Claude checked Jasper’s head, including both pupils, and pressed lightly on his injuries, eliciting a muffled curse in response.
“You look worse than you are,” her uncle announced. “Your head should feel better in a few days, but with a concussion like that, you’ll need to be cautious not to overdo things. Just go slowly.”
The advice was sound, but Leo knew Jasper wouldn’t heed it. Going slowly and not overdoing things simply weren’t in his blood.
Jasper thanked him, and Claude announced that he would be taking Flora back to Duke Street before going to the morgue. He eyed Leo over the rim of his spectacles. “We’ll wait for you downstairs, my dear.”
She would go with them, of course, as she was still in her dress from the day before.
“You’ll stay at home today?” she asked Jasper after her uncle was gone.
He started toward the tall bureau. “No. I need to get to the Yard and let Chief Coughlan know what happened.”
Leo imagined the whole of Scotland Yard would wish to know why the detective inspector looked like he’d lost a boxing match to an opponent twice his size, which Jasper would loathe explaining.
“You heard my uncle,” she said. “You must take things easy today.” But it wouldn’t change his mind. He was too stubborn.
“I have a murder investigation,” he said, moving stiffly to the wardrobe.
“Your only lead is a man named Olaf, who works for the Angels,” she pointed out. “You truly mean to press forward with contacting them? Jasper, you were nearly killed last night.”
He pulled a pressed and starched white shirt from a hanger. With slow movements, mindful of his injuries, he slid his arms into the sleeves. The sight of him dressing slammed into her with fresh impropriety.
“If they’d wanted me dead, they would have either gutted me or put a bullet in my head. Besides, I have another lead.”
The blithe description of how they might have killed him made her feel ill. But the mention of another lead lit her interest. “What lead?”
Jasper began to do up the shirt buttons. Warmth gathered under her skin. She really ought not to have been watching him dress.
“A bank,” he said.
“Which bank?”
“Despite my being concussed, I’m not addled enough to tell you.” He sent a wry glance in her direction. “But it’s possible Foster visited it shortly before he died, and I’d like to know why.”
Leo wasn’t sure it would lead to anything. The man had been penniless. He’d likely wanted to borrow money. But she kept the pessimistic thought to herself.
“Claude is waiting for me,” she said, moving to leave. “He doesn’t want to be late to the morgue today. He has a new assistant. Mr. Quinn.”
Jasper pulled at his collar. “That can’t be good.”
He knew of Claude’s infirmity and that any assistant would be watching him closely.
“It isn’t. Mr. Quinn is fresh out of medical school and just so happens to be the chief coroner’s grandson.” The man had been infuriating the evening before, pointing out that she wasn’tbeing paid and assuming she would wish to work for a wage. He wasn’t entirely wrong. She did want paid work—at the morgue.
She’d avoided Mr. Quinn for the last few hours of the day, searching the vast crypt for the boxes containing her family’s belongings. The trouble was that Claude couldn’t quite recall where he’d stashed them. Leo had gone through piles and piles of detritus before hearing Mrs. Zhao’s voice upstairs, shouting for help.
“Please be careful today,” she told Jasper as she stepped into the corridor. He nodded.
“And Leo?” She glanced back into his room. “Thank you.” He hooked a thumb at the armchair. “For keeping vigil and putting up with that lumpy relic.”
She smothered a grin and went to meet her aunt and uncle in the foyer.
Mr. Quinn attended Claude during three postmortem examinations before noon. Leo did as well, much to the young man’s discomfort. During the first, in which she stood unflinching as Claude removed the dead man’s clothing, Mr. Quinn blushed furiously. He even asked her if she might be more at ease stepping out until the deed was done.
“Mr. Quinn, do you suppose I have never seen a naked dead body in all the years I’ve worked here?” she’d asked, slightly pleased by the additional splotches of red appearing on his cheeks. Mr. Higgins, Claude’s past apprentice, had not been embarrassed by her presence—just irritated.
Mr. Quinn had spluttered, turning a deeper shade of tomato red. “Surely, this poor fellow would not wish for a young woman to look upon him in this state.”
