Page 40 of A Vocation of Violence
“He initially stayed behind?” His question was barely audible, laden with dread.
He knew how the story ended.
“Only when the echoes of gunfire and explosions startled me from slumber.” My voice quivered as I opened my eyes to meet his stormy gaze. “By the time I found my way onto the street, it was too late. Their bodies…displayed like grotesque banners of defeat…even little Fayne.”
A tear dripped into Darcy’s ale, mirroring my own silent anguish. The loss of Flynn had carved a hollow space within usboth, a void where once there had been joy and laughter. But I had six more deaths to mourn. My father Frank Mahoney. And my lovely brothers.
“Fi, I swear on their beloved memory, I had nothing to do with Vivienne’s murder,” he said fervently. “Upon my love for Flynn, I’d never harm another soul in such a way. Neither Georgie nor I could have anything to do with it.” His eyes burned with sincerity, yet the seeds of suspicion, once sown, were not easily uprooted.
“I believe you,” I said honestly, though my mind was a maelstrom of unease. “But I’m not convinced of anyone else’s innocence at the moment, not even Mr. Tunstall’s.”
“Georgie is many things, driven by ambition and blinded by jealousy at times,” Darcy conceded, “but we are bound by more than just shared secrets, Fi. Our hearts, though hidden, beat with the same rhythm.”
“Did Vivienne know of your affair with Mr. Tunstall?” I queried.
“From the very beginning.” His lip wobbled, and I could see in him the boy I once knew. “The farce of our entanglement was her idea,” he revealed. “In public, she and I were a perfect couple that shared a genuine affection. In private, we were both free to be ourselves.”
“Was Vivienne…?” I wasn’t certain of the word I needed, but he caught my meaning.
“Nah. She liked her men. I’m thinking a bird or two had been thrown in the mix for sport, but in all, she chased the blokes. Or, rather, they chased her.” The specter of a smile haunted his lips as he remembered Vivienne fondly before grief stole the expression and turned it back to stone. “We have to find who did this to her. We have to make them pay.”
“Whatever it takes,” I promised. “Is that possible to explore the Order of the Green Carnation without exposing those involved to ruin?”
“I don’t know.” Darcy shook his head before letting it slump low over his shoulders. “But if it means justice for Viv, then…I can’t be a coward and hide from who I am anymore.”
I shaped my palm to his cheek, thumbing away the next tear from bristled skin. “You are not a coward to protect your love from those who would profane it, Darcy. I will do all I can to protect you…”
My words evoked more tears rather than the opposite, as intended. Darcy took my hand in his rough palm and placed a deferential kiss on my knuckles. “For Flynn,” he whispered.
“For anyone who had to keep a such love a secret out of fear.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Detective Croft’s office is just here,” the constable guiding me offered with the kind of deference I wasn’t accustomed to receiving from law enforcement. His uniform gleamed with the sheen of newness, worn by someone who had yet to truly experience the darker side of London’s underbelly.
I traced him through the labyrinthine corridors of Scotland Yard, my boots thudding against the cold stone floor with a steady rhythm that matched the pounding pulse at my throat. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling and dimly lit by flickering gas lamps, casting long shadows that danced along the floor. The scent of dampness mingled with the acrid aroma of stale tobacco smoke, giving the place a palpable sense of decay.
Of course I knew where Croft’s office was, but I allowed him to be helpful. The lamps cast anemic pools of light onto walls lined with somber portraits of stern-faced men who seemed to scrutinize my passage with silent reproach.
The round-faced constable rapped sharply on a heavy wooden door, its surface marred by years of use, and announced my presence before stepping aside.
“Thank you.” I offered him my most solicitous smile, betraying none of the trepidation that clenched tightly around my heart.
A brass nameplate read, DET. INSPECTOR A. GRAYSON CROFT.
A? I’d not noted that before. How had I known Croft all this time and not known that Grayson wasn’t, in fact, his Christian name?
The door creaked open, and I stepped into a realm that bore the soul of a man I was acquainted with, but apparently knew not at all.
Detective A. Grayson Croft’s sanctum was a chaotic symphony of paper and ink: case files sprawled across his desk, spilling onto the leather-bound tomes that lined the shelves like soldiers at attention. A single window, smeared with the grime of London’s relentless industry, allowed a weak shaft of daylight to penetrate the gloom, casting angular shadows across his brutal features.
“Miss Mahoney,” Croft greeted me without lifting his gaze from the documents splayed before him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Detective,” I replied, crossing the threshold fully and ignoring the droll sarcasm in his tone. “Information has come to light in the Vivienne Bloomfield-Smythe case,” I began, withdrawing the handkerchief and a sheaf of notes I had meticulously compiled. “I learned something about this handkerchief that could very well be the key.”
Croft’s eyes, sharp as an eagle’s and just as predatory, lifted to meet mine. In that moment, the connection between us was palpable—a tenuous bond forged of a mutual desire for justice.
He curled his fingers around the handkerchief, plucking it from my hand with a gentleness that belied his gruff exterior. Hestudied the embroidered cloth, furrowing his brow as if trying to decipher a hidden message within its folds.
