Page 61 of Method of Revenge
Two reactions gripped Jasper. The first, an unexpected streak of envy. The second, a flash of suspicion.
“You dined together two weeks ago?” he repeated. Constable Murray nodded.
“I asked her to a chophouse,” he said with a faltering smile.
Jasper’s mind clicked forward along that track of suspicion. “I imagine she told you about herself and her work at the morgue.”
“Well, yes, she spoke highly of her work?—”
“What about her family? Did she tell you what happened to them?”
A light of understanding flickered within the constable’s irises, and Jasper knew he’d guessed correctly.
“No. I…already knew about that.”
Jasper cocked his head. “Enough to write about it?”
Constable Murray licked his lips. “I don’t…I don’t take your meaning, Inspector.”
“For sixteen years, not one story has been printed about the Spencer murders, and yet, less than two weeks after your dinner out with the one surviving member of that family, an article shows up.”
Guilt was an interesting expression. It never failed to transform a face in the same ways. A softening of the brow, a tightening of the mouth. The flare of nostrils and the hard swallow of panic, or perhaps resignation.
Constable Murray’s expression hit every tell appropriately.
“You fancy yourself a writer, do you?” Jasper asked now that he was certain. “Keeping your ears open for a good story to sell?”
The man didn’t reply but at least had the good sense to appear mortified.
“Did you only approach Miss Spencer because you intended to write about her?”
He shook his head. “No, not at all. It wasn’t my intention, but once she began to tell me about herself, I suppose…I was fascinated.”
Jasper’s temper spiked. “You betrayed her trust and exposed her in one of the city’s largest newspapers because you werefascinated?”
“I thought it would be beneficial to show the world what a modern young woman is capable of,” he said, stammering as he flushed more deeply.
At the lobby receiving desk, Constable Woodhouse pretended not to be looking on or listening, and a few passing officers also tried not to show their intrigue. Jasper lowered his voice.
“Bollocks. You wrote that article to benefit one person: yourself. And if I hadn’t just had my own arse handed to me by my chief, warning me to be on my best behavior, you can trust that I’d be sending your teeth straight down your throat.”
He stepped away from Jasper, who for several seconds considered making good on the threat anyway. The urge subsided, though only by a sliver.
“You owe Miss Spencer the truth. Am I understood, Constable?”
Constable Murray nodded tightly, shamefaced and unable to meet Jasper’s fulminating stare. It was on the tip of his tongue to also order him to stay a far step away from Leo after he’d made his confession. But Jasper didn’t want her to accuse him of interfering. Besides, there was no chance she would have anything to do with Murray after this.
Jasper turned and left the lobby, catching Constable Woodhouse’s approving smirk as he went.
The kettle on the hob inside Mrs. Zhao’s kitchen steamed. The housekeeper picked it up and sent Jasper a chiding frown.
“You should have stayed in hospital.” It was at least the third time she’d said it in the half hour since he’d arrived home.
He sat at the table in the center of the kitchen, surrounded by bowls of peeled potatoes and carrots, a chopped leek, rising bread, and a crock of potted beef. She’d been preparing supper when he’d come in, his clothing bloodied and torn, and she’d dropped everything to tend to him. For Mrs. Zhao, that meant scolding him for his poor choices.
“I was occupied,” he replied, also for the third time.
Jasper, straddling one of the cane chairs at the table, had removed his ruined shirt to give her access to his back. Mrs. Zhao poured the steaming water from the kettle into a bowl of vinegar and honey, then dipped a square of clean linen into the liquid.
