Page 53 of A Vocation of Violence
“Well enough for the couple days she had,” the actress replied, a shiver passing through her slender frame. “She was a mousy little mite. Didn’t say much. But Lena trusted Claudia implicitly. She was impressed by her…fervent loyalty to Vivienne, even after her death. I always thought it a little—touched, if you ask me.”
“Obsession often masquerades as loyalty,” I mused, a chill skimming down my spine at the thought of Claudia’s intense fixation. Could she have turned it on Lena?
“There’s more.” Eliza leaned in, voice low enough for a confessional. “Lena… She was to meet with a gentleman after the final curtain—she kept his name shrouded in mystery, even from us.”
“Did she now?” My own voice was a wisp of smoke, dissipating into the cold air. “Did you reveal that to the detectives?” I watched her closely, searching for a flicker of insight within those pools of earnest fear.
“The big one said that without a name or a place it was impossible to know who, but he’d ask around in case someone else was told a name,” she replied, shaking her head with a conviction that surprised me. “But Lena wouldn’t tell nobody if she found a rich keeper. Not until she’d cemented a contract or something.”
“Thank you for your information—it’s been most helpful,” I said. “And please be careful to look out for yourself.”
With the gold oak leaf charm hidden away, I resolved to confront Detective Grayson Croft. He was a man of sternconstitution, his edges roughened by the relentless grind of seeking truth amid the city’s ever-twisting labyrinth of lies.
But he was good at what he did. Scotland Yard promoted only the best detectives to work at their coveted main offices and on such high-profile cases.
Amelia must be so pleased with him.
As I stepped out into the fog-shrouded streets of London, the cold tendrils of mist licked at my skin like icy serpents, as though they, too, sought to uncover the secrets hidden within the city’s shadows. The gold charm weighed heavily in my pocket, a constant reminder of the task that lay before me. I ventured forth into the night, the echo of my footsteps a lonely dirge for justice yet unserved, until I found myself beneath the stone façade of Scotland Yard.
I hastened up the steps. A fleeting glimpse of Detective Croft disappearing into the bowels of that stone edifice spurred me onward.
“Detective Croft!” The words tumbled from my lips with fervent urgency as I approached the desk sergeant, a man whose face was as worn as the ledger he toiled over.
“May I assist you, madam?”
“I need to speak with Detective Croft. Now.” I leaned forward. “Please tell him Miss Fiona Mahoney has uncovered evidence in the Lena Goldman case.” I didn’t want to say Vivienne’s ultra-recognizable name in a room full of people.
The sergeant cast a dubious glance toward the corridor Croft had taken. “Wait here,” he grumbled, and vanished into the shadows beyond.
Moments stretched into eons, each second weighted with the gravity of the evidence burning a hole in my pocket. When the sergeant reemerged, his expression bore ill news.
“Detective Croft is not in the building,” he announced, the finality in his tone brooking no argument.
“Impossible! I saw him enter not moments ago,” I protested, the heat rising in my cheeks. “I have compelling evidence?—”
“Leave it with me,” he interrupted, hand outstretched, palm upturned and expectant.
My body trembled with rage, my fists clenching so hard that my nails dug into my palms. How dare Croft ignore me out of spite? I could feel my blood boiling as I stormed away from him, each step on the marble floor echoing like a thunderous drumbeat. Fine—if he wanted to play games, I’d find another way to get him the information, but I didn’t dare trust it in the hands of just anyone.
When I dashed back into the street, nightfall drew its cloak tighter around the city. And in its embrace, I resolved to seek out Aramis Night Horse, convinced that only he could navigate the treacherous waters that now threatened to engulf me, and if not, he’d at least use his considerable resourcefulness to help.
The Velvet Glove was only a handful of blocks from Scotland Yard, a location that seemed as natural to me as it was strange.
The fog hung thick and low over the streets, a spectral shroud that seemed to whisper of the city’s hidden sins. I hastened through the murky veil, my thoughts on Night Horse, his shadowy presence promising both knowledge and peril.
Perhaps pleasure.
The damp cobblestones of the Strand whispered secrets beneath my hurried steps, a sibilant symphony to accompany the tumult of my thoughts. The night air clung to me, heavy with the promise of rain and the electric scent of imminent revelations.
It was in this murky twilight that she appeared. Claudia, Vivienne’s shadow, slipping from the veil of fog like a specter summoned by my own troubled musings.
“Miss Mahoney.” Her voice was a tight thread fraying at the edges. “I must speak with you—in private.”
My heart quickened as I eyed her warily. “Claudia? Are you all right? Everyone thinks you’ve been taken, or worse. Do you know what happened to Lena?”
I might have been more circumspect if she’d not startled me so thoroughly, but my mouth ran away before my wits could catch them up.
Her eyes darted about, seeking refuge in the shadows that enveloped us. “It’s not safe out here. Please, come with me to the Velvet Glove.”
