Page 61 of The Business of Blood
Sighing, I steeled myself for the job ahead, anticipating maggots beneath the carpet, which I’d have to take straight to the incinerator. That would certainly cut into my profits.
I turned to Hao Long. “Please tell me you brought—”
He held up my black over-frock and sleeve covers.
“Thank you.” I slipped the frock over my dress and stood as he tied it behind me. I’d have to tip him handily for today. He’d earned it.
No need to change clothing, I thought. The scent of death already clung to the fibers of what I was wearing.
And, luckily, I was the only person of my acquaintance who knew how to get rid of it.
14
The next morning, I set out to discover whether or not Thaddeus Comstock was the man who’d cut my throat.
If I visited him during office hours atTheLondon Evening Examiner, the likelihood of his accosting me was dramatically reduced. I but had to hear his voice. Then I could elect what to do next. Go to the police?
Or take a darker path.
I was, as yet, undecided.
I’d never forget that voice in the darkness. As soft against my ear as his blade was hard against my neck.
Damn him for making me afraid. Shadows were hard enough to search for in the dark. How dare he become one more shade of mine.
I was further disgruntled to find Croft’s shoulders supporting the weight of the Reinhold Building on Brompton Road, guarding the entrance to theExaminer.
I shouldn’t have worn my aubergine frock with the violet cuffs and braiding at the bodice. It was one of my smarter dresses and boasted enough layers for a day that promised rain. However, it matched a dark hue in Croft’s cobalt paisley cravat and the pinstripes of his dark wool suit. It would appear to passersby that we complemented each other. And wasn’t that laughable?
Oil and water, that was Croft and me. Two negatively charged magnets repelling each other by the very nature of physical law.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed that he didn’t at all integrate into the bustling streets this far west in London. He stood much too rigid, too wary and frank in his observations of other people. Here in Knightsbridge, as in Chelsea, Westminster, and Belgravia, people nodded politely to each other in the unlikely event that their eyes met. Most went so far as to offer a well-meaning felicitation.
Croft analyzed those passersby who dared notice him with unrepentant scrutiny. A great deal of them offered a cautious, “Good day.” If they were women—which most of them were, I noticed with a frown—he had the decency to reward them with a barely congenial nod.
He drew deeply on his cigarette as he marked my approach, then picked a sliver of dried tobacco off his tongue before flicking both onto the pavestones.
“What areyoudoing here?” I allowed my irascibility at his presence to color my question with temper. It took everything I had not to brandish the umbrella hooked over my forearm at him like a cutlass.
En garde, Inspector Croft.
“Waiting for you,” he answered, infuriatingly unperturbed. “I knew you’d be foolish enough to contact Comstock on your own but shrewd enough to do so in public.”
Shrewd. That may be the nicest thing he’d ever called me.
“I hope you weren’t waiting for long.” I swept past him and stood by the door to the Reinhold building, pausing to let him open it for me. It was half-past eleven, and business hours had begun some time ago. He could have been standing there for ages. I hoped his feet hurt.
He wore no hat today, and I prayed the pregnant clouds soon birthed a mighty storm. I’d not mind one bit if Mother Nature decided he should spend the afternoon wet and cold and miserable.
“Not long at all,” he assured me, sweeping the heavy door open with a mock gallant gesture. “I’m aware of the hours you keep, so I visited Comstock’s home first. When I didn’t find him there, I figured he’d already gone to work. And that you would be nipping at his heels like an angry lapdog who thinks herself bigger and a great deal fiercer than she actually is.” His northern brogue was more apparent in the West End, somehow, than in Whitechapel. Perhaps because Londoners spoke so crisply here, and his unhurried patois commanded more presence among the starched, hassled voices of higher-born or better-educated men.
It took a great deal of will not to let my frustration show. How did he know what hours I kept? Until very recently, I’d barely stepped foot in his borough unless I had to.
I wanted to snap at him, but I didn’t relish the comparison to the aforementioned lapdog. Instead, I decided to mine him for information. “How did your meeting with the Diocese go? Did you find out anything helpful about Katherine Riley?”
“Your priest was there,” he said evenly.
“He’s not my—wait.” I put up a hand. “What did he say?”
