Page 91 of The Business of Blood
“She lives with me. I take care of her…because of what she did to take care of me for so long.”
I absurdly wondered if Amelia Croft’s eyes were as green as her brother’s. Then I realized this must have been Croft’s reason for joining the Metropolitan Police. Not only because he could carve out a better living than down in the tube tunnels swinging a pickaxe or a hammer. Not only because he was the right height and build, but also because theirs was now a respectable life.
Come to think of it, an enterprising man could climb quite high on the social and political ladders within Scotland Yard. It was one of the only ways a man without noble blood could gain a voice in the system.
One of the onlyhonestways, rather.
“I hope you find your nephew,” I told him earnestly. “I know what it’s like to be without family.”
That seemed to spark an idea behind his eyes. “What did the Ripper mean about your father?” True to his blunt disposition, Croft took aim at the most painful and mystifying words contained in either of the Ripper’s epistles.
“I couldn’t begin to imagine,” I answered honestly.
“Were there any brutal murders of prostitutes back in Dublin or Limerick?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Perhaps your father investigated something. Or perhaps he…”
I stared at him with hard, bleary eyes, daring him to finish that thought. “I don’t know. My father was agoodman,” I said from between clenched teeth. “He was both an altruist and an activist. One of those made him beloved and respected by all who knew him, the other got my entire family killed. He wasnot, however, a murderer.”
It was impossible to read Croft’s reaction to what I’d said, but his voice was low and soft when he asked, “How did they die?”
“Never you mind how,” I spat. “It has nothing to do with this.” I wasnotripping open that wound. Not tonight. And not for him.
“Fiona, eventually, you’re going to have to—”
“Oh, look, we’ve made it home.” I sprang for the carriage door and half-stepped, half-stumbled down to the walk. “Goodnight, Inspector.”
What I wanted to say was, “Go to Hell, Inspector.”
I might have fallen and humiliated myself had dear Oscar not unintentionally caught me.
“Here’s trouble.” He laughed as he caught my hand, wrapped his other arm around me, and swung me around in a perfect waltz. “We must stop meeting like this.”
“Oscar.” I squirmed in his grasp, acutely aware that Croft had emerged from the carriage and was glaring at us with tight-jawed disapproval. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“You’re a fleet-footed Irish woman, Fiona, dance like one!” He kept perfect rhythm despite my protestations, I’d give him that.
“You’re drunk,” I accused, finally managing to twirl out of his grasp, astonished that his breath, alone, hadn’t inebriated me.
“You’re sober,” he slurred with equal dismay. He reached out to stabilize himself on the closest, sturdiest object he could find.
Which happened to be Grayson Croft.
“Well, hello.” Oscar’s warm smile intensified from coquettish to brilliant. “Who is this brute in a suit?”
“Inspector, this is my neighbor, Oscar Wilde. Oscar, meetInspectorGrayson Croft. Now, please let him go.”
Croft offered neither pleasantry nor presage. He stared at me, silently ordering me to make this interloper disappear so we could finish our discussion.
“Who died?” Oscar pressed a hand to the chest of his dinner jacket and glanced to me for verification. “Not Aunt Nola.”
“Not Aunt Nola,” I verified. But a great many others…
Relieved, he adjusted his white bowtie with equally pristine gloves. “Then why so grim, the both of you?” He glanced between us, still yet to release Croft’s shoulder. “I’d beg your pardon for interrupting a lover’s spat but…” He leaned in close to stage-whisper into Croft’s ear. “We both know our dear Fiona hath taken no lovers.”
“Oscar!” I gasped, relieved to note our walkway was deserted at this hour.
