Page 46 of The Business of Blood

My skin went cold all over.

“What do you think, does it seem possible?” the doctor prodded.

“Hardly!” I gasped. “You’re not suggesting Inspector Croft fancies me, are you?”

“About the livers.” He leveled me with a droll look before carefully placing the first stitch into the pale, dead flesh.

“I-I’ll have to look into it.” The paper clutched in my hands distracted me. “How many would you need?” I unfolded the paper to read the article, my heart climbing into my throat. It was all here. Every single detail of the Sawyer murder. The castration, the disembowelment, the fact that none of the organs were missing. The reporter made a few wild conjectures, that there might have been a letter the police were hiding for the sake of avoiding hysteria. But the facts were absolute.

The murder wasn’t but ten hours ago. How many people were even privy to this information by now?

“About seven, I should think.”

“Seven?”

“Livers, Fiona. Livers.”

“Right. Yes.” I checked the name of the journalist at the bottom of the article.

Thaddeus Comstock. I knew the name. He’d made quite the career covering the Whitechapel murders. If Jack the Ripper was the worst thing that had ever happened to Mary Kelly, he was the best thing for the unscrupulous Mr. Comstock.

“I will see what I can do,” I promised. “If you’ll excuse me, Dr. Phillips, I’m late for an appointment.”

“I need them by Thursday, if you’re able,” he called after me as I retreated. “I’ll even provide the ice!”

I hoped there was enough ice for Thaddeus Comstock.

Because I was going to kill him.

11

Just as I realized I’d forgotten to consult with Dr. Phillips regarding the turquoise beads, a rough hand snaked from behind the hospital gate, jerking me toward the shadow of the stone wall.

“What the devil?” I screeched, drawing the attention of a few wary passersby.

“Not the devil,” Croft rumbled. “Just me.”

“Little better than,” I spat. “Release me at once.” As imperious as I sounded, I glanced around for Aberline should I require rescuing. He was nowhere to be seen along the wide, cobbled streets in front of the Royal London Hospital.

Bugger.

Croft held me fast by one arm, but he leaned against the yellow stone wall, the picture of a man at ease. The way his shoulders rested appeared as though he propped up the heavy stone, rather than the other way around.

What must it be like, I wondered, to have shoulders as strong as a ballast? One might live their entire lives without fear of collapse buttressed by a strength such as his.

If they could stand his presence so long.

“You lied to me,” he accused.

I balled both of my fists to keep from fidgeting and stared him straight in the eyes.

“A guilty man looks down,” my father had once told me.

“You don’t deny it?” Croft’s face tightened over brutal bones as he released a heavy sigh. I’d disappointed him.

Not that it mattered.

“I’m not inclined to dignify your accusation with a response.” Of course, I wasn’t going to admit that I’d lied to him, especially when I wasn’t clear to which lie he referred. Only an idiot incriminates herself, especially without additional information.