Page 36 of A Vocation of Violence
“Miss Mahoney,” Tunstall said with a curt nod, the lines on his face etched deeper by scorn. He despised this room, thecompany, the entire sordid affair, yet here he remained. Like all of us, bound by threads of necessity, woven into a tapestry of deceit.
“Let’s not stand on ceremony,” I said, stepping further into the room. “We’ve graver matters to attend to than whatever has your hackles raised.” I let my gaze linger on Jorah and Night Horse a moment longer, daring them to contradict me.
Night Horse shot Jorah a final warning look, a silent promise of unfinished business, before turning his attention toward me, an unspoken truce forged in the face of shared adversity.
I withdrew the handkerchief from within the confines of my cloak, unfolding the delicate fabric with a carefulness that belied the unrest simmering in my blood. “Does this belong to any of you?” I asked, voice steady as I held it out for inspection.
Jorah gazed at the handkerchief with an inscrutable expression before he tersely shook his head. Night Horse followed suit, eyes cold and unreadable, while Tunstall merely scoffed at the notion.
“Never seen it,” Darcy murmured.
“The police will be keen to have evidence such as this,” I said, tucking the fabric back into my sleeve. “Croft could follow this to the real murderer, leading the investigation away from you, Darcy.” The words hung like a guillotine above our heads, and we were all too aware of how the blade could fall in any direction.
A spark of hope lit Darcy’s eyes. “What’s that stitched on it, then?”
“C.F.—Clarissa Fairchild’s initials,” I continued, watching their reactions closely. “It could imply the baroness’s guilt, or perhaps she is being framed.”
“Or perhaps it’s a lover’s token, discarded after a tryst,” Jorah suggested, his voice steady but his eyes betraying a flicker of concern.
“Or it was dropped before the murder occurred and has nothing to do with Vivienne’s murder,” Tunstall pointed out.
“Regardless,” I pressed on, “I need to know what to tell Croft—and what not to. He has the resources to investigate its origins properly.” I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “But I don’t wish to reveal anything that might…compromise present company.”
“Share what you must, Fiona,” Jorah finally said, his words carefully measured. “I trust you’ll know what will keep our necks from stretching.”
Night Horse nodded his agreement.
Darcy’s hands clenched into fists, the knuckles whitening. “The truth won’t bring her back,” he murmured, a pained edge cutting through his grief. “But it must be found, so justice can be done.”
I perched on the edge of an opulent chaise, idly tracing the embroidery of the handkerchief with my fingers as I observed the men before me. Darcy’s silhouette was hunched, the broad shoulders that once seemed capable of bearing the world now bowed under an invisible weight.
“Then it is decided,” I said quietly.
Their assent granted me a measure of relief, but also a shroud of apprehension. As I turned to leave, the tension between Jorah and Night Horse still crackled in the background, a storm on the horizon that promised no safe harbor.
“There’s something else.” I paused, unsure of how to proceed.
“Out with it,” Darcy urged.
“This flower stitched into the handkerchief,” I began, my voice laced with a gentle firmness meant to soothe Darcy’s troubled spirit. “It seems this symbol might be more significant than we initially believed.”
His eyes flickered with a spark of curiosity, but it was quickly doused by his prevailing sorrow. “And what does that have to do with Vivienne?” he asked, his brogue thickened by grief.
“Vivienne’s past is a tapestry woven with many threads,” I replied. “The green carnation is often a token amongst those harboring forbidden affections for someone of their own sex. This flower depicted beneath the initials is a carnation, I’ve come to realize. So perhaps there is a sapphic connection. I mean, consider Claudia’s obsession with her?—”
“Which is enough to make her a strong suspect,” Tunstall cut in, his tone harsh, like the strike of a match.
“Certainly,” I replied, “and consider this: Vivienne is known to have made a bid for the baron and lost to Lady Clarissa Fairchild. Yet we should not dismiss the possibility that her connection is actually with thebaronessand ventured into…intimate territories.”
“Exploring sapphic love with the green carnation as their emblem?” Jorah’s voice was pensive. “That’s a bold theory.”
“Except,” Night Horse interjected, his gaze sharp enough to slice through the foggy shadows of the Velvet Glove, “the flower stitched here is white, not green.”
“An oversight or a deliberate choice?” I mused aloud, though my question hung unanswered between us.
Tunstall scoffed, his voice gruff with disdain. “Such fancies are best left to playwrights and detective novels, Miss Mahoney. Vivienne was never one to indulge in floral metaphors of any kind.”
“Nor did she seem one to trifle with baronesses,” Darcy added, his tone edged with a bitterness that spoke of more than just the loss of a lover. It bore the acrid taste of betrayal.
