Page 30 of The Business of Blood
He made an infuriating motion with his jaw and eyebrows. One that told me his point had been made and that he would say nothing further on the subject.
It’d been him. Somehow, I knew it with chilling certainty. He’d torn away the high-necked collar. And, for some reason, had kept ripping until the garment was nothing but tatters in his hands.
No image generated by my mind’s eye of the occurrence made any semblance of sense.
I’d barely spoken a dozen words to the Blade in as many months, and he’d given me nothing but orders and the occasional corpse. Always staring with those obscure, dark eyes until I made some sort of gesture of understanding. I wasn’t proud of the fact, but I often found myself speechless in the company of Mr. Night Horse.
Though, why I couldn’t be blessed with that sort of wisdom—or caution—at the moment was beyond the likes of me. Perhaps I was getting used to his company enough for my mortal terror to abate to the aforementioned loquacious unease.
“The Ripper was gone,” I deduced. “When you came upon me in the alley?”
“Whoever cut you was gone.” A skeptical mien tightened the beautiful skin over high cheekbones sharp enough to etch glass.
Did he not believe my assailant to be Jack?
“Not interrupted by you, then,” I clarified, which garnered me a barely perceptible nod.
So, murder—specificallymymurder—had not been the Ripper’s intent during our interaction. What was the significance of that? Why would he want to know what I thought of Mr. Sawyer’s demise?
Seized by a sudden chill, I burrowed my hands into the pockets of my pelisse, grazing what was left of the turquoise beads.
I could ponder my terrifying interaction with the Ripper when I was alone and out of danger. Also, after I’d had a few hours’ sleep and something to eat. What sat before me now was an opportunity to glean information. I wondered if interrogating Mr. Night Horse was clever or foolish.
Letting this chance slip through my fingers would be pure cowardice.
Better to die a fool than a coward…
I think.
“Did you—know Frank Sawyer?” I ventured.
“You mean, did I kill him?”
“Aye, I was working up to that, I’ll grant you.”
“Do you think I’d confess to his murder if I had?”
His answer evoked anger in me, which I suspect shocked us both more than a little. If there was one thing I despised, it was a person who answered a question with another question. “It’s not as if I don’tknowwhat it is you do, is it? What youare. I’ve rid the world of enough of your victims to show a bit of good faith. What am I going to do, go to the police? I don’t ask these questions to condemn you for Mr. Sawyer’s murder. I ask for my own peace of mind. All I want to know is if it was you having a bit of gruesome fun with Mr. Sawyer, or if the Ripper has truly returned to torment London again.”
“To tormentyou,” he corrected.
I fought the intense urge to squirm beneath his shrewd regard.
“I thought you said he confessed to the deed when he had a blade at your throat.”
“Yes, well…” How did I articulate my concerns? Something about that interaction in the alley felt wrong, somehow. And I still wanted to test Croft’s theory that Jack hadn’t carried out his dastardly deeds alone. The Blade would make a perfect accomplice to the kind of work for which the Ripper was infamous.
Extracting the beads from my pocket, I extended my hand to him. A peace offering of sorts.
“Those do not belong to me.” He made no move to take them. “I didn’t kill Mr. Sawyer. And neither did the Ripper.”
At this, my head snapped up. “How could you possibly know that?”
He gestured to where my thumb fidgeted with the beads. “Where would Jack the Ripper acquire turquoise like that?”
“He could have had them imported from America,” I suggested. “I imagine one can buy turquoise at great expense just as we do gems and the like.”
“Then why suspect me at all? If the stones are so readily available?”
