Page 16 of The Business of Blood
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 formein the next shadow.
And then the police would find what was left ofmecome 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 ofmycrimes. 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. Idesiredto 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 years 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 likethem. 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.
