Page 9 of The Business of Blood
“Yes, Inspector Croft. Why summon me to this cursed street at this ungodly hour?”
Chief Inspector Frederick George Aberline appeared in the doorway, a weary crusader in a checkered suit and a billycock hat. Gleaming from his vest dangled a watch chain the Prince of Wales would lust after. It wasn’t that the inspector was a particularly fashionable fellow, just an abidingly punctual one.
Whitechapel used to be his kingdom, as he’d been the local inspector in charge of H Division’s Criminal Investigations Division.
Blunt features adorned with silver muttonchops and kind eyes provided a façade for a mind as precise and ruthless as the spinning cogs of Big Ben. Which explained why, two years ago, Aberline had been drafted to lead the inquest into the Ripper murders.
I always assumed that his acquaintance with the peculiar singularities of the Whitechapel district had something to do with his enlistment to the case.
Inspector Croft opened his mouth to debrief Aberline, but the chief inspector interrupted him.
“Why, Miss Mahoney. It’s been too long since I’ve clapped these old eyes on such a beauty that in’nt my Emma.”
He was being kind, of course, but I blushed anyway. Frederick Aberline loved his wife to distraction, but it didn’t stop him from being a harmless flirt once in a while.
We spinsters lived upon the praise of harmless flirts.
He ducked past Croft with a friendly chuck on the arm and surveyed the scene with his characteristic shrewdness.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Inspector,” I said, though I didn’t extend my hand to his on account of the utensil I still gripped, and the blood and whatnot on my fingers.
“I wish it was somewhere but Dorset Street.” He echoed the sentiment heartily shared by everyone in the room.
“May I introduce an…old friend?” I hurried to keep the conversation from following the dark path to Miller’s Court. “Chief Inspector Frederick Aberline, this is Father Aidan Fitzpatrick of St. Michael’s off Leman Street. The victim and his wife are part of his congregation.”
“St. Michael, the patron saint of soldiers,” Aberline recalled aloud as the two shared a congenial handshake.
“Indeed, Inspector,” Aidan said with a solemn nod.
“You’ve the look of a soldier, lad. Where’d you serve? South Africa? The Boer War?”
If his deduction surprised Aidan, he didn’t show it. “Different army, I’m afraid,” he admitted a little sheepishly. “I spent most of my youth as part of theSinn Fein,fighting for an independent Ireland.”
Aberline made an uncomfortable noise. “Terrible business, that.”
I chanced a peek at Aidan’s carefully impassive features, noting his pallor and the gathering of mist on his upper lip. Not for the first time, Iburnedto know what had happened to him during his short stint in the Irish Republican Army.
I was sure it was the reason he hadn’t married me, though he’d never said as much.
“And a dreadful business, this.” Aberline gestured to Mr. Sawyer, correctly deducing that he’d found Aidan at the shores of a mire he had no great need to forge. Instead, he toed to the edge of the spreading pool of blood that coagulation had begun to contain.
I sent Hao Long a morose look, and he nodded conspiratorially. Time was, indeed, of the essence, as the floor planks were old, porous, and feebly kept. Which meant, the longer the blood had to cling to the wood, the worse it would stain.
“I see now why I was summoned,” Aberline muttered, a remembered darkness feathering across the lines of his face before it disappeared beneath a mask of nonchalance every inspector must practice at length. He crouched down on his haunches to get a better look, rather too certain of his balance if you asked me, as an upset in stability would plunk him right into the gruesome lake. “I’ve not seen a throat done like this since our old nemesis, eh, Croft? And am I to assume that’s not laundry in that basin over there?”
Croft removed his hat, though I was sure it was only done to lend weight to the dark glare he directed at me rather than in any deference to decorum. “I’ll clear the room and brief you on the particulars. Then I’d like to request that you accompany me to the morgue.”
“I’ll stay, if it’s all the same to you.” I quickly directed this to Aberline as he’d proven himself my ally more than once.
The regret in his eyes sent my hopes plummeting before he delivered his gentle rejection. “I’m sorry, Miss Mahoney, but it’s against procedure, and this scene is already muddled enough. Once the body is cleared away, we’ll invite you back to work your magic on the place. It’s a good thing you do for these families visited by such horrors. I’m sure Mrs. Sawyer is grateful to employ you.”
At this, confusion drew my brows together. “I was hoping you’d sent for me, Inspector.”
“To Dorset Street?” He gasped as though I’d done him a personal affront. “I’d never! Not to within a stone’s throw of where poor Miss Kelly—” He broke off, perceptibly reddening. “And to a scene like this? What must you think of me?”
“It’s become a bit of a mystery justwhosent for Miss Mahoney.” Croft stood over Aberline, crossing his arms over his chest in a sardonic gesture. “The affair of the unpaid invoice.”
I balled my fists and pursed my lips, fighting the spurt of Irish temper heating my blood.
