Page 11 of A Treacherous Trade
“You’re on dangerous ground, woman!” he roared.
I rushed around to stand between Beatrice and him, blocking his view of her with my body, hoping to disarm him a bit. “Inspector Aberline never mentions a protocol when I’m assisting him.” I put a finger to my mouth, tracing the ridge of my lower lip—the one that might have been described as “pouty” a time or two. “But then, I suppose he’s at Scotland Yard’s main branch now, and likely has the sort of influence and seniority that can make such calls—”
“Well, if it’s good enough for Aberline.” He offered me his arm. “I’ll supervise the scene, of course.”
“Of course.” I tucked my arm in his, casting a commiserative glance over my shoulder at the two women, who wore wide-eyed expressions of surprise and admiration as the irritating inspector conducted meexactlywhere I wanted to go.
We climbed two flights of back stairs and emerged on the second-floor balcony.
“Prepare yourself, Miss Mahoney. It’s not for the faint of heart.”
“Thank you for the warning,” I demurred, more for his benefit than mine. For indeed, Amelia had spoken true when she intimated that once I’d been inducted into my business by the macabre, hellish chaos that was Mary Kelly’s murder scene, very little caused my heart—or any part of me—to feel faint.
It wasn’t that I was cold to suffering and murder, but it wasn’t the sight of the dead that I found most difficult.
It was the pain of those left behind.
The vision of Jane Sheffield, however, was alternately better and worse than I’d expected. Worse, I thought, because of the rather macabre beauty of the tableau before me.
Her chamber was done to look celestial; the presence of death seemed almost like a prologue to some sort of spiritual ecstasy. The darkest color surrounding us was the cream damask pattern against the white walls, or the silver of the candlesticks. All else was ivory, iridescent pearl, and white, from the fluttering bed curtains to the pallor of the corpse positioned oddly on the floor.
This was not an atmosphere rendered at all sensual, in my opinion.
And then I remembered what Beatrice had said when I was naught more than a possible employee.
Jane could have passed for a girl in her teens, and judging from the white-pressed, shapeless gown and the suggested purity of the room… I suddenly wanted to shrink from the fantasy being portrayed within.
Youth—girlhood, even.
Innocence. Virginity.
Something to be corrupted.
“Poor lamb,” I whispered, meaning the sentiment with my whole self.
“That bit—er, bawdwouldspread lies about me,” the inspector griped, apropos of nothing. “I dinn’t never buy one of these whores like she said… whilst on duty. Never would. Never did.”
I made an appropriate noise, too absorbed by the scene before me to much care about his sexual proclivities at the moment.
Or ever.
I did note the wording of the denial, in that it wasn’t one. Not really.Whilst on dutywas quite the modifier to his claim.
“A right eerie sight, i’n’it? I’ll see that face for weeks in me nightmares.” Davies drew abreast of me, peering down at the body with rank distaste. “I hope you are not likewise troubled, Miss Mahoney, and too many hours of sleep stolen by horror.”
“I shan’t be,” I murmured. My nightmares only contained one demon…
One victim.
They didn’t leave room for Jane, though I understood why the rat-faced inspector might be thus afflicted.
It wasn’t the amount of blood from the corpse I found troubling, as I’d scoured up at least a lake’s worth of the stuff by now…
It was the way the substance had left Jane Sheffield’s body.
Prostitutes were often found murdered in some sort of terribly sexual fashion, I’d found. They were frequently the embodiment of what society hated about a woman with additional sins piled on her shoulders. The Ripper wasn’t the only killer of whores who invariably left his victim’s legs open. Who tore their clothes away, stripping them of their dignity—their humanity—in the process.
There were usually egregious, violent wounds. Penetration of some terrible sort with a weapon.
