Read Online A Charm of Magpies 03 Flight of Magpies by Kj Charles - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kj Charles
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Superintendent Raphael. What you do, Mr. Day, that’s what I call revenge.”
“Nonsense,” Stephen said, startled. “I’m doing my duty here, Inspector, nothing else.”
“Maybe you are,” Rickaby said grimly. “But I don’t think much of your duty, or your justice, or your Council either. Fred Beamish was worth ten of any practitioner I’ve met. He deserves a devil of a lot more than to be brushed under the carpet while you keep your secrets.”
Stephen flushed at the accusation in his eyes. “Noted,” he said stiffly. “Why don’t I try to find out who did this to him, and then we can decide what to do about it?”
Two long, miserable, fruitless hours later, Stephen left the charnel room and Rickaby behind. He made sure he was several streets away before he propped himself against a wall and took some very deep breaths, willing the stench of blood and excrement out of his nose.
He hated this, hated it so much. It was his job and it had to be done, and of course whoever had turned Beamish into chopped liver needed to be dealt with, but dear God, if he never saw another revoltingly mutilated corpse, he would be a happy man.
His fingers felt contaminated from the touch of the body. He moved to rub them on his trousers, realised that he was wearing a decent suit of clothes, and had to dig inside a pocket for a handkerchief. He scrubbed it over his fingertips, one by one and then all together. There were no marks left on the white linen, but his fingers still felt stained by the dead man’s blood and pain.
Stephen leaned against the cold, damp brickwork, because while he stood here, he didn’t have to do anything, and he couldn’t bear any of what he had to do. Rickaby was furious, and accusatory, and right, curse him. Two policemen, decent men, were dead, crying out for justice that Stephen would not give them. Saint was a thief. Crane was trammelled, frustrated, visibly losing patience. And worried too, Stephen was sure, though he never showed it.
Stephen didn’t want to go back to the flat.
It seemed ludicrous to feel so reluctant. He loved Crane’s home, with its comforts, its warmth, Merrick’s effortless competence and bone-dry sarcasm, and Crane’s presence, so powerful that he could feel the man’s imprint in the ether whether he was there or not. Most of the happiest moments of his life had taken place there, in the last few months. Every time he caught himself thinking of the flat as home, Lucien’s bed as the place he belonged, he felt dizzied by his own privilege. Arrogant, beautiful, domineering Lord Crane, with the caring that made Stephen’s heart break, and the vicious streak that made his knees bend, had chosen him among all the men’s men of London, and treated him with a loyalty, generosity and almost painful honesty that made Stephen’s heart hurt. And his reward was a few doled-out crumbs of Stephen’s time in a country he hated.
Time Stephen was wasting now. He forced himself upright and made himself walk, jamming his hands in his pockets against the chilly bite of the winter wind, and wondered how long they could keep this up.
Four months ago, in the unhappy knowledge that he had fallen helplessly and irrevocably in love with a man who wanted to be on the other side of the globe, he would have given anything for Crane to have ties to England. Then Crane had told him that he was the tie, that he wouldn’t leave England without Stephen by his side, and Stephen had fully understood why one should be careful what one wished for.
His life had worked before Crane, more or less. He’d had friendships, his time had been more than filled with the demands of the job, he’d managed the occasional backstreet encounter, even. It hadn’t been the life of his dreams, but then, Stephen had never really had dreams, and if he had, he would certainly not have presumed to dream of someone like Crane. All he had wanted to do was survive, manage, to keep on top of his life and work
“Nonsense,” Stephen said, startled. “I’m doing my duty here, Inspector, nothing else.”
“Maybe you are,” Rickaby said grimly. “But I don’t think much of your duty, or your justice, or your Council either. Fred Beamish was worth ten of any practitioner I’ve met. He deserves a devil of a lot more than to be brushed under the carpet while you keep your secrets.”
Stephen flushed at the accusation in his eyes. “Noted,” he said stiffly. “Why don’t I try to find out who did this to him, and then we can decide what to do about it?”
Two long, miserable, fruitless hours later, Stephen left the charnel room and Rickaby behind. He made sure he was several streets away before he propped himself against a wall and took some very deep breaths, willing the stench of blood and excrement out of his nose.
He hated this, hated it so much. It was his job and it had to be done, and of course whoever had turned Beamish into chopped liver needed to be dealt with, but dear God, if he never saw another revoltingly mutilated corpse, he would be a happy man.
His fingers felt contaminated from the touch of the body. He moved to rub them on his trousers, realised that he was wearing a decent suit of clothes, and had to dig inside a pocket for a handkerchief. He scrubbed it over his fingertips, one by one and then all together. There were no marks left on the white linen, but his fingers still felt stained by the dead man’s blood and pain.
Stephen leaned against the cold, damp brickwork, because while he stood here, he didn’t have to do anything, and he couldn’t bear any of what he had to do. Rickaby was furious, and accusatory, and right, curse him. Two policemen, decent men, were dead, crying out for justice that Stephen would not give them. Saint was a thief. Crane was trammelled, frustrated, visibly losing patience. And worried too, Stephen was sure, though he never showed it.
Stephen didn’t want to go back to the flat.
It seemed ludicrous to feel so reluctant. He loved Crane’s home, with its comforts, its warmth, Merrick’s effortless competence and bone-dry sarcasm, and Crane’s presence, so powerful that he could feel the man’s imprint in the ether whether he was there or not. Most of the happiest moments of his life had taken place there, in the last few months. Every time he caught himself thinking of the flat as home, Lucien’s bed as the place he belonged, he felt dizzied by his own privilege. Arrogant, beautiful, domineering Lord Crane, with the caring that made Stephen’s heart break, and the vicious streak that made his knees bend, had chosen him among all the men’s men of London, and treated him with a loyalty, generosity and almost painful honesty that made Stephen’s heart hurt. And his reward was a few doled-out crumbs of Stephen’s time in a country he hated.
Time Stephen was wasting now. He forced himself upright and made himself walk, jamming his hands in his pockets against the chilly bite of the winter wind, and wondered how long they could keep this up.
Four months ago, in the unhappy knowledge that he had fallen helplessly and irrevocably in love with a man who wanted to be on the other side of the globe, he would have given anything for Crane to have ties to England. Then Crane had told him that he was the tie, that he wouldn’t leave England without Stephen by his side, and Stephen had fully understood why one should be careful what one wished for.
His life had worked before Crane, more or less. He’d had friendships, his time had been more than filled with the demands of the job, he’d managed the occasional backstreet encounter, even. It hadn’t been the life of his dreams, but then, Stephen had never really had dreams, and if he had, he would certainly not have presumed to dream of someone like Crane. All he had wanted to do was survive, manage, to keep on top of his life and work
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