidan Fitzpatrick’s arms unstitched me. The unexpected ache buckled my knees and clenched feminine muscles with which no man was familiar.
The Business of Blood Page 12