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“Are you all right?” Immediately, he regretted asking Leo that. She’d spent hours locked inside that trunk because of him. It had likely become part of her nightmare too. A nightmare that he’d played a role in creating.

“The trunk didn’t bother me. Not after the first minute or two, at least.” She finished refilling the box and gripped the edges, her fingers cinching tightly. “But something else happened last night.”

He stood from his chair slowly. “What happened? What is wrong?”

Roy Lewis chose that moment to arrive. “Morning, guv,” the sergeant called as he entered the department.

“I stopped by the telegraph room. They have something interesting from Kent.” He slowed as Leo moved out from behind his desk.

“Oh. Miss Spencer.” He crossed a look between them and seemed to realize he’d interrupted something.

“Kent?” she inquired, then shook her head subtly at Jasper to indicate that she would tell him what happened later. Impatient and irrationally annoyed that Lewis had interrupted them, he asked the detective sergeant, “Is Mrs. Bates there?”

Lewis held up a telegram from Canterbury Station. “The Stewart children are there, but she’s already gone.”

“Gone where?” Jasper asked.

“She told Mr. Stewart’s parents she was taking the train back to London.” Lewis set the telegram onto their shared desk.

“Do we know where Mrs. Bates lives?” Jasper asked.

“Rupert Street,” Leo offered. At his and Lewis’s looks of surprise, she shrugged. “She hosted a WEA meeting once. Are you going to see her?”

Jasper was more interested in calling on Mr. Stewart. And if Leo’s theory about Mrs. Bates wanting to come to roost in Geraldine’s nest was correct, he thought she was more likely to be found there.

He turned to his sergeant. “I’ll join you in the lobby in a moment.”

Understanding, Lewis tipped his hat to Leo and went on ahead. A few constables had trickled into the department, including Wiley, who shot Leo a scowl.

“What happened last night?” Jasper asked. Whatever it was, it had unsettled her. Perhaps it was why she’d been here so early.

“It will hold,” she said. “I’m missing something. What happened yesterday?”

Picking up his hat and coat, he considered telling her that it was related to the case and thus, something he couldn’t discuss with her. However, she would only take umbrage with being fobbed off. She’d then likely retaliate by not telling him what had happened to her the previous night.

So, as they left the detective department, he quietly and quickly explained that the address in Foster’s pocket was for the bank managed by Porter Stewart, that Foster had gone there a few days before his death to meet with him specifically, and that the meeting had lasted less than five minutes before Foster left in an ill humor.

“Mr. Stewart said something to make him angry?” Leo guessed.

“Or Niles Foster upset Mr. Stewart and was then told to leave.” They walked slowly toward the lobby, Jasper’s eyes peeled for Inspector Tomlin.

If they crossed paths with him and he said even one word to Leo, Jasper wasn’t sure he would be able to keep his temper as he had yesterday.

“Mr. Stewart wasn’t at home when Lewis and I called on him yesterday. We’re going to try again today.”

“We know Niles Foster was desperate for money. He’d had an altercation with a Spitalfields Angel while gambling at Striker’s Wharf, and he’d also argued with Lord Hayes,” Leo said.

“Now, we have him in a bad interaction with Mr. Stewart shortly before Sir Elliot decided against speaking at the WEA meeting. Don’t you think it all a bit odd? ”

It was certainly questionable. “Not only that, but a young lady whom Foster was…having relations with,” he said, selecting his words more carefully than he might have with Lewis, “said he’d claimed to have come into some information that was going to make him a small fortune.”

Leo stopped walking. “Do you think he might have tried to blackmail Mr. Stewart with this information?”

“It’s possible. I plan to find out.”

“May I come with you? I’ve met Mr. Stewart and?—”

“Have you forgotten that I was attacked in my home after our visit with his wife?” he interrupted. “Leo, you cannot be involved in this any longer. I’ve sent Mrs. Zhao to stay with her sister, and if I could, I’d send you too.”

She balked, but he wasn’t about to back down. Not even when she set her jaw and started to walk past him. He caught her elbow. Then lowered his voice.

“I know you want to help, and I know you’re sharper than half the men here,” he said, the admission as surprising to him as it was to her. She gazed at him in awe. “But this is dangerous work, and I cannot do it properly if I am constantly worried that something bad will happen to you.”

He held her stare until she blinked and averted her eyes. Releasing her arm, he took a breath and put some space between them. The narrow corridor where they stood was beginning to fill with officers.

“You should leave before Tomlin arrives. He’s not fond of either of us at the moment.”

“Why, what did you do?” she asked.

“Nothing I regret,” he said, deciding not to tell her about their tense interaction the day before.

Leo tried but couldn’t hold back her grin as they passed Constable Woodhouse and stepped out into the yard. “Did you punch him in the nose for me?”

Jasper barked a laugh. “As satisfying as that would have been, I can’t afford being reprimanded by Chief Coughlan again.”

“I suppose you’re right. The man isn’t worth that sort of trouble,” she said. “Good luck with Mr. Stewart.”

He’d expected more of an argument from her but dismissed his skepticism as he spotted Lewis, waiting by the stone arch. Leo started away.

“About what you wanted to tell me before,” Jasper called. She tarried a moment, looking back at him. “Come to Charles Street tonight.”

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 of The Times from the boy hawking them on 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 of her 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 of The Times instead.

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.”

His watery gray eyes skipped to his new assistant, then back to Leo. “We have things handled here, my dear.”

She couldn’t tell what that meant. Had Mr. Quinn already spotted his trembling hands? There was no way to discuss it now.

“I’ll return shortly,” she said, then went back to the office to gather her things. Jasper had said his first stop was to be Mr. Stewart’s home. Leo hurried from the morgue, hoping to catch him there.