Page 5 of A Treacherous Trade
And I’d made a blood vow to Mary Kelly that I’d find Jack the Ripper and give her justice.
“It’s not him.” Croft’s hard voice landed like an ax between my shoulder blades.
A crease brought Amelia’s dark brows together in confusion. “Him? Oh yes, Gray told me you were something of a Ripper aficionado.” A light went on behind the idea. “What if itisthe Ripper? Gray can’t confirm or deny; he hasn’t seen the body.”
“I know it is not. Trust me.”
He’d said that before. And he’d been right.
But I couldn’t believe it until I saw for myself.
If a prostitute was killed in Whitechapel, then Jack the Ripper would certainly take notice, if only to be displeased with another impersonator, perhaps. Which meant he might be lurking close.
Close enough to catch, if I were clever enough.
If I could remain the cat rather than the mouse.
“How can you know it isn’t him if you won’t go to the crime scene?” Amelia snapped at Croft, igniting an argument they’d obviously had before.
Croft ignored the question. “Who is the detective inspector on Jane’s case?”
“Orson Davies—do you know him?”
“There are a hundred inspectors in the city, Amelia. I can’t know them all.”
“Then why are you being so stubborn in your refusal to at least take a look?” she asked. “It’s not like you’ll be upsetting a friend and colleague.”
“Because it’s not my division—I’ve told you this. I could be heartily reprimanded.”
I snorted. “You mean to tell me the indefatigable Grayson Croft, the man who will leap in front of bullets and run into burning buildings, is felled by the threat of a mere reprimand? Your superiors must be terrifying, indeed.”
Croft stomped to the stove and fiddled with a loose burner, stoking the flames beneath it as if overtaken by the urge to stab something. “Ifthis were a Ripper murder—which it bloody isn’t—Frederick Aberline would have been called down from Scotland Yard. The Ripper would have claimed it by now. He’d have made certain the press was notified and his ego was stoked by the furor of it all. Furthermore, neither of you would be going to the scene. I’d not allow it.”
If it was the Ripper, I’d be safe at the scene. I’d be safe from him anywhere. Because the Ripper had killedforme.
He’d done it quietly. He’d cleaned up after.
And no one had leaked it to the press.
I’d—almost accidentally—caught the Ripper’s copycat last year, snagging his attention and… possibly his admiration.
Neither of which I wanted.
However, if the Ripper watched me, I might catch sight of him as well. It was the only thought that kept me going some days.
“I’d like to see you try to stop either of us from attending to Jane.” Amelia drew abreast of me, linking our elbows in feminine solidarity. “Besides, I don’t know why you assume you have an opinion in the matter. Fiona will come without you having a say. Now get out of my kitchen.”
Croft set his hard jaw into an obstinate expression that peeled a good twenty years from his face. “Gladly,” he spat, before turning to slam out the same door we’d entered and clomp back to his lair.
One might almost call it a retreat.
I stared at Amelia in open-mouthed shock, as if she’d performed a miracle.
“What?” She lifted a glove to her face, as if checking the corner of her mouth or her cheekbones for a smudge or imperfection that would cause me to stare.
“It’s only that… I’ve never seen another soul speak like that to him.”And live,I added silently.
Amelia tossed her head back and made an almost equine noise of mirth. “I maintain that if I washed his sheets when he wet the bed at five years old, then I can talk to him however I like.”
