“Unusual.”

  “The official used the word ‘unhealthy’ to describe the state of local opinion, ‘necessitating a “cooling-off period.”’ Well, ‘unhappy’ describes my state. I had three—count them, Clemmie—three private patients I needlessly rescheduled.”

  “Well, that’s looking up.”

  “Looking up? That’s practically Piccadilly Circus in my waiting room,” she said, dropping into her chair. “Anyone requiring attention at the start of our rounds? Our blast patients?”

  “No signs of infection among them, thank goodness. We’ll need to reorder carbolic solution.”

  Julia nodded, glancing at the wall clock. “No … no messages for me?”

  “Were you expecting—”

  “No, nothing,” Julia said, standing. “Let’s begin.”

  Richard’s first day back at the Yard. Of course, he’s swamped.

  An hour later, a young constable with his helmet tucked under his arm appeared at the door of the men’s ward. “Doctor Lewis? I have a message from Inspector Tennant.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Tennant arrived at Trig Lane as a low layer of marine fog crept along the Thames.

  At the street’s end, the masts of low-slung hay boats sprouted from the water like a winter forest. Before long, the moored flotilla would vanish into the curling mist, leaving creaky rigging and slapping water the only hints they were there. Along the lane, abandoned wharf-side warehouses leaned together, sills and lintels peeling and sagging, their hoisting hooks and chains rusted from disuse.

  “The constables are finishing their sweep of the wharf,” O’Malley said. “They’ll not be seeing the tips of their boots in another ten minutes.”

  Tennant nodded. “What have they found?”

  “Nothing to speak of, but the lads who stumbled across the cab plucked a prize from the trash.” O’Malley handed Tennant a false ginger beard.

  “Well, well,” he said, holding it by an ear hook. “Where are the boys now?”

  “I’m after sending them with a copper to the potato peddler on the corner. The pair of them could use something hot and filling.”

  Two mortuary assistants waited outside the warehouse with a wagon. A driver from the City of London Hackney Company looked downriver and frowned. “Fog’s coming on something fierce, guvnor,” the cabman said.

  “We won’t keep you long. All right, Paddy, let’s have a look at our victims. Then we’ll release the cab to this gentleman.”

  Tennant followed O’Malley across the warehouse threshold. The sergeant aimed the beam of his bull’s-eye lantern into the gloom. The triangle of light illuminated a horse that had consumed most of the hay bale brought by the company driver. The animal had drained a bucket of water as well.

  “Half-starved, the poor creature,” the sergeant said. “With nothing to eat or drink since Tuesday.”

  “Point the lantern inside the cab, Paddy.”

  O’Malley redirected the beam, lighting the bodies of a crumpled woman in the far corner and a man face down on the cabin floor.

  “Looks like bruising on the lass’s neck and blood stains on the cabbie’s throat and collar,” the sergeant said. “I spy nothing on the seat or floor.”

  “No handbag? After we remove the bodies, take another look in the daylight.”

  “What’s left of it.”

  “And check the young woman’s pockets before they take her away for the postmortem.” Tennant signaled the stretcher-bearers.

  The bearers transferred the corpses to the mortuary wagon. Rigor had come and gone, and cold weather had delayed death’s cloying stench, so the grim task was relatively easy. The cab-man crossed himself as the bodies passed. He led the horse out of the warehouse, and O’Malley took a final look inside the hackney’s cabin, finding nothing. Then the driver turned the cab around and rattled up Trig Lane’s cobblestones, passing a policeman and two lads munching their last baked potato bites.

  O’Malley clapped the taller, dark-haired boy on the shoulder. “Inspector Tennant, this is Bert Hawley and his brother, Sammy.”

  “Good work spotting that ginger beard.” Tennant leaned over the boy’s basket. “Anything else we should know about?”

  “Sarge had a squint and said no,” Bert said.

  O’Malley nodded. “A tin can and a coil of copper wire.”

  “Might earn you a shilling or two,” Tennant said. “Were you mudlarking here on Tuesday afternoon?”

  Bert scratched his head under his tweed cap. “That when the blighter and the girl got done in?”

  “We think so.”

  “Nah,” the boy said. “We was ’larking over by Southwark Bridge that day.”

  “Think back to the last time you were here,” Tennant said. “Did you see anyone hanging about? Someone who looked out of place?”

  The boys exchanged glances and shook their heads. Sammy pointed to the beard in Tennant’s hand. “Can we have it back?”

  “I’m sorry, son.” O’Malley ruffled the younger boy’s sandy hair.

  Tennant fished in his trouser pocket. “You boys turned over valuable evidence like loyal subjects of the queen. You deserve a reward with her face on it.” He handed each boy a half crown.

  “Cor blimey, two-and-six,” Sammy said, staring at the coin in his palm. “Wait’ll Mum sees this!”

  “Aiding the Yard in our investigations,” O’Malley said. “That’s champion. Now, the officer will see you home and explain things to your mam.”

  Tennant watched the boys scamper up the lane with the constable trailing them. “Stumbling across two dead bodies … they don’t seem worse for the experience.”

  O’Malley grinned. “If they’re anything like my nephews, they’ll be entertaining their mates with every gory detail.”

  “You’re probably right. Did you retrieve Brigid Dowling’s carpetbag from the Chapter House?”

  “Yon copper’s looking after it,” O’Malley said, waving over a young constable.

  “There’s little doubt, but we’ll need the Chapter House desk clerk to identify the victim as Brigid Dowling and link the body to the bag.”

  “I asked the fella to report to Horseferry Road at three o’clock.”

  “Good. That should give Doctor Lewis time to arrive.” Tennant took out his pocket watch. “Let’s flag a hackney before the fog swallows them all. You can brief me on the way to the mortuary.”

  They found a cabstand on Upper Thames Street, took their seats, and headed toward Westminster as the leading edge of the river’s mist turned midafternoon to dusk.

  “Let’s start with Brigid Dowling’s belongings,” Tennant said.

  O’Malley hauled the carpetbag from the floor and balanced it on his knees. It was a typical double-handled textile case in a plum-and-green flower design. It lacked a lock, but the owner had added a buckle to secure its contents. The sergeant unhooked the strap and parted the handles.

  “The lass had a change of linen and stockings, a nightdress and wrap, a pair of slippers, and a net bag of toiletries.”

  “Anything that confirms her identity?”

  “A label inside, stitched into the fabric.” O’Malley pointed to the spot. “Here. ’Tis hard to see in this gloom, but it says B. Dowling and gives an address in Ireland.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She had a telegram tucked into an inner pocket from the Chapter House, confirming her reservation.”

  “No letter?”

  O’Malley shook his head. “You were expecting one?”

  “Yes. I have the note Brigid sent to Lady Styles.” He pulled it from his pocket and handed it to O’Malley. “Read the last lines.

  “According to this, a letter from Lizzy Dowling should have been on her.”

  “Yes. Something in the sister’s letter upset the girl. She intended to discuss the matter with Lady Styles.”

  “And I’m thinking there should be a second note as well,” O’Malley said. “The desk clerk said a boy delivered a message for Brigid Dowling.”

  “Did the clerk know the sender or its contents?”

  “Brigid read it at the desk, looking tickled pink, he said. ‘A lady’ was sending a carriage to pick her up at two.”

  “The supposed writer was Lady Styles, I’d wager.” Tennant explained what he’d learned at Marlborough House about the death of Lizzie Dowling on the Isle of Wight.

  “Puts the sister’s death in a new light,” O’Malley said. “No jury will return an open verdict on this girl’s demise.”

  “Did the desk clerk see Brigid Dowling get into the hackney?”

  “That he did not, but I was just getting ’round to someone who did. A sweeper lad with sharp eyes on him saw her get into the cab with a ginger-bearded fella.”

  “Well, well. Any other details?”

  “Tall and thin, the lad said, and he dressed like a toff in a gent’s boots and a bowler hat. Waiting in a cab at the door for a good quarter hour.”

  “Someone went to considerable trouble to silence a servant girl,” Tennant said.

  “A callous brute of a man, slaughtering the cabbie to cover his tracks. Curdles the blood, it does.”

  “Callous and well-informed about the girl’s movements,” Tennant said.

  “Narrows our list of suspects, I’m thinking.”

  “To those who knew where to find Brigid Dowling on Tuesday afternoon.”

  O’Malley buckled the carpetbag. “Is it Doctor Lewis who’ll be doing the postmortem?”

  “I sent her a message to meet us at Horseferry Road.”

  Here it is, nearly Christmas, Tennant thought. I should have called at the clinic to say goodbye. A few more hours wouldn’t have mattered to the chase, although it had seemed urgent at the time.

  He regretted it now.

  Julia’s cab slowed to a stop in front of the Horseferry Road mortuary. She spotted Tennant pacing the pavement, his back to her.

  She exited the hansom, dropping her half-crown fare. It lodged in a crevice between two cobbles. By the time she retrieved it and paid the driver, Tennant was only a few steps away. He looked thinner than she remembered and had a strained look around his eyes. The chase has taken a toll. Her glance fell to the sling and his bandaged right hand.

  “I got in the way of Romilly’s knife,” Tennant said, smiling. “Nothing serious.”

  “By the size of that bandage, that’s more than a scratch. Well, a proper handshake is out of the question, so …”

  She brushed his cheeks in French fashion, then held her gaze steady before stepping back. “Thank goodness. Home, safe and …” Her voice caught. “Safe and mostly sound.” She smiled and tried to keep her tone light, adding, “Although you’re a shockingly bad correspondent.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tennant said. “The post …”

  “We were worried.”

  Julia hooked her arm around his left elbow, and they mounted the steps. “Your note mentioned two postmortems. Isn’t the commissioner piling it on your first day back?”

  “The two deaths entangle Marlborough House and Osborne House in murder.”

  Julia stopped at the top of the steps. “What do you mean?”

  “Someone murdered Lizzie Dowling’s sister.”

  “Good God.” She dropped his arm and turned, searching his face. “That means Lizzie—”

  “Was murdered, too.”

  “And the second body?”

  “The cabdriver who might have identified the killer.” He opened the door with his left hand. “I’ll take you to Brigid Dowling’s body and then find O’Malley. He’s somewhere inside, trying to soothe Willie Sommers, the desk clerk who’s here to identify the body. One of our few witnesses.”

  In the examining room, Julia removed the covering sheet and drew a breath. So like Lizzy, she thought. She smoothed back the sister’s auburn hair, and tears stung at the waste of another young life. She spent ten minutes on initial observations and then prepared Brigid Dowling’s body for identification.

  O’Malley escorted a white-faced, bespectacled young man into the cramped examining room. He raked nervously at his straw-colored hair, leaving patches that stood up like a badly scythed hayfield. Julia had turned the gaslight burners up, and the clerk blinked at the brightness. The bump in his throat jumped as he looked at the shrouded figure on the table.

  “There’s no rush, Mister Sommers,” Julia said. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

  The young clerk swallowed hard and nodded. She drew the sheet to Brigid’s chin, exposing her auburn hair and pale face, shielding the livid bruises on her neck.

  Tennant asked, “Is this the young woman who registered as Brigid Dowling and left her carpetbag at the Chapter House?”

  “Yes,” the clerk rasped and turned away. Julia replaced the sheet and patted his arm.

  Tennant said, “Thank you, Mister Sommers. Sergeant O’Malley will take you to another room and ask you to sign a statement.”

  “Never seen a dead body before.” The clerk’s hand shook as he pulled off his spectacles and wiped them with his handkerchief.

  “Come along, son,” O’Malley said, gripping the clerk’s arm. “We’ll find you a cup of tea and a quiet place to finish our business.”

  When the door closed behind them, Julia said, “We forget, don’t we?”

  Tennant regarded her curiously. “Forget what?”

  “The sight of our first dead body.”

  “Paddy remembers. He’ll see the fellow through it.” Tennant pulled out his watch. “It’s getting late. I must inform the commissioner and Marlborough House without delay.”

  “Of course,” Julia said. “There is no need to stay.”

  “I know.” He half smiled and said, “If anything, I’m in your way.”

  “I didn’t mean that. Two postmortems will have me working well past seven. It’s a long time for you to wait.”

  “That’s a long day for you as well. I’m most interested in Brigid Dowling. May I suggest you finish her autopsy and then return tomorrow to complete the cabbie’s postmortem?”

  “I have an appointment in the morning that I can’t postpone.”

  “Then Doctor MacKay or Doctor Abernathy. I’ll see to it.”

  Julia folded the sheet to Brigid’s shoulders and brushed her auburn hair from her forehead. “Nine months ago … we stood in this exact spot, looking down at another Irish girl who died violently. Franny Riley.”

  “The man who put Franny on this table will never harm another person.”

  “Grandfather and I are eager to hear about it.”

  “Then may I … will you permit me to drop in at Finsbury Circus later this evening? To hear your preliminary findings?”

  “Of course.” Julia looked at him, surprised by his stilted tone. “Barring surprises, it appears straightforward. Manual strangulation.”

  “I’d also like to hear about Lizzie Dowling and the events on the Isle of Wight.”

  “And I’d like to look at that hand,” Julia said, pointing. “You may think it’s nothing, but infection is always a danger. Those bandages should be changed.”

  He looked at the smudgy wrappings. “You’re probably right.”

  “Come for dinner if you can manage it. If not, then something in the library on a tray.”

  “Thank you.”

  Julia remembered the last time he sat in her library. Collapsed is a better word. It was their last meeting before the dismaying end of the Romilly case. He’d been too exhausted to finish Mrs. Ogilvie’s sandwiches. Then he disappeared for nearly six months.

  The same Marlborough House footman who had admitted Tennant earlier led him into the hall to wait for Lady Styles. The only change to the foyer was the holiday pots of white chrysanthemums and holly that the staff had added since the morning. Tennant circled the room, checking the time. Just before six. Not changing yet for dinner. He’d just tucked away his pocket watch when Lady Styles appeared.

  “Good evening, Inspector,” she said, offering her hand. “Your return must mean news, good or bad.”

  “I’m sorry to say it’s bad news, Lady Styles. Brigid Dowling is dead.”

  She closed her eyes. “I’ve been afraid of that.”

  “There is little we know at present, but the commissioner and I thought Marlborough House should be informed immediately.”

  “Thank you, Inspector. It’s been a long day for you, I know.”

  Tennant glanced over his shoulder. The foyer opened into hallways traversed by passing servants. “May we speak somewhere more private? Perhaps the room where we sat this morning?”

  “If you don’t mind the chill. The servants don’t light a fire there in the afternoon.”

  “I won’t keep you long, but if you prefer to get a wrap …”

  She shook her head, and Tennant followed her to the sitting room. They sat in the same chairs they’d occupied that morning.

  “We found Brigid Dowling’s body and that of her cabdriver in an abandoned warehouse near the river. He’d picked her up at two o’clock. Someone murdered them within a half mile of the Chapter House.”

  Susan’s hand flew to her throat, clutching the mourning brooch pinned to her collar. “I thought …” She cleared her voice. “I thought perhaps an accident, not murder.”

  “Shall I ring for the footman? Some water, perhaps?”

  Susan shook her head. “Just a moment, please, Inspector.” She wrapped her arms and shivered in the cold room.

  Tennant watched her. Her gaze dropped to the carpet. Her focus moved back and forth between two points on the patterned rug. That morning, he sensed a formidable intelligence behind her gaze. He thought, She hasn’t said she doesn’t understand or asked what it means. Lady Styles was working it out for herself.

  Finally, she looked up. “Is there anything more you can tell me, Inspector?”

  “We know that someone lured Miss Dowling to her death. A witness saw a tall, well-dressed man with a ginger beard waiting for her with a hackney. A false beard, as it happens.”

  Tennant paused, expecting a reaction or a question. When none came, he continued. “The witness saw them enter the cab, and we recovered a costume beard near the murder site. We found no letter on her body or with her belongings.”