Page 14 of The Business of Blood
He didn’t dignify my question with a response. Instead, he motioned to the two men in the coroner’s cart and Constable Fanshaw. “Let’s cut him down.”
The men instantly moved to comply, taking a stretcher and implements from the cart and marching past Croft into the room.
“I’ll help,” I offered.
Croft’s hands caught both my shoulders as I stepped forward, holding me away from his body like something distasteful. “Youwill stay out here until we’re finished.”
“All right,” I conceded. “Under one condition.”
“You’re hardly in a position to—”
“Tell mewhyyou suspect the Hammer,” I demanded.
Croft scrutinized me from beneath dark brows. I didn’t see the cogs in his mind turning like I could with Aberline. That’s what made him so dangerous, I supposed. I could read most people, could tell what they were thinking, and often guess at their next move.
But not Croft.
His motives were as opaque as the Thames in January. He had the occupation of an honorable man and the demeanor of a villain.
I was sure he was going to growl something dismissive when he said, “The Hammer likes to send messages. To feed his infamy.”
I stood absolutely still, afraid to breathe lest Croft change his mind about sharing his ruminations.
“He began his empire here in Whitechapel, a Jewish immigrant like so many others, and through violence, terror, and incomparable cunning, he’s become the head of one of the most powerful organized criminal syndicates the empire has ever seen.”
This wasn’t new information because I knew the Hammer.
And he knew me.
“Why would you suspect a powerful, wealthy, Jewish gangster of murdering a poor Catholic in Whitechapel?” I queried, hoping to conceal from Croft just how much his answer meant to me.
“Because his hold on the East End is slipping since he relocated to the Strand. Rival gangs are becoming more prevalent. And bolder. He needs a demonstration of strength. Something to remind the people to fear him, even if it’s from afar.”
“But what message doesthissend?” I gestured toward the door. “And to whom?”
Croft leaned down, his eyes bright and marble-hard in his swarthy features. “That, Miss Mahoney, is what you’ll leave to us to find out.”
Unsettled by his proximity, I nodded pensively. Rather than focus on the masculine scent of him, I tracked the procession of the coroner’s aides as they appeared with no little jostling, and conveyed Mr. Sawyer on the stretcher covered now in a white sheet.
I wondered how they’d gotten him down so quickly. I glanced at Hao Long, who shrugged his own mystification.
I puffed out a beleaguered breath, hoping they hadn’t made an even bigger mess. If Aidan were, indeed, paying my bill, I’d have to give him a discount. Two, probably. One for an old friend, and one for God.
Though I’d take a moment to acknowledge just how vast the coffers of the Lord tended to be and remember that you weren’t really supposed to charge him for services rendered.
Hardly seemed fair, if you asked me. Blessings didn’t pay the bills.
“Do you have reason to believe that Mr. Sawyer had connections to the Syndicate?” I asked and quickly discovered that I’d tested the edge of my limits regarding Inspector Croft’s indulgence.
His teeth had barely separated long enough for this unprecedented conversation. They’d now firmly bound together, a muscle ticking just below his temple. It seemed to do that more than was necessary, at least when I was about.
Which begged the question… “Why’d you tell me all that if you didn’t want me to know?”
His chin lifted toward the dark street at my back. “Because I didn’t want you out searching the night for the Ripper.”
“But you said you couldn’t rule him out as a suspect.”
“All right, my dear.” Aberline strode from the room, adjusting his hat and, once again, checking his watch. “The room is yours, I’m sorry to say.” He clapped Croft on the back. “Should we share a hackney to the hospital, old boy?”
