The request was met with a hitch of her chin. He’d said it without thinking. Mrs. Zhao wouldn’t be there, so inviting an unmarried young woman—even if it was Leo Spencer—to his home wasn’t proper. In fact, it was just short of indecent. And yet, he made no move to rescind the offer or apologize. He would be a gentleman, of course.
If she considered the invitation unseemly, she said nothing of it. Leo only nodded and continued along her way.
Anticipating that there would be little for her to do at the morgue that morning, thanks to Connor Quinn’s undesirable presence, Leo had bought a copy ofThe Timesfrom the boy hawking themon the corner of Whitehall Place and Charing Cross Road.
There were still plenty of her father’s papers for her to go through, and Aunt Flora’s letters to her mother were worth another read. But she hadn’t slept well after her conversation with Mr. Bloom, and the idea of going into the crypt to search for more clues to their deaths seemed to put lead ballast in her boots. The newspaper would occupy her, and she wouldn’t have to think about the murky, dangerous endeavors her father had been undertaking and for whom.
She’d left the house earlier than usual, eager to look through a prisoner album before the detective department filled up and to tell Jasper about Mr. Bloom’s warning—even if he would be tempted to throttle her for going to Striker’s Wharf alone. That she was unsettled enough to endure one of Jasper’s lectures just so that she would be able to share what Mr. Bloom had warned her about was alarming in and of itself.
The Carters hadn’t forgotten about her. They were keeping an eye on her even now. If that was so, was Jasper also within their view? Did they suspect who he might truly be? Their long-lost James… A boy who had betrayed them.
Leo clutched the newspaper, a shiver jumping through her limbs despite the bright sunshine shedding warmth over the street. The rain and fog of the last few days had cleared, leaving pale blue sky and a promise of spring. She would tell Jasper tonight. Mrs. Zhao wouldn’t be there, but that didn’t matter. At least, she didn’t think it did. If any other man had invited her to his home, she would never have dreamed of accepting. But there was nothing wrong with her visiting Jasper.
She let herself into the morgue through the back door. The scent of coffee wafted under her nose. Mr. Quinn stood at the cottage range, pouring himself a cup of the steaming black brew from a beaker. He was wearing a different suit this morning, she noted. Gray rather than brown. She felt slightly guilty for saying the brown one was ugly. It hadn’t been, and it had been petty ofher to say as much. So was the decision not to apologize, but she could live with it.
“Coffee, Miss Spencer?” he asked.
“No, thank you, I prefer tea.” She tossed the paper onto the desk and hoped it signaled her claim to it.
“Would you mind having a look at the reports from yesterday before they’re sent to Mr. Pritchard?” he asked. Leo hung her hat on the stand and peered over at him.
“Why? Is there a problem with them?”
“I hope not,” he answered with a theatrical grimace, followed by a smile. “No, I was simply reading through past reports yesterday when things were slow and noted how thorough and detailed all of yours have been.”
Leo continued to look at him, uncertain if he was being sincere. Mr. Quinn’s expression remained expectant as if waiting for a reply.
“You’re complimenting me?”
He smiled again. “I suppose I am.” He touched a small pile of manila folders on the desk. “They’re here. Of course, I understand if you don’t have the time.”
She picked up the folders and set them on the other side of the typewriter, silently assenting that she would read them. He thanked her and left for the postmortem room, where a corpse had been delivered overnight. Though she would have much rather seen to the corpse, Leo fixed herself some tea and then opened the top folder. She was reading through the third report when Claude arrived.
He hung his coat and hat on the stand, then rubbed his hands together the way he often did when the tremors were stronger.
“It will be quite noticeable today, I’m afraid,” he said. Leo started to stand, intending to join him and distract Mr. Quinn. But he raised a hand to stay her. “It’s for the best to just be done with it. Let things take their course.”
She knew he was right, even if it made her heartsick. Claude wrinkled his brow in resignation before joining Mr. Quinn in the postmortem room. It was foolhardy to think she might be able to distract the younger surgeon forever during the postmortems. He would see Claude’s tremors eventually, and it seemed her uncle wanted to get the moment over with.
Finishing with Mr. Quinn’s reports, which she had to admit were sufficiently organized and thorough, though studded with misspellings, Leo drained her tea and eyed the postmortem room door. The urge to go in was nearly all-consuming. But she opened the morning issue ofThe Timesinstead. On the third page, under the heading Metropolitan News, which was a compilation of events and accomplishments, a printed surname pulled her eye directly to it. Backing up a few lines, she read from the start:The Conservatives for Political Values met at the Guildhall Tuesday last. Mr. Jos. Banford, MP, presided over the meeting, in which Banford announced several new members and future MP candidates, including Mr. Timothy Rye, Mr. Virgil Andrews, and Mr. Porter Stewart.
Leo read the notice again, her nerve endings beginning to tingle. Porter Stewart…a member of Conservatives for Political Values? And a future candidate for Parliament? But Geraldine had said her husband wasn’t political at all. He supported her endeavors with women’s suffrage and the WEA, while the conservatives in the government most certainly did not. Why would he align himself with them? It would be tantamount to turning his back on his wife’s work. Unless there was another Porter Stewart in London. Though, she doubted that was the case.
She folded the paper, trying to make sense of this new revelation. There was something to it. A betrayal that Geraldine surely had not known anything about. But now, here it was, printed in ink for all of London to see.
Leo entered the postmortem room, where Claude and Mr. Quinn were peering into a chest cavity. “The scar tissue on the aortic valve is quite severe, as you can see,” Claude said, indicating the heart valve with a rubber-clad glove.
“Damage like this is typically caused by rheumatic fever,” Mr. Quinn said.
“I agree,” her uncle said. Looking up, he spotted Leo. “You’ve been quiet this morning.”
“I’ve been reading,” she replied, then eyed the corpse. “Perhaps she had scarlet fever beforehand, then developed rheumatic fever and later, severe valvular heart disease?”
The corpse belonged to a woman in her thirties. By the state of her hair, skin, and teeth, and the callouses and chilblains on her hands, she’d lived in poverty. There always seemed to be intermittent outbreaks of scarlet fever winding through the poorer parts of the city and boroughs.
“Yes, quite right, Miss Spencer,” Mr. Quinn said. His surprised tone, as if she was rather plucky and clever to have made a correct guess, grated.
“Your reports from yesterday are fine, Mr. Quinn, except for some misspellings. I’d say they are ready for Mr. Pritchard’s eyes.” He started to thank her, but she abruptly turned to Claude. “I’ve an errand to run, if you don’t need me.”
