Aidan could have been. I’d have given myself to him.
He stood tall and straight by the front pew of St. Michael’s Cathedral, the wee girl clinging to him like a burr, her legs around his trunk, and her arms clasped at his nape. His large hand cupped her head over a dingy bonnet beneath which wisps of flaxen hair escaped.
Would our children have been fair-haired or red? Dark-eyed or green? Would our boys have been tall as a Greek statue, like Aiden? Or stout and sturdy like my da?
How needless to ask questions to which I’d never know the answers. How utterly weak I was.
Sinful, even.
Dipping my fingers into the holy water, I crossed myself and touched a knee to the floor. Rising, I pressed a kiss to my knuckle, letting my fingers linger at my lips as I observed.
Silent tears leaked from the child’s red-rimmed eyes.
Aidan conducted a whispered conclave with a stooped-shouldered woman. The distressed girl’s mother, I assumed.
What tragedy does the unfortunate girl mourn? I wondered. Something as simple as a skinned knee? Or as complicated as a broken heart?
Those young eyes held an ageless kind of pain as they found me. Though I’d put the girl at maybe six or seven, I found no innocence in her gaze.
A broken heart, then.
I tried not to consider all she might have suffered. A cruel father? Maybe an absent one. Poverty. Hunger. Disease. Loss…?
Such heavy burdens Aidan must sometimes carry, ministering to such heavy, weary souls.
Touched, I wriggled a few fingers in a tentative wave at the child, putting all the pathetic cheer I was capable of summoning into my smile.
She turned her head away, burying her solemn little face against Aidan’s neck.
My shoulders fell. Perhaps it was for the best I remained childless. Children found me far too honest to be charming. And besides, I had no granddad or móraí for them. No uncles to tease them, or cousins to make mischief with. There was no music left in me for dancing. No Mahoneys to dance with. No lullabies for comfort.
What sort of mother would I make?
What right had I to create life when my only business was death?
Aidan glanced across the chapel. Noting my inelegant loitering by the holy water, he nodded toward a bench beneath the stained-glass window on the far wall.
I tiptoed to the seat, knowing he’d join me once he finished comforting the afflicted.
In so many Catholic cathedrals as ancient as this one, a lack of windows and a preponderance of heavy stone filtered daylight into a sonorous gloom.
I appreciated St. Michael’s for its luminescence. Time inched toward noonday, and celestial pillars of sunlight from the many kaleidoscopic windows felt as comforting as God’s love.
The velvet-cushioned bench encircled one of the many white columns supporting the arch of the chapel. I perched facing a window, soaking in the light, basking in its warmth.
The glow through the painted panes was soft. Because reverence is soft. Because worship should be soft. Not fanatical, like it tended to be back home.
I listened to the whispers echoing off the stones. Even conversation sounded like prayer in a cathedral. The reverberations fractured the words, so I could not make them out, but the woman came across a bit desperate. Frightened, even.
Aidan’s level lilt became a solemn, reassuring tune. I rested my head on the column behind me and did my best not to let the whispers lull me to sleep.
I must have drifted because Aidan was suddenly beside me, his hand on my shoulder.
“You always did like to nap in the sunlight,” he remembered fondly. “Even as a little girl.”
His lean hips swathed in a cassock with a black sash were at eye level, I realized, as I blinked awake. Quickly, I looked up to where the sunlight turned his golden hair into an angelic halo.
“Still afraid of the dark, Fiona?”
“Still.” Always.
“Did you come to collect your fee for the Sawyer house?” Stepping out of the light, he sat beside me. I didn’t answer him as the image in the windowpane arrested my attention for a heart-stopping moment.
A bearded man with a golden halo, swathed in red robes, hung from a cross.
Upside down.
Gasping, I fumbled in my pocket for the tarot card, gripping it with trembling hands as I studied the similarities. Of course. Saint Peter.
“What’s this?” Aidan asked mildly.
“Aunt Nola showed me a card from her tarot deck. It’s called the Hanged Man. Look at how he’s positioned. And look at St. Peter in the window.”
“Just like Frank Sawyer,” Aiden realized aloud.
“Exactly!” I did my best to connect the significance with my sleep-deprived mind. “Remind me why St. Peter was martyred thus.”
“He is thought to be the only other apostle of Christ who was crucified. But, because he thrice denied that Jesus was the Messiah, he felt unworthy to be martyred in the same fashion. He requested to be crucified inverted to signify his shame.”
There was that word again. Invert.
“Strange, then, that the Pope sits on the throne of St. Peter, if he was so unworthy. Hardly seems right, does it?”
Aidan tweaked my arm. “Are you here to blaspheme the Holy Father, Fiona? Because it’s been a long night for me, as well, and I don’t have the constitution to argue theology with a heretic like you.”
I waved the card at him, undaunted by his half-hearted ire. “Aunt Nola mentioned that the card signifies atonement. Repentance. Redemption, maybe. There could be some sort of connection here. This was Mr. Sawyer’s parish, after all. Can you think of anything or anyone who’s been specifically interested in this window? Or St. Peter in general?”
Aidan took the card, glancing between it and the window. “Poor mad Aunt Nola,” he murmured. “Does she still fancy that she’s a mouthpiece for the dead?”
A defensive ire grew heavy in my chest. “How is it, that if you claim to be the mouthpiece of God, you are holy and revered—greater than kings and queens. But claim to be in touch with the departed, and you’re insane?”
A winsome dimple appeared in Aiden’s cheek. “There is only one disembodied voice you’re allowed to hear, I’m afraid. Two, if you count the devil. I don’t make the rules.”
I rolled my eyes, refusing to be charmed.
“What else did Nola say about the Hanged Man?” he asked.
“She said it’s a card of suspension. Of the in-between. That it could also mean a crossroads perhaps. Being paralyzed by indecision, not knowing which path to take.”
Suddenly, he looked very serious. “You know what the crossroads is, Fi. Canonically, I mean. It’s the last stop before Hell. You’ll only find demons there, fiends looking to make a bargain for your soul.”
Maybe that’s where I was. Because sitting there, staring at Aidan, all I felt was wicked. None of the righteous paths appealed to me. And perhaps I’d have made a deal with the devil to change what was between us.
“How is Agnes Sawyer?” I asked, grasping on to distraction with both hands.
My question seemed to please him. “She’s still in shock. But she’s surrounded by loved ones and will pull through this with faith and heart. She’ll have the little one to comfort her, God willing.”
“Is it possible her child doesn’t belong to Mr. Sawyer? Or that Mr. Sawyer had a lover? You were their confessor, the absolver of their sins. Maybe infidelity is the reason for—”
His smile crumpled into a grimace of disgust. “Oh, Fiona, don’t go searching for fire where there is no smoke.” His eyes shifted to scan the chapel, presumably to make certain we were still alone.
“There may be smoke,” I said defensively. “Look!” I produced the turquoise beads from my pocket.
He squinted. “Where did you find those?”
“In Mr. Sawyer’s blood.”
“You think they belonged to Mrs. Sawyer?”
“I think they belong to the kill
er. But I’m not sure what to do with them. They could be dangerous to me.”
Brows only slightly darker than his lambent hair pulled low over his eyes. “Dangerous how?”
“It’s complicated.” I sighed, swirling a finger in the pool of smooth stones. “I just need to consider what to do next.”
He nudged my shoulder with his. “So, you came to me for advice?”
“Not exactly,” I muttered. “You’d only counsel me to do the right thing.”
“Probably. And am I to take it you already know what that is?”
“I know the easy thing and the hard thing.” And the dangerous thing, I added silently.
“Nothing that matters is easy.” He glanced at St. Peter. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that.”
“But must everything be so complicated?” I groused. “I’m so mired in these details, I can’t step back and see the picture they form. I feel as if there’s an arrow pointing somewhere, at someone, I just…don’t have a sense of the direction.”
“The devil, as they say, is in the details.” Aiden plucked a bead out of my cupped hand, inspecting it in the light of the colored glass. “Maybe you need a fresh pair of eyes. Tell me what you’re struggling with.”
Where to start? “I shouldn’t even be involved in all of this, should I? Frank Sawyer’s murder, I mean?”
“Then, why are you?” He shrugged.
“Because someone called me there. Because I found these beads, and I thought they belonged to Aramis Night Horse because of the American’s connection to turquoise. But, on my way to deliver them to…” Did I want to tell him just who I was delivering them to? Probably not. “Well, I was accosted by a man claiming to be Jack the Ripper.”
“Holy God, Fiona! Are you all right? Did he hurt you?” He dropped the bead onto the tiles of the floor where it rolled under a pew, instantly forgotten.
“Not really. I mean, he cut my neck a little, but it’s nothing.”
His pale skin blanched an unnatural, ghostly shade, blotches of red creeping up his neck from beneath the collar. “Cut your neck—a little?” he echoed breathlessly before pawing at my lace collar. “Let me see.”
I’d never in a million years pictured Aidan Fitzpatrick undoing my blouse again, and yet, here we were. He only released enough buttons beneath my chin to reveal the bandage at my nape. He peeled it back and made a sound I’d never heard before.
I hissed as his fingers tested the flesh next to the wound. “Whoever stitched this did a decent job,” he remarked. “But it wasn’t done at hospital or in a doctor’s surgery.”
I was so distracted by his face so close to mine, by the scent of incense and forbidden fruit, the truth sort of just—slipped out. “Courtesy of the Hammer, if you believe it. I was found in an alley behind the Velvet Glove, unconscious. The Hammer nursed me in his private chamber. The Shiloh room, he calls it. Did you know his father was a doctor?” Oh, dear, I must have been nervous. Too much information spilled out of me, unbidden.
“I know very little about the Hammer.” Aiden’s voice remained measured, careful, though his expression was anything but. “I’m amazed that you’re acquainted with him. That his hands were on you.”
“I wouldn’t call us anything so friendly as acquaintances,” I hedged. I mean, he’d seen me half-naked, but that hardly counted since blood was involved. “Both he and Mr. Night Horse forswore any knowledge of Mr. Sawyer. And Aramis Night Horse similarly denied that the beads belonged to him.” I hoped to distract Aidan from the part where the Hammer’s hands were on me with the details of the mystery.
I could admit, his displeasure ignited a tiny spark of warmth within me.
He paused in rebuttoning my blouse to cast me another look of disbelief. “You interrogated the Hammer and his Blade about these? Are you mad?”
“I didn’t interrogate them. I simply asked a few questions.”
His frown deepened to a scowl. “Let’s go back to the part where Jack the Ripper cut you in an alley.”
“I’m not certain he was the Ripper,” I confessed. “I found out from Inspector Croft at Frank Sawyer’s autopsy this morning that Mr. Sawyer owed the Hammer a great deal of money. So, the Hammer and the Blade clearly lied to me. They’re such obvious suspects.”
“For Mr. Sawyer’s murder, or for being the Ripper?” Aiden clarified.
“Both. But, the man in the alley claimed to be the Ripper, whispered it right in my ear.”
Aidan crossed himself. Cursed. Then repeated the gesture.
“There’s no need to worry.” I rushed to soothe his increasing distress. “None of the experts believe Mr. Sawyer’s murderer was the Ripper. But perhaps Mr. Sawyer’s murderer and my assailant are one and the same. You see, everything I mentioned to the man in the alley who claimed to be Jack the Ripper wound up in The London Evening Examiner. An exposé written by a ournalist named Thaddeus Comstock.”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I recall that none of the inspectors at the scene believed Jack the Ripper truly responsible for Mr. Sawyer’s murder. Especially Inspector Croft.”
I made a vague gesture. “I wasn’t convinced one way or the other, but I see now the murder was all wrong. The Ripper always slashed throats first, and mutilated corpses after. He posed all the victims the same. Not to mention his tendency to take gruesome prizes. And they were all women, weren’t they? Prostitutes.” I whispered the word, as Jesus Christ was just over there, staring down at me from his cross.
“I wish you were never called to that scene, Fi. I’m just glad you’re all right.” He took my free hand in his, and we sat silently for a moment as he thoughtfully digested what I’d revealed.
After a pensive moment, I started, struck by an idea. “Do you remember, after Mary…died, the police suspected the Ripper might be some mad, sadistic journalist creating his own sensational headlines?”
Gasping, he gripped my arm. “That’s right. They even arrested a few newspapermen during the blitz, didn’t they?”
“I’ll have to ask Aberline if Comstock was among them.” I leapt to my feet.
“Fi, this is not irrefutable evidence. They arrested over eighty people that year, and were forced to let all of them go.”
“Sure, but it’s a place to start.” I was in the middle of dropping the turquoise beads back into my pocket when Aidan firmly dragged me back down to the seat.
“I do not want you chasing this Comstock fellow on your own, Fi. It’s neither smart nor safe. What did the inspectors say about your attack? Could you not send them after Comstock?”
Puffing out both cheeks, I slumped guiltily back against the pillar. “I…didn’t tell them.”
“Why ever not? Have you gone all but mad?”
I stared at him long and hard. I wasn’t often afraid of the secrets damning my soul…but I didn’t want to fall from Aidan’s grace. Taking a deep breath, I adopted my most penitent look. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…”
“Oh, Lord, Fiona!” He put his head in his hands, scrubbing at his face.
“After Mary, I was hungry and destitute. I’d only just rescued Nola and had no true place for us to live and so…I did a favor for the Hammer.”
His hands dropped to hang between his knees as he glared at the tiles at our feet. “A…sexual favor?”
“No!”
“Thank God,” he breathed.
“But, maybe worse. And most definitely illegal.”
“Did you murder someone for him?” At this point, the shock and inflection had drained from his voice, turning it flat as day-old champagne.
“Of course, not. But should I bring the beads to Scotland Yard, Croft could use them as fuel for his crusade against the Hammer. And…my crimes might be discovered should he dig too deeply.”
Finally, Aiden turned to me. He bore the look of a disappointed father that I didn’t at all appreciate, but it was in no way my place to say so. “What’s the worst that could happen should you be found out? How serious was your
crime?”
I was already in for a penny… Might as well spend the pound. “If my secrets are discovered, either the Hammer kills me for it, or…the Crown does.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
“I didn’t know what I was doing! Nor did I understand the severity of the punishment for my delinquency at the time.”
“Ignorance is not innocence, Fi!” he said from between clenched teeth.
“Don’t preach to me, Aidan Fitzpatrick.” The look I gave him could have withered entire fields of wildflowers. “You may be a priest, but you’re no angel. I know your sins.”
“You don’t know the half of them.” He lowered his eyes. “I am compelled to ask; did you repent for this favor?”
I winced. “Not…as of yet, but I fully intend to.” I rushed to add before he could say anything else, “Why, you could absolve me right now, couldn’t you?”
“Fiona,” he groaned. Drat. His head was back in his hands again.
“What was I supposed to do?” I huffed. “I was alone in the world. I was desperate. Broken. It was either that or prostitution.”
His head whipped up, and he speared me with a level glare. “You could have come to me.”
Tears stung the back of my nose and seared my eyes. I suddenly wished to be anywhere else. To be confessing any other truths. “No. I couldn’t. I couldn’t look at you yet without my heart being torn from my chest. I couldn’t ask for the help or protection a husband should give. You’d forsaken me, Aidan. Everyone had forsaken me.” Annoyed with my own emotion, I dashed an escaped tear from my cheekbone before he could find it there.
His features softened. “God has not forsaken you, and neither will I.”
“Maybe I’ve forsaken him,” I said in a churlish if wobbly voice. “And as for you, it’s not the same, is it? I can’t rely on you. Not like that.”
Gently, he took both of my hands in his, his touch rousing a gentle memory sweeter than the last day of childhood. “Will you forgive me someday, Fi? As a soldier, I was an angry and violent boy... Being a priest allows me the grace of a penitent man. I tried to come to you when I returned from fighting, but all I could do was remember the ghastly things I’d done on the battlefield. I feared God might not recognize me. That I’d fallen so far from grace, I’d do nothing but drag you down with me.”
The Business of Blood Page 13
