Page 90 of A Treacherous Trade
He patted my shoulder, leaving the warm weight of his hand there. “I haven’t seen you in months, my dear. Do you very much mind if I ask after your welfare? It’s none of my business, but I did hear from Croft and Aberline that you’d lost a childhood friend in a fire.”
“I received your flowers.” I took his hand and pressed it between mine. “I’m sorry I was gauche and didn’t send a note of thanks.”
“Pish.” He waved his other hand as if to bat my apology away while squeezing my fingers softly. “I’m just glad to see you interested in the truth once again, though I worry about the cases you’re taking. This death has no sign of the Ripper, and I can see that you’ve recently been hurt. What are you up to?”
I told him about my dramatically short stint at The Orchard and my disastrous acting as a lady of the evening. About Jane and Alys, Amelia and Croft, and even Beatrice. I glossed over the bit about my attack and the Ripper threat, whilst leaving Night Horse and Jorah out the story altogether.
“I worry about the company you keep, though it’s not my place to say so.” He took a sip of the coffee he’d poured us both whilst I spoke, and I stared at the third steaming cup he’d thoughtfully prepared for Croft. We stood at a counter across from his medical implements, and I examined his domain.
Coffee tasted strange in environs such as this. The acid became metallic, like blood, and sometimes the aftertaste lingered with a hint of the chemical odors permeating the morgue. Better that than the cloying aroma of decay whispering around the edges of the more stringent scents.
“You’re lovely to worry,” I said, and meant every word. “The world could use more honorable men like you.”
“We both know my honor has a price, and we split the profits, you and I.”
I stared into my mug. “That’s different.”
“Is it? Honor is not always an advantage. Look at Croft, for example. For him, it is a liability.”
“What do you mean?” I set my cup down abruptly on the desk over which we stood.
“He cannot live in the shades of grey that we do, and his stout heart would shrivel at certain truths.” Phillips was staring at me with piercing eyes full of meaning.
A meaning I caught like a lance to the chest.
He was speaking of our business together, of my dealings with the Hammer and the Blade. Of the bodies I brought to him, the demise of which he never questioned.
It didn’t matter if Croft desired me, as Jorah had claimed, as the heat of his own gaze sometimes suggested. Somewhere inside I knew I could kiss the ire from Grayson Croft’s hard mouth. That I could melt his muscle with curious fingers.
But if he knew me, if he ever trulyknewme… he’d likely see me hanged.
I had too many secrets—too many sins—for a man like Croft.
“Honor never did anyone I loved much good,” I said bitterly, thinking of my brutalized father, of my murdered brothers, of the war that tore my family apart.
I swallowed all of that, slamming the door to the vault in which I kept my family.
“Your and my dealings together is not the only truth that would put a wall between Inspector Croft and me,” I said. “His honor would be damaged by so much more than that.” I was thinking, of course, of Katherine Riley and what she’d done to his nephew. It was a sword hanging over our heads. A blade I never wanted to slice him with, though it cut me every moment I kept it from him.
“Truth is a funny thing.” Phillip’s tone changed from somber to sprightly. “It’s often difficult to pin down.”
I wrinkled my nose at him. “I’ve always thought truth exists, whether we believe it or not, whether we’ve found it or not. And it’s the one constant in the whole world.”
“Debatable.” The doctor tilted his head from side to side, as if weighing the options. “Does truth exist in the world or in the mind? Is it a constant or can it be bent to perception? Science softens these questions, and I find that consistently calming. But there are few truths I could claim are constant.”
A headache bloomed behind my eyes, and I watched the door for Croft’s expected return. I was unable to keep up with Phillips today.
“Did you find anything out about Alys Hywell?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I found something interesting in Bond’s farce of a report.” Phillips opened almost every desk drawer to find the document in question.
Dr. Bond, a noted behavioral expert and neuroscientist, and Dr. Phillips were forever at odds, and I found their bickering adorable.
Finally consulting his notes, he said, “Alys Hywell was a distinct color of blue, especially around the eyes and lips, which is to be expected of a body drowned in the Thames in January. However, there was a blue powder on Jane Sheffield’s lips as I wiped the blood from her face. A cosmetic of some kind, oil-based, I gather. And another woman, as well, was found with the same unction on her face some time ago in Knightsbridge. Heavily made up, her lips tinted a bit blue around the edges… I forget her name, though I’ve sent for the records.”
That had to be something. “What do you make of it?”
“I’m not sure.” He tapped his chin. “Reminds me of a theater production I saw once, where women turned to banshees and other such vengeful spirits and killed the Romans. These women were ladies of the evening all. Perhaps actresses as well? It almost seems to me… Well, no, surely I’m being ridiculous.”
