Page 6 of The Business of Blood
“But why?” I wondered aloud. “Aberline is assigned to the borough of London, he’s not much been in Whitechapel since…” I paused, keenly aware of the dark arch to 13 Miller’s Court behind me. It loomed like a cold gate to Hell, not a hundred paces away.
Or, more appropriately,from Hell, to steal the closing salutation from the Ripper’s infamous letter.
Aberline hadn’t much been to Whitechapel since he’d conducted the murder inquiry and investigation of Jack the Ripper during the Autumn of Terror in 1888.
It seemed like an eternity, or maybe yesterday.
“I don’t often see you in these parts, either,” Croft said, and I detected a note in his voice that a more fanciful girl might have called grim, and a cynical woman might label suspicious. “Not that I blame you, mind. Business must be good if you can afford a row house in Chelsea all on your own.”
My business was none of his concern. Especially since some of my business could see me arrested.
Or hanged.
I tried to shoulder past him, using the handle of my scraper to avoid as much contact with his unyielding body as I could. “Do you know how much longer he’ll be? I’d really like to get on with it. It’s late enough to be early, and I’d like to be done before a crowd starts to gather at dawn, and an enterprising landlord starts charging admission for a view of the corpse—”
Croft’s hand winching around my arm was enough to startle me into silence, and I gaped at him in shock and alarm. “Gohome, Fiona.” His low voice was astonishingly gentle, where his words were not. “You want no part of this.”
I stared up into his serious expression, trying to discern his intention. If the law hadn’t summoned me here. Then who?
A dark notion stabbed me in the gut, followed by a darker anticipation. What was Croft hiding from me? I understood that he disagreed with my choice of profession, but it was better than the alternative, and we both knew it.
Besides, I made more money than a prostitute.
Inspector Croft had never been friendly with me, never employed me, and had never called me Fiona. To him, I was Miss Mahoney. And only then if he acknowledged my presence at all.
It occurred to me in that moment, that the last time he’d physically held me back from a crime scene had, indeed, been almost two years ago in the doorway of 13 Miller’s Court.
He’d been a newly promoted inspector then, before the tiny shards of silver ever threaded themselves through the perpetually dark stubble on his jaw. I remembered how strong he was, how inflexible. Like a mountain in a morning suit.
“Why don’t you want me here, Inspector Croft?” I demanded, thoroughly studying the rough planes of his face, searching for a lie. “What aren’t you telling me? What are you trying to protect me from?”
“Yourself.” His grip tightened to painful on my arm.
“Why call Aberline to Whitechapel? Unless…”
My gaze swung back to the body of poor Mr. Sawyer. To the pool of blood beneath him. Blood that had long since ceased to disgust me. I devoured every visible detail the wan light allowed. The filthy tin basin of dark wash water perched on a rickety table. A few days’ worth of dirty dishes stacked in a bin. An upturned chair next to a scratched, unused writing desk. And an open, dingy window—
“Wait!” I surged against Inspector Croft’s hold, but it remained as secure as an iron shackle. “Let me go.”
“No,” he ground out. “There’s nothing here for you. No one to pay your bill. Just.Go. Home.”
But we both knew I’d seen what he hoped I wouldn’t. Water in a washbasin shouldn’t be so inky and dark when the dishes hadn’t been cleaned.
The water wasn’t water at all.
And it wasn’t blood, either.
“Was Mr. Sawyer disemboweled?” I demanded loudly, itching to get my hands on his buttoned shirt, vest, and jacket in order to rip them open. Knowing that desire made me a monster. “Are those his innards in that pail?”
Frank Sawyer’s throat had been cut in two neat motions, all the way to the bone.Exactlylike the throats of more than six prostitutes during the Autumn of Terror. If I guessed right, he’d been sliced from pelvis to sternum, his organs removed. Organs that I was certain were piled neatly in the basin. Something I would confirm once I could see in better light.
Croft had called Aberline to Dorset Street because, even though the victim was a man, the wounds were too similar to the Ripper murders to ignore. Croft didn’t want me here because he knew of my obsession. Of the way I spent my sleepless nights, attempting to solve the very murder that’d thwarted the brightest investigative minds of our modern age.
And also his.
Croft had listened to the vow I’d made to my dear friend, Mary Kelly, as I’d scooped ruined bits of her into the very pail I now gripped in my hand. I’d promised that I would avenge her death. That I wouldn’t rest until I uncovered the identity of Jack the Ripper and saw to it that justice was done.
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