Chapter 6 #2
Once he arrived at Scotland Yard, however, he was able to set it all to the side as he greeted Constable Woodhouse at the front desk, and then the rest of the men in the Criminal Investigation Department.
Constable Horace Wiley, who had applied for but been denied the secondment to Liverpool for the very investigation Jasper had just wrapped up, scowled an envious hello, but the others were pleased to see him.
Word had come down of the counterfeiters’ arrests, and Detective Sergeant Roy Lewis had suggested a round of drinks at the Rising Sun that night to hear all about it.
Regretfully, Jasper had needed to postpone the gathering until the following day, as he was due to pick up Leo.
After asking Detective Sergeant Warnock to find the record of Theodore Stroud’s death and leave it on his desk, he wired the Liverpool station requesting another two days’ leave. Then, he set out for the morgue.
In the dusk, the stained glass windows of the old vestry glowed with lights from the gasoliers inside, and when Jasper entered the building, he heard a sound coming from the postmortem room that he recognized: the jovial whistling of the former assistant city coroner, Claude Feldman.
He pushed open the door to the inner room to find Leo’s uncle placing the final closing sutures on the unclothed corpse of a young woman.
He averted his eyes out of respect for the woman but was momentarily confused.
Claude was no longer coroner here, and yet, when the older man looked up from his work, he brightened visibly, as he had for the last few years whenever Jasper visited the Spring Street Morgue.
“Ah, Inspector, how good it is to see you. My niece has informed me that you’re here for a short visit.” Claude snipped a length of catgut thread with a pair of small scissors. “How is Liverpool?”
Jasper peered toward the door to the back office, where Leo could usually be found, typing up postmortem reports, death certificates, and any other bit of paperwork that was required.
“Let’s just say I am ready to be home,” he replied. “I hadn’t expected to see you here. What has happened to Mr. Quinn?”
The door to the office opened, and Leo swept into the postmortem room.
The morgue cat, Tibia, trotted in her wake, and such was the depth of Jasper’s homesickness that he was actually pleased to see the furry, gray-striped monster.
Not enough to go in for a scrub of her fur, of course—she would have sunk her claws into his hand had he dared.
“I will tell you all about it on our way to Craven Hill,” she said, already wearing her coat, hat, and gloves.
“The bequest is quite remarkable,” Claude commented as he covered the young woman with a clean white sheet. “As is the request from the late Mrs. Stroud.”
Before the cotton could settle over the woman’s head, Jasper saw bruising around her neck and clavicle. This was a murder, then. It distracted him a moment from what Claude had said.
“I’m not sure what we’ll find in the matter,” Jasper replied. “It has been twelve years, after all.”
And he would have a mountain of work on his desk when he returned to Liverpool in a few days. He would not be able to give the death of Francine’s son much attention. While Leo might be able to look further into the matter, he did not want her investigating the boy’s fatal fall on her own.
They left Claude to close the morgue for the evening, and at a nearby cabstand, Jasper hired a hansom.
“All right,” he said after helping Leo into the cab and their driver had started in the direction of Hyde Park; Craven Hill was located on its northern boundary. “Tell me what your uncle was doing at the morgue just now.”
The narrow space on the single, forward-facing bench meant that they were seated close together.
So, as she told him about the strangled young woman and how she had been Connor Quinn’s former betrothed, his attention was repeatedly challenged as Leo’s arm and leg jostled against his. Hell, he had to get ahold of himself.
“So, your uncle came to do the postmortem,” he deduced.
“Yes, and we sent Connor home,” she replied. “He was quite distraught.”
Jasper could understand, though his mind was already churning. “How long ago did they part ways?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“If it was my case, I’d look at the men in her life. Strangulation is almost always a murder driven by passion.”
She leaned away from him, as if stunned. “You cannot possibly suspect Connor of causing her death!”
“I don’t suspect anyone, as it is not my case,” he reminded her. “It will be assigned, I’m sure.”
Roy Lewis had picked up many of the cases that would have otherwise been assigned to Jasper, and DCI Coughlan had even given the detective sergeant use of Jasper’s office these past few months.
From what Jasper had heard while at the Yard earlier, Lewis was doing well, solving most of the cases he was assigned with relative swiftness.
Leo turned forward again, her arm once more resting against his. He liked the light touch. It was comfortable, and yet it also made his blood run swiftly.
“I wish you could investigate it,” she said.
Though she said nothing more than that, Jasper’s instinct sharpened. He knew the way her mind worked.
“Leo,” he began, his tone firm. “The police will look into her death. If this woman was murdered, you cannot involve yourself.”
“She was wearing a shopgirl’s uniform for Gleason’s Department Store when she was found,” she said, purposefully ignoring him. “Dita has just started working there.”
He closed his eyes and swore under his breath. Not softly enough.
“You needn’t worry.” She reached over to take his hand in hers. “I’m only going to ask Dita if she knew Miss Hailson. It is a harmless question.”
“I would much rather you let the investigating detective speak to Miss Brooks,” he replied, though he knew it was pointless. Leo was going to do what she wanted to do. It was yet another reason why he wanted to finish his last few tasks in Liverpool and be back in London, for good.
They rode the rest of the way to Craven Hill in relative quiet, their hands still joined.
Bit by bit, Leo’s arm leaned more closely against his, and when their cab turned off Park Lane onto Bayswater Road, she dropped her head against his shoulder.
Having her nestled there, snug and content, felt entirely right.
He wished for more privacy than what the hansom could provide, even if it brought them to that same precarious edge from the night before.
However, he settled for the pleasing weight of her body leaning against his as they finished the drive to Francine Stroud’s former home.
As expected, the houses along the street were refined and stately structures, established in straight rows along the street.
With dusk now gone and night coming in fast, soft gaslight brightened the windows of most of the homes.
However, Number 19 was a dark void among them.
The driver pulled to a stop along the pavement, and regrettably, Leo sat up straight.
Jasper handed her down and paid the driver, asking him to wait.
Then, considering how dark the home was and how long it had been unoccupied, he asked the driver if he might borrow the lamp hooked to the side of the cab.
“The gas has likely been turned off,” he explained to Leo when he met her at the front door with the lantern. He gave her the key Mr. Corman had given him, and she opened the door.
Stale, cold air greeted them. Their footsteps echoed through the foyer, as did the click of the door as Jasper closed it behind them.
Sheets had been draped over the furniture and portraits on the walls in the entry way as well as those inside the rooms to their immediate left and right.
Jasper raised the cab lantern, illuminating long stretches of cobwebs reaching out from the arms of a gas chandelier overhead.
“I don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary,” Leo said, her voice unnaturally loud in the silent, vacant space. “Shall we go upstairs? The letter said the bedroom was—”
Jasper held out his arm, stopping her from taking another step toward the staircase. He’d lowered the lantern, strange markings drawing his eye to the floor. Crouching, he brought the light closer to a mess of muddy boot prints on the white-tiled floor.
“Someone has been here,” he said.
Leo followed the prints through the foyer. “They look to be coming from the back of the house.”
Jasper stood tall again. “Stay with me,” he commanded, his pulse rising. “Whoever made these could still be inside the house.”
Leo did not return to his side. Instead, she crouched low, as he had. “Bring the lantern over here, will you?” She waved him down beside her. He saw it right away—a streak of rusty red mixed into the brown mud, as if a boot heel had slipped and skidded to the side.
“Is it blood?” she asked.
Jasper reached for his revolver. “It looks to be. Go outside. Stay there while I search the house.”
“Absolutely not.” She jumped to her feet. “I’m staying with you.”
Of course, she was. He gritted his molars and handed her the lantern.
“Fine. At least stay close.” He continued toward the stairs, with Leo on his heels.
As they climbed the staircase, more traces of mud and blood could be seen on the pale blue carpet.
The press of blood into the fibers of the carpet appeared denser as Jasper followed the prints toward an open door at the landing.
It was the room, he realized, that Francine Stroud had directed them to in her letter.
Before clearing the threshold into the room, an inkling of what they would find shuddered through him.
Sheets draped everything inside this room as well—except for the woman lying in the dark, prone on the floor.
A pool of blood underneath her head gleamed in the lantern light.
She’d come to rest so that her unseeing eyes were turned toward them.
Leo gasped, though Jasper knew it wasn’t a reaction to seeing a dead body. It was because of who it was.
They had found Helen Dalton.