Page 18 of A Vocation of Violence
“Perhaps,” I replied, unfurling the delicate fabric between my fingers. “Or perhaps it’s a clever misdirection.” My eyes darted to his, igniting with the thrill of the chase. “Imagine the scandal if it were not. She’s not the only person in attendance I suspect of the murder.”
Croft leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. “Go on,” he prompted, skepticism etched into the hard lines of his face.
“Consider Drumft,” I said, pacing before his desk. The memories of the night swirled within my mind, each player a suspect in their own right. “A foreign dignitary of influence and prestige. She said some awful things about him in front of everyone, and we know how dangerous a humiliated man can be.”
“As a motive, it’s thin,” Croft conceded, tapping his pen against a stack of papers. “Herr Drumft is steeped in and surrounded by scandals of the highest order, and none of it seems to muddy the hem of his cloak. Did you see him leave the ballroom?”
I hadn’t.
“There’s Baron and Baroness Morton.” I stopped pacing, turning to face him fully. “Their marriage—a bastion of society,yet built on foundations of convenience. Vivienne, with her beauty and charm, would have been a threat to any woman, let alone one as cold and calculating as Lady Clarissa Fairchild. Perhaps she and the baron have history. It’s at least worth looking into.”
“True,” he murmured, scribbling notes. “I already planned to check if Miss Bloomfield-Smythe was…socially connected to the baron. But, Fiona, people like these… They rarely commit their own violence. They’re more likely to hire it done.” He stood, relieving himself of his jacket and draping it over the back of his chair.
For some reason I found myself arrested by the color of his arm through the starch white of his shirt. A silhouette of flesh and muscle able to grapple a prizefighter to the ground.
And win.
“We have to consider that C and F are not uncommon initials, and this flower…” Croft picked up the handkerchief and ran a rough thumb over the embossed bloom of pale stitches. “I feel like I’ve seen it somewhere before.”
“Let’s not forget Claudia, her maid,” I blurted, as a thought occurred to me. “Vivienne treated her abominably, and the girl licked at her boots like a kicked puppy. Adoration can fester, detective. It can turn love into something dark and twisted.”
“An obsession turned violent,” Croft mused, nodding grimly. “Wouldn’t have been easy for the slip of a girl to stage a scene like that. Doubt she could lift that sword, let alone wield it.”
True.
I bit my lip while I thought.
“The Hammer is high on the suspect list,” he speculated, sliding a sly glance in my direction. “He operates in secrets and silence. And Vivienne betrayed him, stole from him once upon a time. If anyone has a long enough memory to serve revenge this cold, it’s Jorah David Roth.”
“Yet Jorah wouldn’t leave loose ends,” I pointed out. “He’d ensure no trail led back to him.”
“You’re saying you believe him capable of murder.” Croft crossed his hands over his wide chest, menace rolling from his entire body. “And still you revel in his midnight masquerades.”
IknewJorah to be a killer, though I understood he never considered his actions murder.
I very much doubted Croft appreciated the nuance and wisely held my tongue.
“What about George Tunstall?” I said, my gaze hardening. “You see the way he slithers around Darcy, always lurking in the shadows. There’s more than just dislike for Vivienne there. Jealousy, perhaps? Or something more sinister?”
“Greed is a powerful motive,” Croft agreed, leaning forward, intrigued despite himself. “As manager he gets a percentage, and he only makes money if O’Dowd does. What would Tunstall have to gain by imprisoning his own prizefighter?
“You’re the detective,” I said, locking eyes with him. “Go detect!”
“Only if you go home and wait for my interrogation.”
“I’m here now.” I opened my arms. “Interrogate me.”
“I’ll take your entire statement in my own time, but I am aware that your…opinionsare compromised by depth of feeling for your pugilist.”
“He’s notmyanything,” I spat. “He is—was—my brother Flynn’s best mate and one of the only tethers I’ve left to my home.”
Silence settled between us as the gravity of the situation took hold. I wandered to the window, peering into the murky London street below. The gas lamps threw their feeble light against the encroaching fog, battling back the darkness that sought to claim the city’s soul.
“Be careful, Fiona,” Croft said, a rare note of concern lacing his words. “This is a dangerous game you’re playing.”
“Isn’t it always?” I retorted without looking back, my thoughts already spiraling toward the night ahead. In the gloom of my resolve, I felt the pull of the abyss, the sweet seduction of enigma beckoning me closer.
“You’re going to keep Darcy imprisoned, then?” I asked crisply, turning from the dark.
