Page 20 of A Vocation of Violence
With a heavy sigh, Phillips turned her neck. “The cause of death was a blow to the back of the head. Not the sword, as was suspected.”
“Someone hit her first?” My mind spun with implications. A crime of passion, then. Probably not premeditated.
“Yes. The sword was inserted postmortem, likely to mislead investigators Or…make a vulgar point of some significance.” Phillips frowned, eying me over the rim of his spectacles. “Your presence at the Velvet Glove the night of Vivienne’s demise is disconcerting.” His tone was stern, though not unkind. “Rubbing shoulders with the likes of Jorah, the Hammer? There is a man who made a friend of death.”
“Desperate times call for unsavory alliances,” I confessed, avoiding his gaze. My mind flitted back to the sultry air of the Velvet Glove, the way the Hammer’s eyes promised secrets and sin. The possessiveness of his lips underscored by skill and desire.
Needless to say, I indulged in no such detail with the good doctor.
An intrusive curiosity made me wonder if he’d an understanding of sexual desire past mere scientific curiosity and the biological imperative of the deed.
The door groaned like a beast, and in stepped Detective Croft, the scent of tobacco and bergamot trailing behind him like a smoky veil. The dim lighting in the morgue glinted off the gold badge on his chest and cast shadows on the angular lines of his face. His gaze flicked between myself and the gory tableau on the table before he allowed a frown to etch lines of disapproval in his brutal features.
“Miss Mahoney. I might have known you’d beat me here.” Though his words held a hint of reproach, I detected a grudging respect in his tone. Croft didn’t approve of my penchant for haunting crime scenes, but he couldn’t deny my occasional usefulness.
“Detective.” I inclined my head, ignoring how Croft’s presence commanded the room, his confident strides silent on the linoleum floor. As he passed by, I could feel the subtle shift in the air, his tall frame creating a slight breeze that brushed against my skin. “Dr. Phillips has made some interesting discoveries.”
Croft’s gaze sharpened as he turned to the coroner. “Is that so, doctor?”
Phillips adjusted his spectacles, launching into a recitation of his findings. “The cause of death was not the sword wound, but rather a blow to the back of the head. There are indications the body was moved postmortem, as evidenced by?—”
“The sword pinning her to the parquet.” Croft’s brow furrowed.
“Quite.” Phillips slid a sidelong glance at Croft, and I could hear the cogs and wheels grinding as he considered the man. “Are there women in your suspect pool, detective inspector?” he queried.
Croft’s eyes flicked to me before he answered in a thickening Yorkshire brogue, “Aye. Though not many. Why do you ask?”
Phillips pointed to the wound beneath Vivienne’s previously coiffed hair. “Given the nature of the fracture, I would estimate the killer to be closer to our Miss Mahoney’s height than to yours. I hope not to cause offense, dear, but there are not many men who proudly stand at your altitude.”
“No offense taken,” I said, squaring my shoulders and straightening my spine without strictly meaning to.
“The Dublin Destroyer is not more than a cricket’s sneeze taller than Miss Mahoney,” Croft said, demonstrating the man’s height with the flat of his hand held at his chin.
“That proves nothing,” I spat, turning to do my best job at loomingupat him. “Miss Bloomfield-Smythe was a woman of many male acquaintances. Any number of them could be—vertically challenged.”
“Her men I’m aware of are all well over six feet,” Croft replied. “Drumft, the baron, Tunstall, and a handful of previous lovers and associates—of whom you arenotaware because this not your investigation, Miss Mahoney.”
Dr. Phillips hummed beneath his breath as he worked, nimble fingers sorting through Vivienne’s vitals with clinical detachment. “I’m not much involved in society scandals, but the only time I was made aware of Miss Bloomfield-Smythe’s existence was when the papers placed her often in the company of His Royal Highness, Prince Albert Victor.”
Croft and I both regarded the man with slack-jawed astonishment. Queen Victoria’s favored grandson? The heirto the heirto the throne?
Phillips went on without seeming to realize our shock—indeed, he might have been speaking to himself for all the notice he paid to us. “Of course, HRH is six foot and some more, but I suppose he could have hired it done. Though I don’t seewhy. Rumors abound about our dear prince’s proclivities, don’t they?” He cleared a bit of scandal from his throat. “’Tis said he prefers the intimate company of men, and was quite the fixture of certain disreputable clubs rumored to cater to those with such predilections.”
I stilled, stunned by this revelation. The royal family’s secrets were closely guarded, and such gossip could be considered dangerous. “You should be careful to whom you reveal these rumors,” I cautioned, checking Croft for any bouts of nationalism that might see Dr. Phillips arrested for treason.
“I don’t spread rumors, Miss Mahoney—I analyze facts.” The coroner glanced up and pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “And the facts seem to indicate our prince moved in the same circles as the late Miss Bloomfield-Smythe. Circles both glittering and shadowed. Those shadows are likely enshrouding your murderer.”
The Implications were staggering. I shook my head in disbelief. “You can’t seriously think the Prince of Wales’s son is a suspect.”
“In my experience, no one is above sin or suspicion.” Croft’s tone brooked no argument. “We must follow the evidence, wherever it leads, even if it places a member of the royal family under the magnifying glass.”
“The Crown will never stand for it,” I warned.
A wolfish smile curled Croft’s lips. “Then they shouldn’t have left this case in my hands, should they?”
I stared at the mottled contusion marring Vivienne’s pale flesh. A blow from something heavy and blunt, with enough force to crush bone.
“The killer is most likely right-handed. A single, efficient strike.” Dr. Phillips fell back to the simple facts, though his gaze was troubled behind his spectacles. “An act of rage, not a crime of passion. The culprit likely knew and despised the victim.”
