Emma Holloway - A Study in Silks

Dora began to cry again, losing her power of speech.

Evelina squeezed her hand. “Sh. You stay here and help with Maisie. Has someone told Bigelow?” The butler—pillar of all things respectable—was just what the staff needed.

Dora nodded quickly. “He’s gone to tell the master.”

“Good.” With that, Evelina went through the cloakroom doorway. The gas was turned up, as if someone had tried to banish what was in the middle of the floor.

That sight made her forget every other detail of her surroundings.

Evelina stared at the crumpled lump, gradually making out the still form of a woman in a plain jacket and skirt. Not the rags of the poor, but not much above that, either. Her face was turned away from Evelina, giving a view of the back of her head. Her pale brown hair had been torn from its pins, the long tresses trailing around her. A well-worn hat lay a little distance from the body. Someone had carelessly stepped on it, crushing the crown. From the looks of her wardrobe, it had probably been the only one she owned.

It was the last detail that struck home, clogging Evelina’s throat with a trembling ache. As a child, she had never gone hungry, but there had been days when the proverbial wolf howled just outside the door. She knew what it was like to have few clothes, and how precious each item could be. It was something the Roths, for all their kindness, could never understand.

Slowly she came to terms with the fact that she was looking at a dead body. Not just dead, but violently dead. The straggling hair was matted with blood. A flutter of nausea worked its way up from Evelina’s stomach. She’d seen plenty of funerals and even helped with the laying out, but this was different. Someone had clubbed this woman over the head with casual brutishness.

And Evelina was utterly alone in the room. The soul of the girl was gone. Sometimes the dead lingered, but this time Evelina’s magic would be of no use. Death reigned over the tableau. Her nausea soured to a chill anger as questions began crowding in—a babble that threatened to turn into a roar. Foremost among them: Why was this dead woman here, at Hilliard House?

Anger thawed the first shock, and Evelina began a slow circuit, looking at the fallen figure from different angles. Suddenly the room itself came into focus, and what had been irrelevant noise turned to important details.

Clearly, the woman’s life had been ended here, at this very spot. It was a good thing that the rows of hooks and hangers along the wall were empty of costly garments that night. The simple white paint in the room made the sprays of blood stand out in gaudy contrast.

Evelina’s path took her past the victim’s feet. A broken candle lay on the floor, as if it had dropped from her hand during the struggle. Wax stuck to the floor, still soft enough to feel greasy when Evelina poked it with her finger. How long ago did this happen, then?

When she finally caught a glimpse of the woman’s front, Evelina gave a stifled gasp. The dead woman’s face was obscured by the tumble of her hair, but Evelina could see the throat had been slashed from ear to ear. What was left of Evelina’s dinner began rushing up her throat and she was suddenly aware of the sticky, meaty smell of flesh, thick with the coppery tang of blood.

She turned away, gulping. She had to skitter to avoid the slick of blood pooling under the body. Someone had already stepped in it—the partial arc of a shoeprint had been left just beside the dead girl. It was small—maybe it belonged to the girl herself.

Narrowing her eyes, she studied the skin of the victim. She knew blood pooled inside the body once someone died, leaving bruiselike marks. But there were other faint shadows—very slight abrasions, perhaps—around the chin and along the jaw as if the killer had grabbed her there. Perhaps in order to cut her throat? The fatal injury angled a tiny bit downward from left to right, seeming to trail away at the end. Did that mean the killer was right-handed? She was too inexperienced to be certain, but one thing was clear. Whoever had done this had strength. The wound was so deep that it had cut clear through the trachea.

“Evelina? What the blazes is going on here?”

She whirled to face the door. Tobias Roth, Imogen’s brother, leaned against the wall, his posture as bonelessly indolent as usual. He was handsome, golden-haired, and dissolutely rumpled, as if he’d redressed himself while leaping out a paramour’s window. Even from where she stood, she could smell tobacco, brandy, and sweat. He’d been out at the clubs again and was probably half drunk. He’d also been in a fight, judging by one eye that was starting to purple and the tears in his waistcoat and trousers. His jacket was gone.

Nevertheless, Tobias still looked like the Archangel Gabriel. And even here, the sight of him made her breath hitch, betraying a weakness she refused to surrender to. Angels weren’t always as advertised, and Tobias would definitely be of the fallen variety.

But now he stiffened, his face turning pale as he gazed at the corpse in naked horror. “Dear God, that’s Grace Child.”

“What?” Shocked, Evelina looked at the corpse again, this time seeing past the dreadful wounds. Gingerly, she pushed back the lock of hair that had fallen over the top part of the face. She hadn’t recognized Grace out of her maid’s uniform and away from the pots and pans. No wonder Maisie and Dora were so upset .

And death had made a strange mask of the features, robbing them of expression. The hazel eyes were mere slits, the mouth slack, the cheeks splattered with blood. She was barely more than a girl.

“You wouldn’t know her to look at her, would you? She was so.…” Tobias trailed off.

Evelina said nothing, still astonished by how different the girl looked.

“Who would do something like this? And why?” His voice had gone quiet, a thread of anger giving it a darker edge.

“I don’t know.” Evelina shook her head. Despite the fact that she was suddenly cold enough to shiver, sweat trickled under her arms and between her breasts. She swallowed hard for the fortieth time, forcing her stomach back down her gullet. “But I think I know how they did it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone hit her over the head, most likely when her back was turned. That would have made sure she didn’t cry out. Then he cut her open while she was down. You can see her hairpins have been pulled out. If I’m right, the murderer grabbed her jaw to hold her head steady.”

Tobias went utterly still. “Bloody hell.”

Evelina could see it in her mind’s eye—but what about what came next? Or before? “Someone must have seen who came and went from the house tonight. There has to have been a witness.”

Tobias was silent. Then he seemed to pull himself together. His silvery gray gaze lifted to search Evelina, taking in her unbound hair and torn hem. “Are you all right? How did you come to be part of this?” He stepped into the cloakroom, coming far too close.

“I’m fine,” she said shortly, all too aware of his nearness. “I came to see if I could help.” As if to prove it, she drew close enough to bend over the body, to touch it. She would never, ever play the vulnerable woman with Tobias. That was a trap she might never have the will to escape.

But, oh, it was hard. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, his collar gone. She could see the smooth pale arc of his throat. Beneath the scent of brandy, she could smell smoke, as if he’d been standing next to a steam engine. What had he been doing? The question dissolved—one detail too many to absorb.

He crouched next to her. He was so near, she could feel the heat of his body, and it was all she could do not to lean even closer. And if Tobias is a fallen angel, what does that make Nick? A handsome creature of the shadow world, come to tempt me with visions of lost love? Both men were desirable, and both were dangerous.