Page 8 of The Business of Blood
“Sorry, Fi.” Aidan shrugged in that disarming way of his. “Besides,”—he wrinkled his nose at the scent of death— “I’d just as soon not join you in there.”
Croft grunted his approval and whirled on me, thunder gathering above the Irish moss in his eyes. “Now, areyouleaving, or do I have to physically escort you out?”
Throwme out, he meant.
Aidan’s voice remained agreeable as he asked, “Are your hands clean, Fiona?”
I didn’t miss the tic in Croft’s temple every time Aidan said my Christian name.
The question surprised me so much, I studied my hands for an instant too long, wondering if he’d meant the query about blood in the existential sense, or the literal.
Some of the blood from the fork had made it onto my fingers, so I looked back up at him and shook my head in the negative.
My hands were unclean. I was glad he didn’t know just how soiled they were in the eyes of his Lord.
“Mrs. Sawyer is requesting her shawl, a frock, and a few…delicates, as she’s surrendering her garments for evidence,” Aidan said. “Do you mind very much if I fetch them for her, Inspector Croft? Or would you rather do it?”
Croft set his jaw and looked at the ceiling. I imagined him silently asking the Almighty why he’d been cursed with the two most aggravating Catholics in London on top of such a nightmarish murder scene. I also imagined that he’d rather do anything but paw through a woman’s unmentionables with her murdered husband still hanging from the rafters, and their priest looking on, besides.
“Be quick about it,” Croft ordered gruffly, moving to the side just enough to allow Aidan room to shoulder through.
Once he’d gained access to the scene, Aidan gave me a victorious smile and a cheeky wink, reminding me of the days when we’d been each other’s closest confidants and conspirators.
I turned away so Croft couldn’t see my secret smile.
So Aidan couldn’t see my secret pain.
“Fiona, would you show me what a crinoline is?” Aidan requested. “Mrs. Sawyer is very adamant that she cannot be considered modestly dressed without it.”
“Certainly,” I agreed, ignoring the irate sound Croft made as I drifted over to where Aidan stood in front of the wretched wardrobe.
He swung it open, supporting the door once it became readily apparent that only one of the hinges was capable of carrying out its vocation.
“What was your question?” Aidan grabbed the crinoline without instruction, sliding me an expectant glance.
This is why I love—lovedhim. Past tense. He would still bend the rules for me.
“Mr. Sawyer was disemboweled,” I whispered. “All of his organs are in that basin over there.”
He cast the basin a dismayed look. “It doesn’t smell like it.”
“Exactly,” I said, fighting to keep the enthusiasm out of my voice. “The intestines weren’t perforated one little bit. If they were, it’d smell like a shithouse in here.”
“Language, Fiona,” Aidan scowled.
I ignored him. “What do you make of that?”
It was common knowledge in Whitechapel that before Aidan had become a priest, he’d been the top medical student at Trinity College, only months away from becoming a doctor. He often nursed the sick as he ministered to them.
They didn’t know he’d been months away from becoming my husband.
“Cutting a man’s organs out so neatly is no easy feat,” he said, interrupting the dangerous direction of my thoughts. “You’d need knowledge of just where and how to dissect the dermis to avoid organ damage and remove everything.”
We looked at the body, the dark suit covering an empty cavity, and then back at each other. Our eyes widened in tandem as Aidan confirmed that he shared my suspicions. “You don’t think this was done by…”
“This man isnota victim of Jack the Ripper,” Croft snarled from behind us. “Now, get what you need and getout.”
I faced him, shoulders squared, and guilt concealed firmly behind bravado. “Then why send for Aberline?” I challenged.
