Willing (22 page)

He looked at the crowd. Constance glanced back at the robed figures, each with varying degrees of burns on their faces, each with stares of fear and shame. She wanted to render them each for what they’d done, pick through their minds for words to destroy them, but she wanted to be sure Alisdair was alright. She joined him by the altar, reaching for his head. He let her run her fingers through his hair, drawing away the slightest tinge of red on her fingertips.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?”

He turned to her, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I am. I’ll be alright.”

“Look at me.”

Alisdair met her gaze and held it for the first time since they’d made love. She remembered the intimacy of his eyes, remembered those words he’d whispered for just her. She swelled with affection all over again as tears stung her eyes, aching to say them back. He was alive. They’d made it through the ritual alive.

She took a breath, ready to confess her heart, but before she could speak, Thomas appeared at her shoulder, carrying a large wash basin and several rags. Alisdair grabbed it from his friend’s hands and led Constance to the table as Heidi and Theresa filtered in from the ballroom doors. They took one look at the body on the floor, yelped softly to each other, then steeled themselves, crossing the room to begin cleaning up the blood. Constance watched the two young women kneel beside the corpse, unfolding what looked to be a large white sheet. They draped it over him and despite Alisdair’s protests, Thomas joined them, rolling the body into its shroud. She strained to keep her eyes on them, but Alisdair was soon running warm wet clothes across her blood soaked chest, the water running pink down her belly and thighs. He rinsed and washed her over and over, but her skin remained pink.

“M’Lord?”

Alisdair’s shoulders stiffened. He turned to meet the men called Charles and Roman, his gaze returned to its wholly stern nature. “Yes?”

“What can we do to make this righ -?”

Alisdair gave a subtle snort of a laugh, and slumped back onto the table, crossing his arms. “Did you or did you not attempt to hold me down while my carriage driver tried to slit my throat?”

One of the women in the circle began to mumble, near to tears, but Alisdair simply stared at those he’d once called his peers.

“It wasn’t our fault!”

“I see. To clarify, had I been in a similar position, I’d have refrained from pinning you to a table while someone attempted to slit your throat, old pal.”

Alisdair gave Roman a heavy pat on the shoulder and walked past the crowd. Constance felt her lip curl when Roman met her gaze, but he quickly followed Alisdair, still fumbling for words of apology, as did several of his partners. It seemed those most desperately beseeching him were the younger men, the ones who’d taken her during those first rituals. Alisdair simply sauntered across the ballroom, kicking broken glass aside as he came to the main doors, and made a grand flourish of opening them. They slammed into the walls, the crash of it echoing off the high ceilings.

“What will you do to us? Will you alert the authorities?”

Alisdair turned to meet the voice, staring at Charles with confused impatience. “No, no, dear Charles. I’m not going to involve the Police. I’m just going to ruin all your lives.”

The crowd surged toward him, save for two figures that grimaced, shaking their heads in disgust. Constance moved closer to the crowd, listening intently to every word, feeling their emotions as though they painted their story on her skin. She felt pain pouring from a familiar face, pain so intense, she forced herself to drown everyone else out.

“Please, Ali! He killed my sister, there was nothing I could do!”

Both Constance and Alisdair stopped and watched Charles crumple at Alisdair’s feet, sobbing.

Constance frowned. She could hear his heart, pouring his truth out despite himself. She inhaled. “He’s not lying.”

Olivia was the sister’s name, and Constance had heard her voice in Gregory’s memory. She’d seen and heard her, the memory of the moments she first met Gregory, first climbed in his carriage, oblivious to her fate. Then, the moments when Gregory cut into her flesh, reeling with pleasure to know her body would be found in pieces, rotting under the archways of Pinchon Street, unknown and unnamed forever.

Robert Fitzsimmons stepped forward now. “Let us make this right. He threatened our families. What could we do? We knew what he was capable of!”

Jane Fitzsimmons joined her husband, reaching for Alisdair’s hand to kiss it. Alisdair let her before bowing to her, as though he were taking his leave at the end of some ball.

“Please, Alisdair. I – M’Lord. Please.”

Constance watched this strange dance. Alisdair was the son of a cobbler, a man of made wealth, not inherited. Yet, these noble men and women seemed to bow to him as though he were royalty. Constance opened herself to the crowd and listened. There were honest declarations of loyalty and helplessness, but filtered in among them, there was guilt, and even hatred.

“Get up, Charles.” Alisdair turned to her. “How can you be sure he’s not lying?”

Constance met his gaze. “Because I can.”

He took a deep breath, scanning the faces of the crowd. “Fine. You Charles - you leave with no love lost between us.”

Charles grabbed at the hem of Alisdair’s robes, and wrapped his arms around his chest, holding him and openly weeping as he thanked him. “Thank you, Ali. I’m so sorry!”

Alisdair held him a moment and spoke in soft words This gesture softened her heart, making her swell with affection for Alisdair all over again. Alisdair gestured for Charles to go. The blond man wiped his eyes, nodding, and walked out the ballroom doors, leaving the rest of the circle behind.

Alisdair took in the crowd that stood before him, then shot Constance a wary glance. “What of the rest of them, then?”

Constance crossed the room slowly, meeting each gaze with an almost disinterested air. She didn’t need to ask them questions or inspect their faces – all she needed do was listen. They seemed to all bear Gregory the same disdain, had all feared him openly. Yet, in these declarations of innocence, she kept hearing the dozens of women crying out. Some of those dozens of women were the ones Gregory had been ‘ordered’ to do away with. Were those orders simply the delusion of a mad man in league with dark forces?

“Were you aware of the women Gregory killed?”

“Of course. He threatened our own!”

Robert Fitzsimmons professed this, taking two steps toward her. Constance looked down her nose at him, listening.

“What of the women Kelly killed?”

Roman stood a few feet away, his brow furrowing in confusion at this question, but several expressions changed at the mention of this second name. Even Alisdair noticed it.

One of the startled expressions belong to Robert Fitzsimmons. “Robert. You knew what he was doing to your these girls?”

Robert’s eyes went wide, searching for explanation. “Yes. We didn’t think it was necessary at first, but – well, we couldn’t have it get back to us. They could have ruined our lives.”

“So you had them killed?”

“It’s not like they had families or anything. They were whores -”

He stopped, instantly knowing his error and willing it undone. Constance stared at him. She turned to meet the gaze of another face that had betrayed itself. This one caused a burning rage to boil wildly in her heart. “And you, Detective Jenkins. You knew.”

He took a deep breath through his nose. “I did.”

“He’s the one who suggested it!”

Robert turned to his wife as several members of the circle spun on her. Jane’s nostrils were flared as she pointed at him, growing more distressed and indignant with each passing moment. “Said they wouldn’t be missed. Said he couldn’t have them coming forward, or recognizing him. Said if we were going to be a part of this, there’d need to be precautions taken. We didn’t know how he did it, we just knew the girls would be taken care of.”

Constance turned to Jenkins, and despite her rage, she spoke with startling calm. “You are the police. We turned to you to protect us”

Alisdair stepped forward, realization dawning on his face. “All of them? All of the girls that came here? They were murdered?”

Jane took a ragged breath. “He said we had to! Said if you kept using these girls and letting them leave, you’d ruin us all - but we wouldn’t turn on you! He wanted us to. Said your way wasn’t going to work and that we didn’t need you anymore, but I swear we didn’t turn on you until he threatened us!”

Jane was pouring out her heart so freely, Constance didn’t need to listen to her mind.

Alisdair moved across the room, coming to stand over Jane in two strides. She cowered before him, unable to meet his gaze. “Were you there when they killed the girls?”

Her chin puckered as she fought back her grief. “Yes.”

“All of them!?” Alisdair’s voice cracked. This betrayal seemed far more damning than his own near assassination.

“No! No! Just the last three.” Her peers turned on her in shock for this confession. “They died quickly! They didn’t suffer!”

Jane took hold of his sleeve, but Alisdair yanked it away, turning back toward the door.

Constance turned to Jenkins. “The body found in Scotland Yard -?”

He closed his eyes and she listened to his mind.
You bloody cunt
, was all she heard. “

“Tell me, why would you let him get away with such a thing?”

He glared at her. “Because Kelly was getting out of hand. We needed to draw attention away from him.”

“Who is Kelly?” Alisdair asked.

She frowned at him. “The Ripper.”

Alisdair’s mouth fell open and he stood silent a moment. Then, he surged forward, grabbing Jenkins by his collar and backing him several strides into the wall. “You knew the Ripper by name, and you did nothing?”

“I didn’t do nothing! I made damn sure that he was stopped. I had the bastard shipped off to the colonies to protect your precious whores, so don’t you spit your venom at me.”

Alisdair slammed him into the wall two more times, but Constance called for him to stop. “Ali.”

He turned to her, his face flushed with grief. Constance nodded to him and simply reached her hand toward Jenkins, and despite being several yards away, Jenkins frantically reached for his own chest, beating at it as though he might restore his breath. But he couldn’t, for Constance held her hand there, feeling the man’s insides squeeze between her empty fingers. She watched the panic play at his face and relished it. Jenkins’ tongue began to protrude from his mouth and he collapsed to the floor as the crowd parted around him, distancing themselves as though his ailment might be contagious. He couldn’t even choke, but flailed in silence, his face turning purple. Constance felt a hand at her shoulder, and she released him instantly, startled by the sudden touch. She looked up at Alisdair and her heart hurt.

“He will be punished, love. I promise. But not like this.”

He squeezed her hand, then turned back for the doors. Kevin Jenkins gasped desperately for air, rolling onto his back as the color returned to his face.

Jane Fitzsimmons followed Alisdair to the steps. “M’Lord! Tell me you won’t turn away from us! Please. We had no choice!”

“You willfully allowed women to be butchered to protect your names. Now, I am going to personally destroy them.”

“No!” Jane cried, turning to her husband and burying her face in his chest. “Please, we won’t survive it.”

“That is precisely the point, Jane dear.”

Constance walked past the circle members one more time, meeting each expression with silent inspection. “Roman Fairmont.”

He turned on her, startled and angry. “What?!”

Constance turned to Alisdair. “He is like Charles. He wasn’t willfully involved.”

Roman’s brows shot up and his chin puckered as he fought back relieved tears. She could hear the arguments he’d had with his peers, with his own father. He protested every murderous action of the circle, but stayed at threat of his father – at threat of his own life. Constance searched the faces for the older man – Archibald Fairmont stood behind the others, his gray hair growing wiry and wild, framing his entire face in a set of long mutton chops.

Alisdair watched Roman fighting back emotion. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Punish not the son for the sins of the father.”

Roman exhaled and his whole frame seemed to lighten, released from beneath some invisible weight.

“No? Then perhaps you will inherit your father’s wealth sooner than expected.”

Archibald’s expression contorted with rage, but when he opened his mouth to speak, Alisdair glared at him, and he stilled. These wealthy, pious bastards seemed so afraid of Alisdair, and she couldn’t comprehend it. He was no force to be feared, was he? He was as gentle as a day’s breeze when he wasn’t being pinned down by a crowd of murderous pagans. Wasn’t he?

“Roman. You may go with my blessing.”

The younger man wiped his eye and steeled himself, bowing his head to Alisdair as he passed.

Alisdair didn’t bar the door from them. They could leave at any time, but yet they remained, begging for acceptance from their septon. Was that why they revered him so?