Page 19 of A Vocation of Violence
“For now,” was his cryptic reply.
“Then you can’t stop me from doing whatever it takes to procure his release,” I said over my shoulder as I snatched the handkerchief from him and flounced away.
I’d put half of Scotland Yard’s night shift in between the two of us before he sprang from his desk and made it out of his office to bellow after me.
I ignored him, of course.
The heavy door of Scotland Yard clanged shut behind me, a reverberating echo of solitude as I descended the stone steps. The air was thick with fog, a shroud that veiled the city in mystery and malice. My boots clicked against the cobblestones in steady rhythm, an undercurrent to the tumultuous thoughts storming within my mind.
A handkerchief, a flower—an emblem of nobility and secrecy entwined. The tiniest of threads could unravel the most intricate of tapestries.
And I had very little time to do so before Croft caught me up and demanded the handkerchief back for evidence.
I halted beneath the archway of an alley, the scent of rain on stone filling my senses, mingling with the faint odor of decay that seemed ever-present in this city of contrasts. My mind was a whorl of thoughts, each vying for dominance, yet all centered around one immutable fact:
I seem to be forever fated to chase murderers through the dark streets of London.
Chapter Six
The metallic tang of death hung thick in the air of the West End morgue, mingling with the stench of formaldehyde and decay.
It was a place of deathly science: walls lined with ceramic tiles, gleaming under the flickering gaslights, stark and white like the bleached bones of some leviathan beast. In the center lay the slab, a somber altar on which rested the mortal remains of Vivienne Bloomfield-Smythe, her flesh pale and exposed, dissected by the precise hands of Dr. Phillips. My heart clenched at the sight of her pale flesh marred by the Y-shaped incision that opened her torso.
“Ah, Miss Mahoney,” came the voice of the doctor, his tone carrying the weight of knowledge and the sterility of his profession. “You’ve appeared as if I conjured you by thinking.” Dr. Phillips stood hunched over the body, his wisps of white hair escaping the loose confines of his spectacles, a silhouette every bit the mad scientist from penny dreadfuls, save for the compassion I knew beat within his steady heart. “Tell me, my dear, have you come to peddle wares?”
The question rang ridiculous from a coroner plying his trade, but Dr. Phillips and I had a business relationship firstand foremost. In the Venn diagram of our work, the overlap was sometimes unclaimed dead bodies. Medical colleges, hospitals, scientific researchers, and some private ventures paid unthinkable sums for a well-preserved corpse.
Dr. Phillips participated in the trade for the sake of science.
I participated for the sake of necessity.
“Actually, doctor, I’ve come to ask after Miss Bloomfield-Smythe.” I traced the jagged line of stitches along Vivienne’s abdomen with my gaze, unable to look away.
What secrets had her death revealed?
He directed a frown at me. “I did not assume you were acquaintances, Miss Mahoney, as I gather this…woman was a creature of thedemimondeand prone to nefarious behavior.”
“I admit I’m more acquainted with death than I was with Vivienne,” I mused aloud, my thoughts drifting like mist. “But I was one of the last people to see her alive, and…she was kind to me.”
If not to everyone else.
“Quite,” he murmured, a small grunt accompanying his agreement as he peered closer at something within Vivienne’s chest cavity.
I approached the slab, my gaze drawn inexorably to the still figure. Her nakedness did not perturb me; it was the final truth laid bare, every secret etched upon her skin now a silent testament to her last moments. There was an artistry to the incisions, the neat flaps of skin pulled back to reveal the mysteries beneath. Most people would turn away, nauseated or horrified, but I found a strange solace in the clear-cut lines of reality.
“Any revelations yet?” I inquired, curious despite myself.
“Patience, Fiona,” Dr. Phillips chided without malice. “One mustn’t rush science. But there are peculiarities. Look here.” He gestured with a bloodied finger, beckoning me closer.
Leaning in, I observed where his finger pointed—a bruise beneath the skin, hidden from a cursory glance. “What caused that?” My voice was a whisper, reverence for the departed mingling with the thrill of the hunt.
“Pressure,” he stated. “A grip of some kind, perhaps. We’ll know more soon.”
“Vivienne had many secrets,” I said, half to myself. “Would that she could tell us which one killed her.”
“Secrets don’t die, Miss Mahoney,” Dr. Phillips replied, straightening to look at me with those piercing, analytical eyes. “They merely wait to be unearthed.”
“Have you unearthed any of hers?”
