Editor Doyle and Thomas both stared at Blackburn, waiting for his response, but Blackburn only sighed and dragged a hand down his exhausted face.
Handsome or not, he didn’t look as if he’d been sleeping that well since the last time I’d seen him. “I haven’t the slightest clue about what the author of this letter is referring to. Perhaps he’s talking about the headlines calling him Leather Apron.”
I cleared my throat and looked at Mr. Doyle. “The author of this letter said not to show it around for a few days. Why ring Superintendent Blackburn?”
Mr. Doyle turned his world-weary gaze on me. “Even if this letter proves false, sent from some deranged citizen, I could not in good conscience keep it to myself.” He swallowed a gulp of tea, then removed a flask from his person and unapologetically took a swig. “I’m holding off printing it, but should he follow through with his threats, I wanted my mind free of guilt.”
A haunted feeling suddenly clung to me. Something strange was going on aside from the editor’s seemingly remorseful outreach. Something out of place that I couldn’t quite touch on. Then it occurred to me; Thomas Cresswell was unusually quiet. This would normally be the part where he had plenty to say or argue over.
He brought the letter close to his face and sniffed. I hadn’t the slightest inkling how he’d be able to deduce anything from scent, but knew better than to claim it impossible. The word did not apply to him in any form.
“I assume this was delivered in an envelope,” he said, not bothering to look up from his inspection of the letter. “I’ll need to see that immediately.”
Mr. Doyle tossed a glance Blackburn’s way, seeking him to jump in and say it wouldn’t be necessary, but Blackburn made an impatient gesture with his hand. “You heard the young man, Doyle. Hand over any evidence he requests.”
With a deep scowl settling into place, the editor did as he was asked. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who appreciated bending to children’s needs. Considering Blackburn himself wasn’t much older than my brother, I was certain Mr. Doyle was questioning why he’d involved police at all.
Thomas studied every angle of the envelope, twice, before handing it over to me, his expression carefully composed. “Any of this appear familiar to you, Wadsworth?”
Taking the envelope from him, I silently read it. There was no return address, and the only thing written across it was “The Boss. Central News Office. London City” in the same taunting red ink the letter was drafted in.
The very idea it would be at all something I’d seen before was absurd.
Then a thought slapped me in the face.
Did he think I’d written it in hopes of aiding Uncle? Was that what he thought of me, then? I was some spoiled girl, walking about London streets, doing whatever I pleased without regard to anyone? Was my position as a lord’s daughter showing itself in my abuse of privilege?
I thrust it back at him. “Afraid not, Cresswell. I’ve never seen this before in my life.”
If I was expecting some sort of response by using his surname, I was sorely disappointed. He didn’t so much as bat one of his long lashes at me. He studied me for another breath, then nodded. “Right, then. My mistake, Audrey Rose.”
“Mistake?” Blackburn glanced between us, a crease forming in his brow. “If rumors are to be believed, since when does Dr. Jonathan Wadsworth’s protégé make mistakes?”
“Seems there’s a first time for everything, Superintendent,” Thomas replied coolly, his attention finally drifting away from me. “Though, as someone with a bit more practice being wrong, I’m sure you can empathize. Tell me, what’s it like being—”
I rested my hand on his arm and forced myself to giggle uncontrollably, garnering strange looks from each male in the room. Except Thomas, who fixed his attention on the hand still touching him.
Blasted Thomas. Was I always to rescue him from himself? Blackburn was an untrustworthy annoyance, but he’d proven useful for once. I wasn’t in the mood for Thomas to make an enemy of him today, especially when Uncle’s life was potentially at stake. I held my hand up. “I do apologize. Thomas has a wicked sense of humor. Don’t you, Mr. Cresswell?”
Thomas stared for a beat, then let out a long, annoyed breath. “I admit that’s a fair assessment. Though poorly deduced as usual, Miss Wadsworth. Unfortunately your uncle’s talent has skipped you entirely. At least you’ve got an attractive smile. It’s not much, but will surely make up for your lacking mental faculties. Well,” he amended, his focus straying to Blackburn, “at least for someone equally dull, that is.”
I gritted my teeth. “While that may be true, we really should be on our way. We’ve got that experiment we need to check on in the laboratory. Remember?”
“Actually, you’re wrong again, my dear.”
I was so mad I could scream some of the worst obscenities I’d heard at the docks at him. He was ruining our exit strategy, and I was most certainly not his dear.
When I thought all hope was lost, Thomas checked his watch. “We should’ve left precisely three minutes and twenty-three seconds ago. If we don’t run now, our experiment will be destroyed. Best if we hail a carriage.” He turned to the editor and superintendent. “It’s been as pleasant as a fast day in Lent, gentlemen.”
By the time they figured out his parting was, in fact, an insult, we were already rushing out through the bustling newsroom and exiting onto the cool afternoon streets. We didn’t stop walking for a few streets, silence our only companion. Finally, once we’d made a good enough distance to not be spotted by Blackburn, we stopped.
“What is the meaning of that question?” I demanded, anger swelling back up inside me. I could not believe he really thought so little of me. So much for telling each other the truth no matter what.
“I was not insinuating you had anything to do with writing the letter, Wadsworth,” he said. “Truly, you must harness those blasted emotions of yours. They’ll just get in the way of our investigation.”
I did not feel like having this conversation again. He might be able to act machinelike during our horrid investigations, but ice and stone were not the material forming my blood and bones. “Then what, exactly, were you insinuating?”
“Someone who was wearing Hasu-no-Hana two nights ago was in close proximity of that letter.”
I closed my eyes. “You can’t be serious, Thomas. That’s your major discovery? You think you can identify our murderer by a perfume scent? How can you be sure someone working in the General Post wasn’t wearing it?” I tossed my hands in the air. “Perhaps the letter carrier had it next to another letter written by someone’s secret lover. Maybe they spritzed their envelope in their beloved’s favorite scent. Did you ever stop to think of that, Mr. I Know Everything?”
“You were wearing the very same fragrance two nights ago,” he replied softly, staring at the ground, all hints of arrogance gone. “The night you visited the asylum and followed me to the Necropolis. I smelled it on you in the alleyway. I went to several shops trying to find the exact scent…” He looked at his hands. “I wanted to purchase it for you.”
If he’d reached out and slapped me, I would’ve been less shocked. This was what my only true friend in the world thought of me; I was a monster waiting to be unleashed. Maybe he was right. I certainly didn’t feel like crying, or begging for him to believe me. I didn’t even feel good about his admission of wanting to buy a gift for me. I felt like drawing blood. His blood in particular.
“So you are suggesting I had something to do with this!” I half yelled, walking away before turning back. He still wouldn’t meet my glare. “How dare you? How dare you think such reprehensible things of me. It’s the most popular scent in London! For your blasted information, both my aunt and cousin were wearing the very same fragrance. Are you implying one of them wrote the letter?”