Sanguine Solutions Page 4

  I didn’t want Vincent to be involved in whatever this was—if it was anything at all. But I couldn’t help thinking the book had passed through his shop. Moreover, Vincent knew its contents well enough to worry that I was trying to build an obscenity case against him. Did the book have anything to do with the Marylebone attacks? It seemed impossible that a manual for erotic blood-magic, a blood-drawing device, and a vampire-themed attack all on the same property, would be unrelated.

  As for Vincent, the pleasure he’d derived from feeling the rush of blood through my veins hadn’t escaped me. His murmurs and exclamations had been hotter than hell, but even in the vice grip of lust, they’d struck an odd note.

  Damn it to hell! I should have pocketed the damn book along with the receipt. Sex and blood. Sex and power. Power and…blood? Why not? Semen Sanguis: Ancient Rites of Power….

  Footsteps clopped up the hallway outside the records room. I pressed myself against the wall beside the open door. I wasn’t meant to be there—not at the station, not in the records room, and definitely not in a uniform. The footsteps continued past the door, and I relaxed. Then I set about looking for the documents. There were a few moments of panic when the Wakefield case notes were not where they should have been, followed by relief—and then annoyance—to find them misplaced among the closed files. The annoyance only increased when my own notes were nowhere to be found. If only there had been more time to look. But there wasn’t—not before the night clerk would arrive.

  I leaned up against a file cabinet to read the Wakefield notes. And there it was. Charlotte Wakefield’s father was an engineer with the City of London. Just like Masterson, he’d been recently promoted. The responding constable had noted two puncture marks, side by side on Charlotte’s wrist.

  “Pearce?”

  I jumped. Good God, speaking of the man himself, now standing in the doorway of the records room.

  “Sir?”

  Crowther was the last person I wanted to deal with at that moment. The records clerk could have been fobbed off with some excuse about errand-running. But Crowther knew I wasn’t meant to be anywhere near the station at all. Slipping the file into a stack of others on top of the filing cabinet, I stepped out of the shadows.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for my notes from the Masterson visit. I needed to add something.”

  “Do you not understand what ‘suspended’ means?” We stared at each other through the semi-darkness, then he stepped inside and shut the door. “Had a visit from Chief Superintendent Masterson today. What the devil did you think you were doing?”

  “Post-incident follow-up. It’s standard.”

  “Standard when it’s your case,” he said. “And haven’t been relieved of duty. Masterson said you left his wife and daughter in a right state. Never mind you have no business wearing a uniform at all at present. Masterson’s angry as a bull, in fact—”

  “Masterson’s daughter has the same wound on her wrist as the Wakefield girl.” I hadn’t seen the wound, but her reaction to my seeing the bandage was as good as. I continued. “Masterson’s housekeeper found a double-headed lancet under Miss Masterson’s bed and chased me down the street to give it to me where her mistress wouldn’t see her. And just now I found the Wakefield file misplaced among the closed cases, and my own notes on Masterson are nowhere to be found.”

  He stared at me for a very long time. Finally, he said, “A good man in your position would take this time to reflect on his behavior. Perhaps to think about whether police work was actually the right path for him.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “A mediocre man might consider a three-day suspension a sort of forced vacation. But I don’t know a single normal human being who would put on the uniform and continue to work, without pay, and knowing he wasn’t wanted. Go home.”

  “You don’t think there’s a case?”

  “There are two cases. One is closed, and the other is none of your concern.”

  “But—”

  “Go home, I said.”

  Now it was my turn to stare. But two years had taught me just how far I could push Crowther, and no matter how right I was—no matter how right he knew I was—if I wanted to keep what was left of my job, I’d reached the limit. For now.

  When he reached back and opened the door, I walked out.

  The air was stifling as I stalked down the street. I wanted to throw off my jacket, but settled for jamming my hands into my pockets instead. And promptly found Cal’s letter. My pulse raced as I stroked the paper between my finger and thumb. I didn’t want to open it now. Considering the different ways I’d debased myself in the past few days, it didn’t seem right.

  Just then, a hansom cab pulled up to the curb beside me.

  “Mr. Pearce?” someone called from inside. I stopped. The door opened, and a man I’d never seen before alighted on the running board. He had a package in his hands, and he held it out to me. “It’s for you,” he said when I hesitated.

  The package was the size of a briefcase, soft, and bore the logo of Whiteley’s, an expensive department store. The man saluted, stepped back into the carriage, and tapped the ceiling with the head of his walking stick. The carriage pulled away, merging back into the flow of traffic. What the devil? On the other hand, at least I’d have something to occupy myself with while I sat out the rest of my punishment at the section house.

  •••

  “Nice suit.” A voice said behind me.

  I was standing in the common room, admiring my reflection in the window. The package had contained a gorgeous set of evening clothes—a jacket and trousers in the finest wool, a silk shirt, and a bright red waistcoat with matching tie. And shoes. The softest hand-stitched leather wing-tip shoes I’d ever seen. And it all fit as if it had been made for me. It was a nice suit.

  “Thanks,” I said, turning. My heart sank when I saw it was Martin standing in the doorway. “God, Martin, I’m so sorry about the other night. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  He shrugged. “It was a stupid joke. I should have known better.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Never mind.”

  What on Earth could he mean by that? I wondered. But before I could ask, he reached out his hand. I took it, and we shook.

  “Really, I don’t know what came over me. You didn’t deserve—”

  “Forget it. Listen, we’re all getting together tomorrow night for Fitz’s birthday. The Cock & Hen, around ten o’clock. It’s Fitz’s night off, and, well, you and I will still be off that night as well. Fitz won’t say it, but he’d be gutted if you weren’t there. What do you say?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” Though I would be kicking myself for having forgotten it had been my job to make the arrangements.

  He smiled. “Good. Oh, by the way, it’s a sort of going-away party, as well.”

  “Oh?”

  “I just passed the sergeant’s exam. I’m taking a position over at E Division, Holborn.”

  “Congratulations,” I said, and I meant it. “That’s fantastic, mate.”

  “Yeah, well, the thing is.…” He stroked his square jaw, and I wondered why he was choosing his words so carefully. “If you’d like me to keep an eye open, I could let you know the next time a vacancy comes up.”

  And then I understood. Holborn had once been a lively social center for a certain kind of man. The most famous molly houses were gone, but the reputation lingered. Rumor had it that the section house there turned a blind eye toward behaviors that would cause our own section to take a dim view. Was he telling me he knew my secret? Or was he sharing his own? Or was it both?

  “Cheers,” I said. “That’s kind.”

  He nodded. “Right. Well. Tomorrow night, then?”

  I smiled. “I’ll be there.”

  “I hope you won’t be wearing that suit,” he said, smiling back.

  I laughed. “No.”

  “Good, because it’d be wasted on that lot. Wherever y
ou’re going tonight, I hope it won’t be.”

  Where I was going was the Criterion. In addition to the suit, the package had contained a summons to a late supper at the opulent restaurant complex in Piccadilly. I was of two minds about it. The idea of seeing Vincent again filled me with giddy anticipation. The thought of his lips at my throat, the feather-light touch of his fingers…. I dared not follow those thoughts further. At the same time, until I knew for certain what was happening in Marylebone, and what, if any part Vincent played in it, I wouldn’t be able to relax enough to enjoy his company fully.

  The fact that I’d succumbed so easily to his advances earlier spoke to my previous level of hunger and exhaustion. Now, clearheaded and well rested, my professional judgment should remain firmly in place. There was no need, however, to waste what promised to be a brilliant supper.

  I arrived early. The front steps of the Criterion were clearly a place to see and be seen, and never in my life had I seen such a collection of beautifully dressed, archly handsome, and strikingly self-confident individuals. I wondered if they’d have greeted each other with such exuberance, had they known there was a constable in their midst. What harm were these men doing to society? And how should a society define crime, if not by measurable injury? Plenty of truly harmful things happened every day with the law’s full blessing, and yet these men’s flirtations and fleeting touches alone, under the wrong circumstances, could be the ruin of their fine, young lives. It was enough to make me question my own role in upholding this system of law.

  Fortunately, a hand at my elbow interrupted these uncomfortable thoughts. I turned.

  “You look splendid, Simon. I knew you would.”

  Vincent Peters was born for evening dress. His was tailored, though, rather than purchased from Whiteley’s. He wore his close-fitting coat open, the warm breeze gently billowing the front pieces to expose black wool and silk beneath.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” I said, realizing I’d been staring. “Everything fits perfectly. You must allow me to reimburse you.”

  “It was nothing.”

  We followed the crowd inside until coming to a row of palms in planters nearly the size of grown men. Vincent whispered a few words into the ear of the maitre d’, and the man led us through to a table in the center of a room with walls and ceiling covered in gold leaf.

  “Do forgive me. I wanted to show you off,” he said, no doubt noticing my discomfort with the table’s prominent position. Every copper learns quickly to take a seat along a room’s perimeter, with his back facing the wall.

  A waiter brought menus. He noted Vincent’s wine choice with a nod and a knowing smile, then left us in peace.

  “Just so there’s no misunderstanding, I intend to treat you tonight,” Vincent said.

  I laughed. “You’ll have to. My salary wouldn’t buy starters here. There must be a lively traffic in rare books,” I added.

  What price, for example, might Semen Sanguis have brought?

  “The bookshop is a labor of love. But I assure you, my income is quite sufficient to treat a friend from time to time. Will you allow it?”

  “I suppose I could make an exception.”

  He nodded, pleased. “It’s not your nature to take advantage. I like that.”

  The waiter returned, decanted a small amount of dark wine into Vincent’s glass, and waited for his response. Vincent nodded.

  “You’re a very refined sort of policeman,” Vincent said as I tasted the wine. It was full-bodied and rich, with just the right bite at the end. “Raised well, I expect. What did your parents do?”

  “My mother was a lady’s maid, at least until she met my father. He was a clerk in a bookshop, actually not far from yours.”

  “The scientific bookshop,” he said. “MacGregor’s?”

  I nodded.

  “So, no money, but an appreciation for education and good manners,” he said. “Brothers? Sisters?”

  I shook my head.

  “You were enough of a handful, I suppose. No.” He peered closer, “That’s not right. You never gave your parents a moment’s trouble. Tell me, are they proud of their son the policeman?”

  It was a bit direct, a bit personal, but perhaps this was how the rich did things. He couldn’t have known that his questions were leading toward painful memories. Still, my chest tightened, and I found myself drawing away. My scalp began to tingle, and I felt that prying sensation, that psychic invasion, as if in response to my hesitation.

  “My parents are dead,” I said in a tone meant to dissuade further discussion.

  The sensation subsided. There was an awkward moment, then he said, “I’m sorry.”

  After that, conversation turned from the personal to the philosophical. As we worked our way through a procession of delicacies, talk bounced between a dizzying range of subjects. Religion, politics, the vagaries of the human condition—no cows remained sacred, no stone remained unturned. Part sword fight, part establishing common ground, it was exhilarating, and I realized how starved I’d been for this sort of intellectual stimulation. Unfortunately, man cannot exist on intellect alone. The body has its needs, and one can only deny them for so long.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  The gents was as elegant as the rest of the place. I was almost afraid to use it for its intended purpose. The idea of asking the attendant to wash and dry my hands afterward was mortifying. I was adjusting my tie in the mirror when a man sidled up beside me. It was Rupert Sudworth. Of course it was.

  “Are you following me?” I asked.

  “Please.” He pretended to adjust his tie as well. Then he said, “He’s a vampire, you know.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Sudworth was dressed to the nines in silk, wool, and satin, his dark hair slicked back from an aristocratic face. It would have been a handsome face, if not for the perpetual sneer and the dead, bottomless eyes—eyes that didn’t deign to contact mine.

  “I will excuse you, since you’re so obviously out of your depth. Vincent Peters is a vampire. Semen sanguis.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Though those two little words had hit their mark. What did he know? Or was he simply trying to rattle me?

  “Is it? Do you ever get the feeling he’s prying into your very mind? And after you’ve been together, do you experience a hunger so profound you fear nothing in the world will ever satisfy it?”

  Whatever he saw in my expression then amused him greatly.

  “Don’t get comfortable,” Sudworth continued. “He’ll tire of you soon enough. And if he doesn’t, I know what you are, and how to handle you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What would your station inspector think of how you spend your evenings off, Constable?”

  Smirking, he gave his hair one final pat, then left me before the mirror, shaking inside—and outside. It might have been an idle threat, or he might have been dead serious. Either way it brought my precarious position into focus. To him it would have been the work of a moment. Swatting a fly. A cruel story for the amusement of his friends at his club.

  To me it would have meant my life’s ruin.

  I splashed cold water on my face and took a few moments to compose myself. When I returned, Vincent was waiting, and my expression did not amuse him.

  “What did he say to you?” he demanded as I took my seat. He must have seen Sudworth leaving the gents before me.

  I shrugged. “He threatened me.” Vincent opened his mouth to speak, but I held up my hand. “I’m used to it. Professional hazard.”

  He pursed his lips, clearly annoyed but unwilling to make a scene. “I’m sorry, Simon. Rupert sees affection as a limited quantity. A bit for someone else means less for him.” He met my eyes. “Completely false, of course.”

  “A lot of people feel that way,” I said.

  “Are you one of them?”

  “Not after only two evenings’ entertainment.” Jealousy had put an end to whatever might have happened in
Scotland. I’d not make that mistake again.

  “I’m happy to hear it. But this disharmony will ruin everything. I won’t have it. Excuse me for a moment.” He gestured toward the elegant silver dishes filled with melting ice cream. “Do enjoy dessert. I’ll return shortly.”

  I did enjoy dessert. I also enjoyed watching him find Sudworth at the bar and give him a bit of a dressing down. I couldn’t hear them, of course, but the conversation I imagined was satisfying enough. He returned just as the waiter cleared away the dessert dishes.

  “Sorted?” I asked.

  He smiled. “It will be. Shall we?”

  We fell upon each other inside the cab. It wasn’t the optimal place for more than a grope. Nonetheless, when the cab pulled up in front of Vincent’s house, we staggered out, disheveled and dizzy with lust—lust that immediately drained away when I saw Sudworth standing on the doorstep.

  “What’s he doing here?” I demanded.

  “I invited him. The two of you need to make peace.”

  Cursing, I turned to signal the cab driver, but Vincent put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Please,” he said. Reluctantly I turned back around.

  Sudworth looked as happy to be there as I was. And the truth was, I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to share. The very thought of Cal with someone else had driven me to say unforgivable things to him—things I still regretted. How long had Sudworth known Vincent? How many times had he been asked to share? And why did he put up with it when it so clearly made him unhappy?

  Like two sullen schoolboys, we hung up our coats in the entryway and followed Vincent to the library. The room echoed with memories of spirited conversation and still smelled vaguely of sex. Sudworth and I eyed each other warily.