Page 12 of Method of Revenge
“I’ll be sure to get you that list right away, Inspector,” he replied, his cynicism thick.
“See that you do by the end of the day. And how’s your licensing, Bloom?” He would have taken great pleasure in being able to shut this place down, if only for a little while.
The proprietor sniffed and rubbed his thumb against his cheek. “All up-to-date and aboveboard.”
“I’ll be checking with the magistrate on that,” Jasper said, though admittedly, to do so would be churlish. He just wishedthe trip to the wharves had turned up more leads. And now, he had to go visit the grieving husband, Andrew Carter.
“You do that, Inspector,” Bloom said. Then, standing from his stool, he added, “And so’s you know, you’re welcome back here at my place any time. I know I said coppers bring down the mood that last time you were in, but so long as you don’t arrest nobody, you’ll be fine as peach fuzz. Bring along your pretty little thing too.”
Thepretty little thingthat Bloom remembered was Miss Constance Hayes, the young woman Jasper had been courting since the autumn. Constance had brought Jasper to the club without knowing it was operated by a criminal. He’d met her through his friend, Oliver Hayes, a viscount Jasper had once arrested for drunk and disorderly, and whom he’d summarily clocked in the chin when the young lord tried to resist, claiming his status as a lord protected him from arrest. Once sober, Oliver’s entitled attitude vanished, and he’d admired Jasper for his powerful right hook.
He didn’t accept Bloom’s offer, nor did Jasper reject it. It would be better to simply leave. Anyhow, he needed to get to Carter’s address in Stepney. He thanked Bloom for his time, and he and Lewis turned for the door.
“You should bring along Miss Spencer too.”
The muscles along his spine tensed, and Jasper stopped. “You are acquainted with Miss Spencer?”
That Eddie Bloom knew her by name irked him. The criminal seemed to recognize it.
“Sure. Seen her here from time to time. And when a lady works in a deadhouse, people are bound to whisper,” he replied.
Jasper’s temper spiked. “How do you know where she works?”
“Guv,” Lewis said, attempting to redirect him toward the exit.
Bloom was baiting him, pure and simple. And yet, Jasper needed an answer.
“You mean to say you haven’t seen it yet?” Bloom asked, all too pleased with himself. He snapped his fingers again. “Harry, get me that paper,” he said, directing the waiter to the other end of the bar.
Jasper shifted his jaw in irritation as the waiter fetched it.
“Give it to the Inspector,” Bloom instructed.
The waiter handed it over—TheIllustrated Police News. Jasper had not yet seen this week’s edition. As usual, there were numerous elaborate illustrations on the front page, all of them sensational and melodramatic. Police constables were shown placing a scantily dressed woman in handcuffs; a couple was drawn next to the small coffin of a child, the woman on her knees in anguish while the man bowed his head, his hat held to his heart; and a pair of thieves were shown smashing a shop window. The popular weekly paper was little more than shocking entertainment.
Jasper held it up. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“Page three,” Bloom answered, his mouth curling into a smirk.
Grudgingly, Jasper flipped to that page—and saw it.
In the lower left-hand corner, a cameo-shaped illustration all but stopped his pulse. It was of a young woman in a gown of mourning black, standing in a deadhouse next to sheeted corpses. Her dark hair was down around her shoulders in a fashion she never wore, but the artist had captured most of Leonora Spencer’s facial features well. The salacious headline underneath read:Lady deadhouse worker knows all about murder!
Jasper gripped the paper’s edges, blood hammering in his ears as he scanned the first few lines of the short article. It seemed to be a profile on Leo, revealing that she worked in adeadhouse with her uncle, who’d taken her in after she’d been orphaned as a child. Her family had been brutally murdered “right before her eyes,” according to the author, while she was left alive “for mysterious reasons.” And now, she worked with dead bodies, “haunted by the Grim Reaper himself,” while also being known to assist Scotland Yard in the solving of a murder or two.
Jasper searched for the name of the reporter, but the piece wasn’t attributed to anyone. Who the bloody hell had written this? And how had the illustrator known so well what Leo looked like? He checked the date. It had been printed just yesterday.
“It seems Miss Spencer’s making a name for herself,” Bloom said. “Sad story about her family though. I’d nearly forgotten all about it.”
Jasper slapped the paper onto the bar. “What do you know of it?”
“Only what everyone else who was around back then knows,” he answered, unconcerned. “A terrible thing. But it’s good to see she’s grown up into a fine young woman. Safe and sound.”
Jasper’s pulse had steadily increased as Bloom was speaking. “This article is rubbish. Unless there is something more you want to say about Miss Spencer, I think we are done here.”
Bloom only smiled, seemingly pleased to be working his way under Jasper’s skin. He’d wanted a reaction. Maybe a violent one. Any reason to sic his thugs on the two Scotland Yard officers. When Bloom spoke next, it took every ounce of Jasper’s self-control not to give it to him.
“There is, in fact. I hear you and the lady are like family,” he said. “I’m a gentleman. Old-fashioned like. Thought I’d check with you first before inviting her for a dance.”
