Page 22 of A Vocation of Violence
“Problematic?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow. His reluctance piqued my interest; there was more at stake than mere propriety.
“Career suicide,” he admitted, flicking his gaze toward Dr. Phillips, who hummed in agreement. “Digging too deep into royal affairs… Well, one risks being buried by them.”
“Yet if justice demands it, you’ll proceed?” My respect for the detective grew as I watched him wrestle with the decision. It was one thing to chase shadows in back alleys, quite another to drag them from palatial halls.
“Justice,” Croft affirmed, his voice low and resolute as he donned his overcoat and bade us good day with a grim set to his hard mouth.
Once he had departed, leaving a silence punctuated only by the distant echo of his footsteps, Dr. Phillips turned to me, his expression shifting from somber to pragmatic.
“Is the Ripper a specter that hangs over Miss Bloomfield-Smythe, Fiona?” he asked with uncharacteristic intensity. “You’re not likely to attach to such a messy case unless the hunt is afoot.”
I shook my head. “For once, doctor, this is purely personal. Darcy O’Dowd was a dear friend as a child, and I’ve not many connections left to my home. He is one of the happy few, and I can’t rest until I’ve done my best by him.”
He looked as if he were about to pat my hand before remembering what still stained his fingers a deep red.
“I’ve no right to ask you to look after yourself, but I will all the same,” he said without looking up. “The shadows around this woman are deeper than your usual fare, as are the pockets of the players.” His stitching hand paused. “Money makes bodies disappear, Fiona. As you well know.”
“I’ll be careful,” I promised, warming at the concern he wasn’t comfortable expressing.
As I left the morgue, the oppressive air of death clung to me like a second skin. I pondered the suspects—Jorah with his criminal empire, Claudia with her obsessive adoration, the baroness with her cold ambition—and wondered whether justice could truly prevail when power and privilege clouded the truth.
At least I knew someone who could answer so many of the questions burning a hole in my chest.
And he happened to live right next door to me.
Chapter Seven
The air, heavy with the promise of rain, clung to my skin as I approached the grand townhouse on Tite Street. It stood proudly next to mine. The eccentric décor, a cornucopia of flora and fauna motifs, spoke volumes of the man who resided within its walls.
I rapped my knuckles on the ornate door, feeling the familiar trepidation that often accompanied my visits. The man inside was brilliant, but his mind was a labyrinth I could never quite navigate with certainty.
The door swung open, revealing fellow Irishman Oscar Wilde himself, clad in a velveteen smoking jacket that matched the merry twinkle in his eyes.
“Ah, dear Fiona,” he said, greeting me with a flourish. “I find that the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. And so, here you stand at my doorstep. Please, do come in.”
“Thank you, Oscar,” I replied, kissing his offered cheek and stepping into the lavishly furnished parlor, a veritable treasure trove of curiosities and oddities. I marveled at the sheer audacity of his taste, the paradoxical marriage of opulence and whimsy.
“Would you care for some coffee?” he asked, motioning to a porcelain pot perched atop a silver tray. “I’ve only tea made, but I remember your penchant for the devil’s brew.”
“Tea would be just fine,” I said, watching as he poured the steaming liquid into an intricate cup. He handed it to me with a knowing smile, as if privy to some secret I had yet to decipher.
“Please, have a seat.” He gestured toward an elegant settee draped in sumptuous fabrics. I sank into the plush cushions, feeling the weight of my worries ease ever so slightly.
“Oscar, I need your advice,” I began before sipping the tea, feeling its warmth spread through me. “There are certain…matters that have arisen which require a perspective beyond my own.”
“Ah,” he said, leaning back in his armchair and studying me with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. “It is said that ‘to define is to limit,’ but I shall endeavor to assist you nonetheless.”
“Your insight has always been invaluable, Oscar,” I replied gratefully, my thoughts turning to the tangled web of secrets and betrayals that had led me here.
I settled into the plush armchair, feeling the weight of my burdens lighten ever so slightly in the sanctuary of Oscar’s parlor. The array of colors and curiosities surrounding us served as a peculiar contrast to the dark mysteries that plagued me. Oscar was well aware of my profession, though he often considered death a lark rather than a loss.
“Oscar,” I began, my voice hushed and urgent, “I must delve deeper into the lives of a few socialites that move in circles closer to yours than mine. Vivienne Bloomfield-Smythe and Clarissa Fairchild, the Baroness Morton.”
His gray eyes glinted with dark pleasure. “Tell me you weren’t at the Velvet Glove when poor Viv was butchered!”
“You knew Miss Bloomfield-Smythe, then?” I asked, my own heartbeat speeding with a gleeful relief.
“Well, we buy our cocaine from the same people,” he said, flapping his hand over his face as if to dispel a distasteful aroma. “If I’m honest, she sparkled too bright to share a table with me, darling, as we’d blind everyone in the room.”
