Page 25 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
Miss Dumont lifted a hand to her nose. “Sang de Dieu. What is that foul odour?”
Callahan didn’t bother with a response.
Death had a smell. A taste.
He withdrew a box of lucifers and a candle from his greatcoat. The small flame illuminated a scene that would have given even the most hardened criminal pause.
Blood. So much blood – spread beneath the body of a man sprawled across the floor. His throat had been slashed.
A gasp from behind him reminded Callahan that he wasn’t alone. Miss Dumont swayed on her feet, her face pale. He grasped her shoulders to steady her.
“Take her out of here,” he said to Alexandra. “I need to search the premises.”
Callahan shut the door on their retreating backs and turned back to the body, jaw tight.
The cut was clean and precise – one swift slash from ear to ear. Poor bastard had bled out in moments. This was the kind of skill that spoke of practice. Of cold efficiency. He’d trussed up enough of his own over the years to recognise a professional’s handiwork when he saw it.
Callahan took a look around the flat but only found a rope discarded on the floor. He glanced at the body with renewed interest. Well, well. Seems the gent here tried his hand at tying up the elusive Miss Dumont and found his throat slit for the trouble. Other than that bit of evidence, she’d left nothing behind. Not a scrap of paper. Not a piece of clothing.
Just the brutalised body lying there like a letter written in blood.
By the time he exited the flat, Miss Dumont seemed to have collected herself somewhat, though her eyes were still glassy with shock. She gripped Lady Alexandra’s hand.
“No sign of anyone else,” he said. “But if your sister slit that man’s throat, she aimed to send a message. Precise work. He bled out fast. Can’t have been more than an hour or two. Rigor hasn’t fully set in.”
Callahan watched as understanding dawned on Alexandra’s face, her eyes widening.
“A message?” she repeated. “What makes you think—”
“She wanted this death witnessed. Found. Whoever your sister’s got herself tangled up with, she just declared war on them.”
Emma met his gaze. “The Syndicate. Isabel betrayed them.”
Callahan went very still. In his line of work, there were certain organisations, certain nasties you simply Did Not Fuck With. And the Syndicate? They weren’t just on that list. They were at the top.
“Come with me,” he said. “Now.”
Less than a half hour later, Callahan ushered the women up the narrow stairs and into his rooms.
“A trifling fucking problem, that’s what you told me this was,” he growled, rounding on them. He pointed an accusing finger at Alexandra. “The Syndicate isnota trifling problem.”
“Well, how was I to know?” Alexandra asked, defensive. “I’m not the one gallivanting about with international spies. You ought to tell me these things.”
Callahan ignored her, turning his glare on Emma. “You. Tell me everything you know about your sister’s involvement, or I am tossing you out on your arses this instant. I will throw every pound of that money right after you unless you start talking. How did your sister get involved with an international crime ring?”
Emma’s breath quickened as she struggled to find the words. “I don’t – I don’t know. After our mother died, she started frequenting the gaming hells and private clubs where aristocrats gathered. We’re the bastard daughters of a duke, and she . . . wanted to settle scores. Ruin them. Take their money.”
Callahan said nothing, merely gesturing for her to continue. After a weighty pause, Emma took a shaky breath and pressed on.
“I didn’t know the details of what she got herself into. It was just last night I heard mention of the Syndicate from an ally of Isabel’s.”
Callahan scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw, his mind racing. “If your sister gathered information on aristocrats, she would have attracted the Syndicate’s notice. They doubtless sought to recruit her skills.” He gave a dry, humourless laugh. “Fuck me, this venture keeps getting better and better.”
“Isabel did what she needed to survive when no one else gave a damn whether we lived or died,” she snapped. Her eyes flashed with anger. “Our mother was sick, and we had no money. You’ve no right to judge either of us, Mr Callahan.”
Callahan’s mind drifted back to his youth, to the dark alleys of Whitechapel where he’d learned to pick pockets and break into homes. He’d done what he needed to survive, just as Isabel had.
“Go on, Mr Callahan.” Alexandra smoothed her skirts over her knee. “Tell us about the Syndicate. What is it?”
