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Jasper descended, extending his hand to her.

More than ever, Leo didn’t want to take it.

But this time, it wasn’t out of anger or spite.

It was because when she touched his hand, she expected to feel a strange coiling in the center of her chest. One that had everything to do with the way his heated gaze had just briefly touched on her lips.

She braced herself, took his hand, and stepped down. Then swiftly retracted her palm. “I’m going to see what more I can learn about Emma Bates.”

“Leo—”

“I’m not going to speak to her directly. Trust me, Jasper, I know better than to approach a murder suspect.”

He sealed his lips, biting back a certain retort. Maybe he only refrained because she’d addressed him as Jasper rather than Inspector, as she had before. Jasper was who he was. Leo knew that now, even if the rest of it was still muddled and confusing.

“I’d worry less if you stayed out of it,” he said.

“I have to go,” she said, moving off. She’d been away from the morgue long enough. “Uncle Claude needs me.”

He grumbled under his breath, then climbed back into the cab, telling the driver to go to the Yard. She hurried through the rain to the front door of the morgue, pretending that parting company with him wasn’t a bit of a comedown.

She was grateful the lobby was empty, but as she shook the rain from her coat, a low murmur of voices could be heard in the postmortem room. Listening at the door, she recognized two voices: one belonged to her uncle. The other, to the deputy assistant coroner, Mr. Pritchard.

Grimacing, Leo entered the postmortem room. She was met with not two men, but three.

“Ah, Miss Spencer,” the deputy assistant coroner said, failing to mask his disappointment in seeing her, despite the smile he pushed onto his lips. A mustache and long beard obscured most of his mouth and weak chin.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pritchard.” She joined them around the corpse of a woman whose rib cage and abdomen were open for examination.

The second, unfamiliar man moved quickly to pull the sheet over the corpse’s head. He was younger than Mr. Pritchard, under thirty years old, with a neatly trimmed mustache and black hair that curled at his nape.

“That isn’t necessary, Mr.…?” Leo waited for someone to introduce them.

“Quinn, miss,” the young man said for himself. “Connor Quinn.”

“May I introduce my niece, Miss Leonora Spencer,” Claude said, his hands clasped behind his back as he rocked forward, heel to toe, and back again—something he only ever did when nervous.

Mr. Quinn bowed his head in greeting.

“Miss Spencer is not affected by morbid sights as most ladies are,” Mr. Pritchard explained, though by his tone, he ought to have said, “…as most normal ladies should be .”

“Ah, yes, my grandfather mentioned a woman helps here on occasion,” Mr. Quinn said.

“Grandfather?” Leo echoed.

“Chief Coroner Giles,” Claude explained. His mild grin appeared to be a warning for her not to visibly react. The chief coroner directed every morgue in London as well as all the coroners and clerks employed within them. And this was his grandson.

“Mr. Quinn has recently graduated from London Hospital Medical College with top marks in surgery,” Mr. Pritchard explained, laying a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “He’s shown an interest in the work of a coroner.”

Connor Quinn smiled tightly, rolling his shoulder ever so slightly so that Mr. Pritchard would remove his hand. The deputy assistant coroner did and cleared his throat.

“As I was saying before your arrival, Miss Spencer,” Mr. Pritchard went on, “the influx of ordered inquests these last few months have quite outpaced one man’s capabilities here. And not to put too fine a point on it, you’re not getting any younger, Claude.”

Mr. Pritchard laughed good-naturedly, as though he was teasing.

Leo held her breath, suddenly wary. In March, an apprentice from the medical college, Mr. Higgins, had spent a handful of weeks working with Claude.

The young man had been placed at Spring Street Morgue by his professor, who also happened to be a friend of Chief Coroner Giles.

Mr. Higgins had been morose and lazy, and he’d soon moved on, but both Leo and her uncle suspected he’d witnessed the palsy affecting the steadiness of Claude’s hands.

It was entirely possible Mr. Higgins had informed his professor and that the rumors had spread to the chief coroner’s ears.

“I’m placing Mr. Quinn at Spring Street for the foreseeable future under your training, Claude,” Mr. Pritchard now said. “I think it will be a good transition for everyone.”

Transition . The word spoke volumes. This young surgeon, fresh out of medical college, would be working here now. And in short order, he would replace her uncle. Leo had known to expect something like this, but it still managed to take her breath away.

“As for you, Miss Spencer,” Mr. Pritchard continued, forcing more artificial gaiety, “surely you desire to move along in the natural direction of a young woman’s life. I’ll be turning next to finding a more suitable clerk for the morgue.”

Leo held her tongue, though it felt as if the floor had started to tremble beneath her feet.

So now that Claude was being pushed out, she would be as well.

Of course, the only reason she’d been allowed there to begin with was because Chief Superintendent Gregory Reid had put in a good word for her with the police commissioner and the chief coroner.

But during the years she’d been there, she’d worked hard and done well.

Postmortem reports were detailed and thorough, the morgue was organized, as was all the paperwork.

Mr. Pritchard, however, wasn’t the sort of man who would acknowledge the advantages her presence had provided.

“Now, I must be off,” he said. “Connor, I’ll leave you to receive a tour of the premises. I’m sure you’ve questions for Mr. Feldman.”

Mr. Quinn stood in place as the deputy assistant coroner left, and then the three of them were alone. No one seemed quite sure what to say until Claude finally pierced the quiet.

“I’ll find you some garments.” He went to the supply closet, where chemicals and tools were stored, along with extra tall rubber boots, vulcanized rubber gloves, leather aprons, and dark brown laboratory coats.

“You are a typist here, Miss Spencer, is that correct?” Mr. Quinn asked.

Leo bristled. “Typing is one of my duties. I also log personal possessions in the register, transcribe notes during examinations, and attend the families and funeral workers when they arrive for identification or collection.”

That she would make incisions on corpses from time to time and then close them afterward was not something the incoming surgeon would ever need to know.

“Forgive me, but when my grandfather said a woman was helping at the morgue, I could not quite imagine what it was she’d be doing. It seems a queer thing for a lady to involve herself in the business of death.”

This sentiment was no new thing. It didn’t bother Leo. What did cause her to bristle was knowing that this man would be the one to push her uncle from his much-needed job.

“But it makes perfect sense now,” Mr. Quinn continued. “It is commendable that you help your uncle when the work must be so very disagreeable for you.”

In the supply closet, Claude was whistling a made-up tune, as he did so often while working.

“Actually, Mr. Quinn, I enjoy the work,” she said. “And I plan to continue with it.”

He frowned. “But as Mr. Pritchard has said?—”

“Mr. Pritchard stated that he wanted a suitable clerk for this morgue’s increasing number of cases,” Leo cut in. “As he has had no complaint with my work for nearly five years, I believe I am quite suitable.”

Her anger was driving her to be purposefully obtuse. This wasn’t about wanting better work or more competence. Mr. Pritchard simply wanted a suitable male clerk.

Amusement crossed Mr. Quinn’s face. It was smug and condescending, and his eyes, which were the light brown color of weak tea, conveyed disbelief.

“Are you paid for your work here, Miss Spencer?”

She pressed her shoulders lower at the unexpected question. “That is none of your concern.”

“I’ll take that to mean you are not. So may I ask why you would wish to continue working for no pay?”

In the closet, her uncle’s whistling stopped. Leo’s cheeks warmed. The truth was, as soon as her uncle was let go from his position, she would no longer be able to afford to work for free. She would need to support him, Aunt Flora, and herself.

She was grateful for Claude’s timely return, carrying a lab coat, apron, and appropriate boots for his new assistant. Overwhelmed by the feeling of being thwarted, Leo would not be able to stomach showing Mr. Quinn around the morgue with her uncle.

“I’m going to start going through those boxes you mentioned were stored in the crypt,” she told Claude. She’d not yet had a chance to search for her family’s few possessions that he’d stored there, and now seemed to be the perfect time to begin.

“Ah yes, let me show you where they are,” he said, latching onto the excuse to step away from their unwanted guest.

As Mr. Quinn donned his garments, they stepped into the back office, out of sight.

“What now?” Leo whispered. “There is no chance Mr. Quinn isn’t going to notice your hands shaking. And he won’t hesitate to tell his grandfather, I would guess.”

Claude rubbed his palms together, looking down at them as if they had betrayed him. With a sad shake of his head, he sighed. “I’m sorry, my dear.” He gripped her arm and gave it a light, reassuring squeeze. “I fear my time has come. And I don’t think there is anything we can do except to let it.”