Page 17 of A Vocation of Violence
“Fi,” Darcy began, his voice a warming balm against the coldness of the room. He was a towering figure even within the confines of his cage, his broad shoulders casting shadows in the flickering gaslight. “You came to see me in the wee hours. Does that mean you believe me innocent?”
“I find it impossible to believe that you’d have hurt Vivienne,” I answered, as close to the truth as I could get.
Darcy’s eyes—a deep, Baltic blue—lit up with a mingling of hope and gratitude. His large, calloused hands reached through the bars for my own. “Georgie here was just saying how you’ve unraveled mysteries before. That you’ve been in the papers. Is that true?”
“Mr. Tunstall exaggerates my skills,” I remarked dryly. I didn’t miss the way Tunstall’s jaw tightened at the mention of his name or the dark glint in his eye when he looked at Darcy.
Darcy’s face was just as I remembered it. Open. Simple. Earnest. “Do you… I can’t even in good conscience ask…but I’ve precious few allies in this fetid city. Can you help me clear me name? I’ll pay you, whatever your fee.”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I clean up after murder scenes and…sometimes I find something that pulls me into the investigation.” I pressed the handkerchief through the cold iron. It unfurled like a white flag of truce between us. “This might help keep your chin up, though. I found it snagged on the knight’s suit of armor.”
The handkerchief fluttered in my hand like a specter, its lace edges gently frayed from wear and worry. The baroness’s monogram, a delicateC.F.embroidered in silver thread, shimmered in the dim light of Darcy’s cell.
“Fi,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion, “this could be it—the very thing to clear me.”
I felt the pulse of his hope, the thrumming life beneath his skin. It was infectious, this belief that one piece of cloth might unravel the web of lies entangling him. My own heart quickened at the prospect, the dormant fire within me kindled anew by the righteousness of our cause.
“Then we must ensure it finds its way into the right hands,” I said resolutely, my resolve hardening like the cobblestones beneath the city’s grimy veneer.
“Thank you, Fiona.” Darcy’s gaze held mine, an ocean of gratitude and history swirling in his eyes. “For believing in me, for everything…”
“Stop your thanks until we’ve won your freedom,” I chided, though my chest swelled with the weight of our shared past. Flynn’s laughter echoed in the hollows of my memory, Darcyby his side, always the champions of my youthful escapades. Flynn’s absence was a gaping wound, but in Darcy’s presence, the edges seemed less ragged.
“Remember the moors, Fi?” Darcy’s question pulled me back into the now, the sharp tang of peat and heather filling my senses. “We were invincible there.”
“Invincible,” I echoed, the word bitter on my tongue. We had been children, untouched by death. But then the world had shown us its true face, painted in the blood of those we loved.
A pall of silence draped around us as the clank of iron heralded an arrival. Steps echoed through the dank corridor, deliberate and heavy, like the gavel of fate itself.
“O’Dowd,” Croft’s baritone rumbled, surprise coloring his tone as his gaze landed not on some faceless visitor, but on me. “I didn’t expect to find Miss Mahoney in your company.”
“Nor did I,” I murmured, a chill skittering down my spine. The notion that he might have overheard our exchange—overheard talk of my family—coiled in my stomach like a serpent. I held his gaze, challenging, defiant. “Have you been listening at keyholes again, detective?”
“Merely cautious,” he replied, the corners of his mouth twitching with something akin to amusement—or was it disdain? “I was told O’Dowd had a comely female visitor. I thought it warranted investigation. Little did I know you’d be here sharing secrets.”
“Secrets,” I scoffed softly, letting the word linger between us, thick with implication. My family’s end was no secret, yet it was a tale I preferred to keep cloistered within my own heart, away from English lips that could twist it into justification for their savagery.
“You’ve made your discovery,” I said, steeling myself against the memories that threatened to break free. “Now, if you’ll excuse us?—”
“Actually, I won’t,” Croft cut in, stepping closer. His shadow loomed over us, a specter of authority. “I’ve been quite clear, Fiona. You are not to involve yourself in this investigation.”
“Clear as the Thames,” I quipped, flapping the handkerchief beneath his nose—the delicate fabric now a player in our grim theater. “I found this at the murder scene beneath the knight’s feet. Look at what is embroidered here—C.F.—could stand for Clarissa Fairchild, don’t you think? Surely that’s a clue pointing in a direction other than Darcy’s.”
Tunstall shifted beside me, his muscles tensing, his eyes darting to the handkerchief with a flicker of…what? Recognition? Fear? It unsettled me, the way he seemed to shrink before the monogrammed cloth as if it were a harbinger of doom rather than a mere piece of linen.
“Put that away,” he said, a touch too vehement before he caught himself. “Women drop their handkerchiefs about everywhere. That’s hardly a clue.”
“Do they?” My voice was calm, belying the turmoil within. The initials whispered of connections unseen, a web of intrigue that ensnared us all. “One would think you’d be happy for anything that might point the finger away from your client, Mr. Tunstall.”
“Enough,” Croft intervened. “This is police evidence, not a parlor game, and you, Miss Mahoney, are coming with me.”
His grip was firm yet not unkind as he grasped my elbow and steered me from the gloom of Darcy’s cell through the labyrinth of Scotland Yard. The staircases seemed endless, spiraling upward like the coiled entrails of the building itself, each step echoing with our ascent. I could feel the eyes of constables and inspectors upon us, their whispers trailing along the stone walls, as elusive as the hint of mist that clung to my woolen coat.
“Up here,” Croft said tersely as we reached his domain, a spartan room where justice was administered with an iron pen.His desk stood like an altar amid the stifling silence, papers strewn across its surface like offerings to some bureaucratic deity.
The scent of ink and aged paper pervaded the floor, a stark contrast to the musty decay of the cells below. The lamplight flickered as a draft whispered through the poorly sealed windows, casting elongated shadows across his furrowed brow. He regarded me with an intensity that would have made a weaker woman quail.
“Miss Mahoney,” Croft began, his voice low, “you said you believe this handkerchief belongs to the baroness?”
