When Mallory didn’t answer, Sherlock spoke up. “The officer outside said you’d received a tip. Is that why you’re here? Someone said the missing weapon is here in the house?”
I’d made several stupid mistakes in my dealings with my father and his crimes, but none were as dumb as throwing the weapon he used to kill all those people into the lake in Regent’s Park. I’d thought at the time I was breaking his serial killer ritual, stealing his weapon away to make everyone safer. But it didn’t stop him at all, and only aided his fight against the charges in the end. My father had kept what could have become the figurative smoking gun in his closet, and I had no one but myself to blame that it was no longer there as proof of his guilt.
“A tip,” I said, suddenly very sure who had instigated our night’s chaos. “Was it an actual call? Or did one of my father’s loyal officers suddenly get a hunch?”
Mallory flipped another page but did not look up. It was almost as if he thought I wasn’t worth the effort. “Your answer, please.”
“Don’t you think I have the right to know why there are strangers snooping through all my private things before I subject myself to your questions?”
“No.” He hit his fist against the table hard enough to make his teacup rattle in the saucer. Then he cleared his throat and softened his tone again. “You gave up those rights when you accused a police detective of being a serial murderer and then chose to remain living in his house.”
“I am sixteen, which you know gives me every right to choose to live on my own, and this is my house.”
“This is still a crime scene, if you told the truth—”
“I did.”
Mallory continued on as if I hadn’t spoken. “—so, no, Miss Moriarty, you have no rights here. And I will ask my question once more. Do you or do you not have the sword that was used to kill citizens in Regent’s Park?”
I stared at the top of his head until he finally looked up at me, then I said, “I do not.”
Mallory nodded. “I see. Well, it has yet to be found. I suppose it will be a key piece of evidence in determining who actually committed those crimes.”
I crossed my arms. “As if you don’t know.”
Mallory stared at me silently.
“So, we’re pretending now that you didn’t stop him from killing his own daughter?”
“He was slashed across the face and chest. Some might think he had no choice but to protect himself.”
Lock’s hand came to rest on my shoulder, which was the only thing that kept me from screaming my next words. “I told you he did that to himself.”
“Yes. Using a knife that had your prints on it.” Mallory turned away from my glare and back to his papers. “You seem to think that it’s a small thing to make such giant accusations against a policeman. It is not. The Westminster Police Borough is a brotherhood, Miss Moriarty. When one of our own succeeds, we all triumph. When a brother falls, we all mourn. When one of our own sins”—he looked up to meet my eyes again—“we are all stained.”
“Then your hands are bloody, Detective Inspector Mallory, first with the blood and bruises of three innocent boys you failed to protect from the fists of your brother-in-arms.”
Mallory flinched, and I slammed my hand down on the table, drawing his eyes back to mine, and Lock’s hand back to my shoulder.
“Second, with the blood of the five from the park.” I lowered my voice and held out my hand to show him my clean palm. “You and I can share the stain of a girl who was strangled for bringing my brothers a pie. But, make no mistake, if you claim that man as your brother, your hands are stained, Inspector. They may never come clean.”
Mallory opened his mouth to speak, but I turned and stormed from the kitchen before he could, shouting behind me, “You won’t find what you’re looking for here, so get the hell out of my house.”
But my words were overrun by a bright-eyed uniformed officer who dashed through the front door and into the kitchen shouting, “Guv! We found something!”
A herd of officers converged on the entry and followed Mallory out the front door, leaving Lock and me to stare after them.
“What could they find?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Nothing out there but the rubbish bins.”
“Bins that have been on the street for how many hours?”
I didn’t know, but everything was too quiet for a beat, and then I heard Alice shout, “Kid, stay behind me!”
I was out the door before Sherlock and almost ran into the backs of two officers who stood guard on the bottom step. And while they wouldn’t let me pass, there was just enough space between them to see what an officer had dug from our trash.
It was a hand. A severed hand, mottled gray and slightly puffy with rot, stuffed into a large, clear zipper bag.