Page 52 of A Vocation of Violence
As Lena’s mortal remains were carefully hoisted upon the gurney, a glint among the sawdust and spilt rouge caught my eye—a tiny beacon in the abyssal dark. I knelt, brushing my fingers against the cold, metallic surface of a gold charm. An oak leaf, delicate and solitary, lay in stark contrast to the bloodstained wood beneath it.
“Doctor, look here,” I called out, gingerly lifting the object from its resting place.
“Curious,” Dr. Phillips said, leaning closer. His brow furrowed as he inspected the charm. “An adornment, perhaps, for a high collar. But whether it graced a man or woman, that remains uncertain.”
“Who is the detective on this case?” I asked.
“Why, it’s Croft, of course. His second since he was nicked from Whitechapel to work at the main office of Scotland Yard. Our boy is doing well, wouldn’t you say? Though he seemed to have scampered away since I called for you.”
At the mention of Croft, my heart fell into my stomach and the world tilted a little.
Would that it was anyone but him.
At least he hadn’t mentioned to Dr. Phillips the reason for his temper at me.
“It could be nothing but a piece of costume frippery,” I suggested, frustration lacing my words. The golden leaf seemed to pulse with significance—some vital clue—even before Dr. Phillips validated my suspicion.
“That’s no bit of costume jewelry, Miss Mahoney,” he surmised, itching at his scruff. “That’s pure gold if I’ve ever seen it. If I were you, I’d run it by Croft’s desk to be sure.” He nudged me with his sharp elbow as he twitched bushy eyebrows in my direction. “He likes the days he gets to look at you, even if he shows his teeth sometimes.”
A bleak wound opened in my soul as I realized that Croft would no longer treat me with his signature form of gruff acquiescence and protective disapproval. I’d wounded him in kind and betrayed his beloved sister.
I couldn’t decide if I wished I’d told him the truth the moment I found it or if I should have kept the secret forever.
“Take it with you, Fiona,” Dr. Phillips advised, his voice solemn. “Scotland Yard might glean something we cannot.”
“Indeed,” I replied, the weight of the charm heavy in my palm. “Farewell, doctor. Your work is not envied this night.”
“Nor yours,” he returned, his gaze holding mine with a gravity that spoke of shared burdens, shared resolve, before he tipped his hat to me and went on his way.
Left alone in the wake of the departed, I searched the void of the empty and unlit audience—a Stygian chasm too terrifying for me to contemplate.
How did they do it night after night, stare into the darkness and recite their lines? Use their limbs and words to tell someone else’s story. To embody another so well, the audience believed you were they.
Since Hao Long had yet to arrive with my cart, and Dr. Phillips was clearing the stage for my work, I navigated through the hushed murmurs and discreet sobs of gathered onlookers. My wandering led me to the lobby, where the outspoken theater employee stood cloaked in mourning, her eyes rimmed red with recent tears.
“Miss?” I ventured, my voice tempered with reverence for the fallen. “I heard you mention that Miss Goldman’s assistant is missing.”
The woman lifted her gaze, fraught with sorrow and suspicion. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m Fiona Mahoney. I’m an…associate to Dr. Phillips, the coroner.” Not a lie, though not a spectacular truth, either.
“Eliza,” she replied, offering her hand, which I shook.
“You said Lena’s maid is missing?”
“She’s disappeared. No one has seen hide nor hair since dusk fell. The detective said he’d look for her, but never even asked where poor Claudia lived or what she looked like. How would he even know?”
The name hit me like a sledgehammer to the middle.
“Did you say her assistant’s name was Claudia?”
Eliza nodded, lips pulled tight with strain. “Lena was well proud of ’er. Used to work for the one and only Vivienne Bloomfield-Smythe before she—” The girl’s eyes widened to the extent I worried they’d pop right out of her head. “Now bothactresses she worked for are murdered. Which means either she did it. Or…”
Eliza was apparently no fool, already seeing the threads that might weave this grim tapestry together.
Claudia was very likely victim or villain.
“Was Claudia getting along here?” I asked.
