Page 15 of A Vocation of Violence
“Croft, no!” The plea ripped from my chest before I could stop it. “You can’t think Darcy did this! It’s too soon to know any such thing.”
But the detective’s gaze was implacable, the judgment already cast in the grim set of his mouth. “You just told me they ran after her, then disappeared until her body was found.”
“Yes, but I thought they might be victims!” I cried, putting my hand against Darcy’s chest as if that could stop Croft from leading him away.
The big fighter’s eyes flowed with moisture as he wept, openly, threatening to tear a hole in my heart.
Croft sidestepped my plea and shoved Darcy at an awaiting officer. “Lock him up,” he said, his voice betraying no hint of the turmoil that must surely rage beneath. “And don’t let the manager out of your sight.”
“Stop! Let me see her! What happened to her? I did not do this! Vivienne!” As Darcy was dragged from the room, hiseyes met mine—full of pain, betrayal, and a desperate plea for understanding. In that look, there was a story untold, a mystery wrapped in grief and fury. I knew then that the truth of this night was far from simple. But something deep in my soul whispered that truth lived inside of Darcy O’Dowd. “Fiona! You have to believe me!”
“Wait!” I cried out, desperation lending urgency to my voice. “You cannot arrest him without proper evidence.”
“The note I received indicated that Mr. O’Dowd had committed the crime,” Croft informed me, his tone clipped and cold as he swiped at his swelling lip with a pristine handkerchief, leaving a smear of crimson.
“Grayson.” My voice was a hushed entreaty, threading through the thick tension in the room as I silently willed him to remember that we’d worked closely in the past. That I’d saved his sister from death, and that might buy me a little of his hard-won grace. “I know he hit you, but he is mad with grief. Darcy is not capable of this. I’ve known him almost my entire life, since he was a boy, and?—”
“Capability is a fickle friend to innocence, Fiona,” he interjected, his accent thickening with emotion, “and childhood connections often wither under the harsh truths of adulthood.”
His words stung, a reminder of the gulf of years that lay between the boy I knew and the man accused. I stepped closer, the gown’s emerald silk whispering against the stone floor, a stark contrast to the grim scene.
Why wouldn’t he look at me for more than a glance?
“Nobody witnessed him do harm to her, Croft. Not one soul.”
“Yet it is what lies unseen that often holds the key to justice.” He handed me a crumpled note, the paper’s edges smeared with ink. “This missive claims otherwise.”
I unfolded it with trembling hands, the script dancing before my eyes—a chilling accusation pointing to Darcy. “But anyone could have penned this deceit.”
“Could be deception,” Croft conceded. “Could be a terrified witness. Nevertheless, I must follow where evidence leads. And it has led me here, to him.”
“Then let it lead you further,” I implored, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm. “Do not tether an innocent man to a crime he may not have committed.”
“I will find the truth, Miss Mahoney, and mete out justice. In due time, I shall come to interrogate you as well. Stay close to home and expect my call.”
The chill of the chamber seemed to seep into my very marrow as I watched Grayson Croft’s broad, stalwart form, his back to me, the lines of his coat taut with restrained fury. His gaze lingered on where Darcy had been led away—a man now shackled and broken—before he turned his attention back to the bloody tableau before us.
“I’ll be finished searching the scene for clues directly, Miss Mahoney. The coroner will let you know when you can begin.”
I’d been summarily dismissed.
The scent of blood mingled with the faint traces of tobacco and rainwater as I turned on my heel and glided away from the grisly scene.
And with the weight of the night heavy upon me, I knew there would be no rest until the truth, however dark, was dragged into the merciless light of day.
Upon my returnfrom changing back into my everyday gray frock, I found that the coroner’s men had come to take the body.With their grim faces and methodical indifference, they wrapped the remains of Vivienne in a white shroud that seemed too pure for the scene it veiled.
Vivienne’s young maid, Claudia, her figure bent as if to mirror the curvature of her grief, wept beside the alcove. Her small hands clutched at the empty air where her mistress had once been.
I approached carefully, Hao Long several silent steps behind me with the implements to ply our gruesome trade. “Are you—” I cleared awkwardness out of my throat. “Is there someone that can be contacted to collect you?” I asked as kindly as I could.
“Miss Bloomfield-Smythe was everything,” Claudia murmured through tears that painted glistening trails down her cheeks. “She was all I had.”
“Don’t fret—Claudia, was it?” Jorah’s voice was softer than I’d ever heard it, though it did little to mask the steel within. He placed a hand upon her quivering shoulder, an anchor in the tide of her sorrow. “You’ll stay under my roof tonight, Claudia. We’ll find a place for you and sort it all out in the light of day.”
I should have been as comforted as Claudia seemed to be, but I knew Jorah’s place for women was sometimes as a prostitute in one of his houses.
He turned to me then, his brow furrowed in consternation. “Unlike you, I’ve been summonedimmediatelyto Scotland Yard. Though I’m no stranger to their inquiries, I’ll not walk into that den without my solicitor.”
