Page 45 of The Business of Blood
“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 notmypriest. Though heismore 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 forhisbehavior.”
“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 prodded, 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—
