Page 10 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage
Ronan was having a shite day.
It was the kind of day that made a man contemplate hurling himself into the Thames. But that would deprive him of the vindictive pleasure of imagining all the creative ways he could murder the two women at his front door.
Lady Alexandra Grey and Miss Emma Dumont were the very last creatures he wanted invading his domain. Especially when he was sleep-deprived.
“I said I had a lead,” he growled. “I didn’t ask you to come.”
O’Sullivan had arrived the night before with news, and Callahan had dashed off a note to Alexandra like a proper gent getting paid seventy quid.
Damned fool that he was, he’d thought it might buy him a bit of peace. Should’ve known her ladyship would use any excuse to come barrelling through his door.
The woman in question breezed past him into the flat. “Oh, Mr Callahan. Charming as always. As you’ll recall, I paid you a small fortune in advance. Therefore, I have every right to ensure it will be put to good use. Now, what’s this about a lead? Out with it.”
Callahan smothered the urge to throw her out and focused on Miss Dumont. “A female matching your sister’s description was seen leaving a property near Charing Cross.”
“Well, then. What are we waiting for?”
He blinked. “ We? ” he repeated. “I’m not taking you.”
Images of Nick Thorne’s retribution danced through his mind. That ruthless bastard would spend an afternoon happily sifting through Callahan’s guts if anything happened to his estranged wife. And Callahan was rather fond of all his bits remaining attached and in working order, ta very much.
“Don’t be obstinate,” Alexandra said. “I paid for results, and I mean to see them.”
With a noise of exasperation, he snatched up his greatcoat.
“Christ alive,” he muttered. “Fine, come to some rat-infested rookery. But this is against my better judgment.”
He nudged his unwanted companions towards the door, trying not to think too hard about all the ways this was sure to end in misery, maiming, and a long, messy demise.
The journey to Charing Cross passed in blessed silence, for which Callahan was profoundly grateful. Sparring with Alexandra always left him feeling like he’d gone three rounds with a vicious alley cat.
The building Leo told him about was unremarkable. Just another red brick structure huddled among its equally dilapidated fellows. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of mould.
Callahan led the way up the rickety staircase. They reached the landing, and he paused before a door already ajar.
He eased it open.
Darkness greeted them, barely penetrated by the wan light from a narrow window at the end of the cramped corridor.
Miss Dumont lifted a hand to her nose. “ Sang de Dieu . What is that foul odour?”
Callahan didn’t bother with a response.
Death had a smell. A taste.
He withdrew a box of lucifers and a candle from his greatcoat. The small flame illuminated a scene that would have given even the most hardened criminal pause.
Blood. So much blood – spread beneath the body of a man sprawled across the floor. His throat had been slashed.
A gasp from behind him reminded Callahan that he wasn’t alone. Miss Dumont swayed on her feet, her face pale. He grasped her shoulders to steady her.
“Take her out of here,” he said to Alexandra. “I need to search the premises.”
Callahan shut the door on their retreating backs and turned back to the body, jaw tight.
The cut was clean and precise – one swift slash from ear to ear. Poor bastard had bled out in moments. This was the kind of skill that spoke of practice. Of cold efficiency. He’d trussed up enough of his own over the years to recognise a professional’s handiwork when he saw it.
Callahan took a look around the flat but only found a rope discarded on the floor.
He glanced at the body with renewed interest. Well, well.
Seems the gent here tried his hand at tying up the elusive Miss Dumont and found his throat slit for the trouble.
Other than that bit of evidence, she’d left nothing behind.
Not a scrap of paper. Not a piece of clothing.
Just the brutalised body lying there like a letter written in blood.
By the time he exited the flat, Miss Dumont seemed to have collected herself somewhat, though her eyes were still glassy with shock. She gripped Lady Alexandra’s hand.
“No sign of anyone else,” he said. “But if your sister slit that man’s throat, she aimed to send a message. Precise work. He bled out fast. Can’t have been more than an hour or two. Rigor hasn’t fully set in.”
Callahan watched as understanding dawned on Alexandra’s face, her eyes widening.
“A message?” she repeated. “What makes you think—”
“She wanted this death witnessed. Found. Whoever your sister’s got herself tangled up with, she just declared war on them.”
Emma met his gaze. “The Syndicate. Isabel betrayed them.”
Callahan went very still. In his line of work, there were certain organisations, certain nasties you simply Did Not Fuck With. And the Syndicate? They weren’t just on that list. They were at the top.
“Come with me,” he said. “Now.”
Less than a half hour later, Callahan ushered the women up the narrow stairs and into his rooms.
“A trifling fucking problem, that’s what you told me this was,” he growled, rounding on them. He pointed an accusing finger at Alexandra. “The Syndicate is not a trifling problem.”
“Well, how was I to know?” Alexandra asked, defensive. “I’m not the one gallivanting about with international spies. You ought to tell me these things.”
Callahan ignored her, turning his glare on Emma.
“ You . Tell me everything you know about your sister’s involvement, or I am tossing you out on your arses this instant.
I will throw every pound of that money right after you unless you start talking.
How did your sister get involved with an international crime ring? ”
Emma’s breath quickened as she struggled to find the words.
“I don’t – I don’t know. After our mother died, she started frequenting the gaming hells and private clubs where aristocrats gathered.
We’re the bastard daughters of a duke, and she .
. . wanted to settle scores. Ruin them. Take their money. ”
Callahan said nothing, merely gesturing for her to continue. After a weighty pause, Emma took a shaky breath and pressed on.
“I didn’t know the details of what she got herself into. It was just last night I heard mention of the Syndicate from an ally of Isabel’s.”
Callahan scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw, his mind racing.
“If your sister gathered information on aristocrats, she would have attracted the Syndicate’s notice.
They doubtless sought to recruit her skills.
” He gave a dry, humourless laugh. “Fuck me, this venture keeps getting better and better.”
“Isabel did what she needed to survive when no one else gave a damn whether we lived or died,” she snapped. Her eyes flashed with anger. “Our mother was sick, and we had no money. You’ve no right to judge either of us, Mr Callahan.”
Callahan’s mind drifted back to his youth, to the dark alleys of Whitechapel where he’d learned to pick pockets and break into homes. He’d done what he needed to survive, just as Isabel had.
“Go on, Mr Callahan.” Alexandra smoothed her skirts over her knee. “Tell us about the Syndicate. What is it?”
“An underground network that originated in Russia. They started smuggling opium. But their reach has expanded, and they’ve branched out.
” He crossed his arms over his chest. “They’ve assassinated diplomats.
Rival gang lords. Meddled in international affairs.
I told you both that you might not want to hear the uncomfortable truths about who your sister aligned herself with. ”
He’d seen what the Syndicate did to traitors. Bloated bodies fished from the Thames, mutilated corpses left as warnings in dark alleys. Body parts delivered to enemies in boxes. Nasty work, even for a man of his experience.
“If she were dead,” he continued, “the Syndicate wouldn’t have left her to rot in the shadows. She would have been displayed as a warning to other traitors. You’d know about it.”
He saw Emma flinch. “Will you help her, Mr Callahan? If you find Isabel?”
Callahan kept his expression neutral. Necessity had taught him to guard his tells and shutter stray emotions.
He was treading a fine line with the Office right now after his cock up in Hong Kong.
Sticking his neck out for a Syndicate thief might be more trouble than she was worth.
Still, if she could be squeezed for information . . .
“That depends,” he said with ruthless practicality, “on whether she proves useful.”
He didn’t have the privilege of making promises he couldn’t keep.
Callahan crossed to the battered desk shoved into one corner. He rifled through the drifts of papers and empty ink bottles until he found a small notebook beneath the detritus.
“Got a mate or two still in Paris. Ones who might’ve caught wind of your sister’s exploits before she hopped the Channel. I’ll send them a wire, tell them it’s urgent. I want you to tell me what you know about her. Background, old haunts, everything . Leave nothing out.”
“All right. Thank you.”
“Thank me if I find the chit with her head still attached.”