Page 2 of Method of Revenge (Spencer & Reid Mysteries #2)

Chapter Two

T he bell above the lobby door inside the Spring Street Morgue pealed. Jasper’s head throbbed in protest. It had been in a tender state for days, thanks to several late nights at Scotland Yard—and probably more drams of whisky than were strictly necessary. A Jane Doe case had been lingering on his desk for nearly a month, and it had a hold on him.

The young woman had been found in an alley, her skull crushed, and according to Claude Feldman, the city coroner, she had been with child. The murder had precious few leads to begin with, and now, they’d all dried up.

Detective Chief Inspector Coughlan at the C.I.D. had quit pressing him for updates on the investigation last week, commanding Jasper to instead give his full attention to other cases. But he hadn’t been able to let the Jane Doe case go. The last several nights, he’d stayed late to pore through the interviews he’d had with the pair of vagrants who’d found her, the details of catalogued items that had arrived at the morgue with her body, and her postmortem report, searching for some clue he’d missed.

Standing at nearly six feet, Jasper was tall enough to raise his arm and close his fist around the lobby bell, silencing the lingering chime. He did not want to be here. Nor did he want this new case. The chief had cornered him first thing that morning, assigning him the suspicious death at Eddie Bloom’s nightclub. “It’s high-profile and needs to be handled swiftly and with care,” Coughlan had instructed Jasper. Lowering his voice, he’d warned, “And discretion, Reid. Utter discretion.”

When he’d explained who the victim was, Jasper understood his chief’s concern, even as his temples started to pulse with new pain.

The door to the postmortem room opened, and for a bewildering moment, Jasper believed he’d mistakenly stepped into the wrong morgue. An unfamiliar man had entered the lobby. He wore the same type of examination coat and apron Claude always did with a pair of tall rubber boots into which his trouser legs were tucked. He was young, with a small, rodent-like face and disinterested eyes.

“May I help you, sir?” he asked, though with an inflection that hinted it was the last thing he wished to do.

Jasper blinked in confusion. “Who are you?”

“Ah, Inspector Reid.” Claude came into the lobby behind the other man. “I don’t think you’ve had the pleasure of meeting our Mr. Higgins. He’s come to us as an apprentice from the medical college, placed here by his professor, who happens to be a friend of Chief Coroner Giles.” The older man’s overly jovial tone and raised silver brows hinted that this was not, in any way, a pleasure. “Mr. Higgins, may I introduce Detective Inspector Reid of Scotland Yard. You will likely be seeing more of him while you’re with us.”

The young man continued to look peeved, eyeing Jasper’s extended hand a beat too long before grasping it in a listless shake.

“Come in, Inspector,” Claude said.

The city coroner was a kind man, pushing seventy, and unsurprisingly, he was a bit eccentric. One would have to be when one’s work involved the dissection and examination of corpses. The term eccentric applied to Claude’s niece too, considering Leo had, on occasion, assisted her uncle with opening incisions and closing sutures on the bodies when his hands shook uncontrollably—something the two of them had been trying to conceal from the deputy and chief coroners. Having an apprentice observing him at the morgue would not be a welcome thing.

“You must be here for the young woman who was brought in last evening,” Claude said as they entered the postmortem room.

“Yes, Gabriela Carter.” Jasper couldn’t mask his lack of enthusiasm. Anything having to do with the Carter family—the front-runners of the East Rips, a criminal gang out of London’s East End—put him in a foul mood.

Gabriela had been the new wife of Andrew Carter, the youngest of Patrick Carter’s many sons. Patrick had formed the East Rips a few decades ago and had led it until his death three years earlier. Now, the syndicate was headed by his eldest son, Sean.

Claude led them through the vast space that had once been a church vestry. The building, attached to St. Matthew’s Church, had an alcove lined with stained glass windows. When the sun shone through them, as it currently did, colorful light shed over several autopsy tables in the room, a number of which were occupied.

Jasper looked toward the open door to the back office, from where the clacking sounds of a typewriter’s keys emanated. “I’ll also need to speak to Leo.”

The noise of the typewriter ceased. The sound of a chair sliding along the bare wooden floor followed, and a moment later, Leo Spencer appeared at the threshold.

Earlier, when Jasper’s detective sergeant, Roy Lewis, had given him the Gabriela Carter report, sent over from L Division in Lambeth, the name Leonora Spencer had jumped out at him. Jasper stared at it for several moments, awestruck. She’d been one of the first witnesses questioned when constables arrived at Striker’s Wharf. In fact, her recorded statement indicated that Mrs. Carter’s death wasn’t a fatal choking or an otherwise innocent occurrence. Witness (slightly hysterical female) claims to see signs of arsenic poisoning in the victim. The aside had amused Jasper, as he knew Leo had likely never had a hysterical moment in her life. She was measured, serious, and obstinate—the last of which was what had likely caused the constable to incorrectly label her as hysterical.

Leo entered the postmortem room, her bright hazel eyes hinging on him. She passed the other sheeted corpses without so much as a blink.

“Jasper,” she said, her gaze direct and keen. “I’m glad you’re here.”

The warm greeting set him back on his heels and gave his mood an unexpected lift. It had been a few weeks since he’d last seen her—just after the Jane Doe’s postmortem, on the anniversary of her family’s deaths, to be precise. Since his father was no longer there to accompany her to the cemetery, Jasper had stepped in. They’d remained quiet for most of the journey there, then again while she laid flowers at the graves of her father and mother, older brother and younger sister. Pleasantries had been exchanged. She’d asked a few questions regarding his work at the Yard, none of which had dissipated a strange friction that lingered between them. One that had not been there before the Inspector’s death.

This morning, Leo’s sable hair, usually pinned into a low, plain knot at her nape, was twisted and pinned higher, with a curled tendril loose to frame her face. He tried to remember if she’d ever worn her hair like that before.

“The constable I spoke to last night was roundly dismissive of my observation,” she went on without pause.

He stopped looking at the glossy, dark tendril of hair and focused on why he was at the morgue to begin with. “Your observation that Mrs. Carter was poisoned?”

He followed Claude to a table occupied by a sheeted figure, the new Mr. Higgins trailing behind them at an indifferent pace. The drape of the sheet, and the small, bare feet exposed at the base of the table, revealed that the corpse beneath was a slim, white female.

“Yes,” Leo replied. “And that I’m almost certain I saw who did it.”

He cut his eyes to her, a streak of alarm arcing through him like fire. The throbbing of his temples crushed with renewed vigor. “That wasn’t in the report.”

She crossed her arms. “Constable Fulton wasn’t willing to believe a woman could possibly possess helpful information to the investigation.”

Many Metropolitan Police officers suffered from the same shortcomings when it came to their opinions of women, but that wasn’t what kindled the concern in Jasper’s chest just then.

“You saw who poisoned her?”

Leo nodded. “I believe so. And it was indeed a poisoning, as I told the constable,” she answered just as Claude was turning down the sheet to reveal the victim’s face, neck, and clavicle.

Gabriela Carter had been a pretty brunette with delicate features. A dainty nose, thin, dark eyebrows, and full lips, now ashen with the pallor of death. Jasper frowned, tucking away the usual pang of sorrow he felt when a young victim lay on one of these tables. The postmortem had been completed; the closing sutures were visible just below her collarbone.

“I ran the Marsh test as required for proof of arsenic in the system,” Claude began. “It was conclusive that Mrs. Carter had consumed a large quantity of the poison shortly before her death. Evidence of foaming in her lungs supports the presence of pulmonary edema, and the capillary collapse my niece observed at the scene—the blood leakage from her nose, eyes, and lips—is in line with a precipitous drop in blood pressure. Both findings are commonly seen with acute arsenic poisoning.”

Jasper nodded at the coroner’s explanation, already familiar with some of the signs of arsenic toxicity. One of his first inquests as a detective constable at E Division had been the case of a woman who had sprinkled the tasteless, odorless poison into her mother-in-law’s porridge every morning for three weeks. The old woman had rapidly fallen ill and died, and if not for a thorough postmortem, the daughter-in-law might have gotten away with murder.

“She would have consumed the poison roughly fifteen to twenty minutes before she began exhibiting distress,” Leo added.

Jasper had read Constable Fulton’s report, so he’d come to the morgue armed with some of the facts. But there were still plenty of questions left to answer.

“I’d like to know what you saw, starting from the beginning,” he said to Leo.

Claude covered the corpse’s face again, and the trembling of his hands was visible in the split second before he released the sheet. The coroner glanced at Jasper briefly to see if he’d noticed, then over his shoulder at the apprentice. Mr. Higgins was leaning against an empty table, chewing on a fingernail absentmindedly. He wasn’t taking an interest in the conversation or anything else, for that matter.

In the lobby, the bell above the door chimed again. Claude seemed happy to leave them to greet the new arrival. Mr. Higgins lingered aimlessly where he was. Leo gestured toward the back office, and once she and Jasper entered the room, she closed the door behind them.

“That man is a nuisance,” she whispered. “He’s been here a week and hasn’t done a lick of work.”

“I also imagine he’s keeping you from lending Claude a hand from time to time.”

Leo crossed her arms and glared, and Jasper wished he’d kept his mouth shut. It was a sore subject. She shouldn’t have been helping her uncle in such a manner, and yet, Jasper could understand why she did. He waited for her to make some cutting remark, but instead, she lifted her chin, her eyes drifting slowly over him. Her brows pinched together.

“Is that a new suit?”

Jasper looked down at his clothing, surprised by the question. “Relatively new. Why?”

She shrugged. “I haven’t seen it before.”

He ran his palm down a panel of the brown tweed frock coat. “Do you not like it?”

“It’s perfectly fine.” She broke her stiffened posture and headed for the desk where she typed inquest reports for Claude. “I just haven’t seen you in a brown suit before.”

He had no choice but to trust her memory. Leo’s mind was a steel trap, her ability to recall every detail uncanny. If she said she hadn’t seen him in brown previously, then it was so.

He’d purchased the suit secondhand a few weeks ago. The inheritance from his father had been modest, and Jasper hadn’t wanted to spend a penny of it, especially after discussing the land tax for the Mayfair address with Mr. Stockton. He had no idea how he was going to afford it and was even more perplexed that his father had managed to do so.

“Two hundred pounds per annum?” Jasper had repeated after the solicitor had gone over the estate details. “That is impossible. My father couldn’t have afforded such an amount.”

It would have equaled the whole of Gregory Reid’s annual wages, most likely. And yet, Mr. Stockton said it was paid every year without fail.

“You needn’t choose what to do about the house just yet,” the solicitor had remarked with a pitying tone. “You have until next autumn, at the earliest, to make a decision.”

There would be no choice, Jasper had wanted to tell him. The home might have been his, but the government taxed land and property owners, and if he didn’t cobble together two hundred pounds, he’d be in arrears.

“My suit isn’t important, Leo. Can we get back to Mrs. Carter?” he said, taking out his notebook and pencil.

She narrowed her eyes on him but didn’t argue. “Very well. Mrs. Carter and her husband were seated directly behind us at the club. They were already at their table when Dita and I arrived at Striker’s.”

He bit back the urge to chastise her again for patronizing Eddie Bloom’s establishment. Ever since he’d seen her there in January, he’d wondered if she still frequented it. The place was owned and operated by the head of a small syndicate situated around the Lambeth wharves. In comparison to the East Rips, Bloom was small-scale, but he was still dangerous. Unfortunately, Jasper had no control over what Leo did or where she went. If he tried to warn her to stay away from Bloom’s club, she’d likely only want to go there more often.

“Who else were you with last night?”

The time before, she’d been with Miss Brooks and her beau, Constable Lloyd, as well as Constable Drake. PC Drake had taken great pains to avoid Jasper at Scotland Yard since then, even once turning down a hallway that led nowhere and then needing to backtrack. All to Jasper’s amusement.

“It was just Nivedita Brooks and me. She thought I could use a night out.”

“Why was that?”

Leo broke eye contact and fiddled with a few papers on the desk. “It’s been a difficult few months.”

Guilt lanced through him. She’d loved the Inspector too. Losing him would have affected her deeply as well.

“I’m sorry.” He lowered his notebook. “I should have called to check on you more often.”

She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s all right. You’re busy. And I know that Jane Doe last month perturbed you. Have you discovered anything more about her?”

Changing the topic to the Jane Doe case had been purposeful; she clearly didn’t want to discuss anything personal with him. That would be easier, he agreed, especially since he wasn’t sure what the rules were surrounding Leonora Spencer, now that the Inspector was gone.

“Nothing. I’ve had to close the case.”

She nodded, and another silent moment passed before she resumed her recounting of events. “I heard a commotion behind our table. Mrs. Carter had fallen from her chair onto the floor. She was convulsing, and as people closed in around her, I noticed a woman in a black, hooded cloak, embroidered with light blue thread, moving swiftly in the opposite direction. So, I followed her.”

Jasper’s pencil tip skidded off the paper. “You did what?”

“I followed her,” she repeated, more slowly this time as if he was hard of hearing.

“You followed a potential murderer?”

“I wasn’t in any danger.”

“She could have seen you.” His blood began to simmer in his veins. When Leo rolled her eyes, it neared a boil.

“I don’t believe she did. Whoever it was disappeared into the fog on the wharf. A fog I knew better than to enter alone, I’ll have you know. I’m not entirely reckless.”

“Thank God for small mercies,” he muttered, not put at ease in the least. “You are certain it was a woman?”

“Yes. Later, Dita told me she’d seen the cloaked woman sitting in conversation with Mrs. Carter shortly before she fell from the chair and began convulsing. My back was to the Carters’ table, so I didn’t see anything until after the commotion began.”

Jasper tapped his pencil against the paper. “None of this information was in the constable’s report.”

“I don’t know why you’re surprised by that. As I’ve said, the constable dismissed both me and Dita as hysterical females. It wasn’t until his superior officer arrived and announced they were sending the case to the C.I.D. that the constable even bothered to write down my comments at all.”

L Division had likely realized the East Rips connection to their victim and wanted it off their hands. Lucky bastards.

“What else can you recall?”

Leo peeled the paper in the typewriter from the platen and extended it toward him. “I’ve typed it all for you.”

Of course she had. He took the paper; it was filled to the margins with details. “Perhaps you could summarize?”

She sighed as though annoyed, but he knew she was happy to do so. “Since I thought it might be a poisoning, I noted what was on the Carters’ table. There were three glasses. I kept an eye on them while the police were summoned, thinking they could be collected for testing. But the club became rather chaotic when the officers arrived, and unfortunately when I looked again, the table had been cleared.”

Likely by an unthinking waiter, Jasper guessed. Then again, it might have been intentional.

“Anything else?”

“I think the most important thing to note is that Mr. Carter wasn’t at the table when his wife fell ill. He didn’t reappear until after I returned from following the woman in the hooded cloak. At least three minutes had passed by then.”

“Did he happen to say where he’d been?” Jasper asked.

She shook her head. “And I didn’t ask.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. I don’t want you speaking to a Carter or anyone connected to the East Rips. They’re criminal scum.”

She pressed her lips against a reply that he could practically hear in his mind: that she would speak to whomever she pleased.

Jasper would have to question Andrew Carter himself. He ignored the reflexive cramp in his gut. Andrew wouldn’t recognize him; he was nearly certain of it. Jasper hadn’t been part of that East End world since the Inspector took him in sixteen years ago. Still, he’d rather have been assigned to any other death inquiry than one having to do with a Carter.

“There is also the matter of a photograph I found in Mrs. Carter’s handbag,” Leo added. “I’ve catalogued all her personal effects for the inquest report and sent the box over to your office. However, the photograph stood out as a bit…strange.”

Intrigued, he waited for her to explain.

“It was some death photography,” she said. “Of two young children.”

The topic of death photography reminded him of the case in January. One of Sir Nathaniel’s victims had been yet another Carter family member, this one William, the black sheep among Patrick Carter’s five sons. William had been employed at a funeral service, and one of his duties had been the staging of the recently deceased, positioned to look as though they were alive. These pictures were popular keepsakes, the last photographs captured of loved ones before burial.

“Could the children have been her own?” he asked.

“No, Uncle Claude confirmed she’d never borne a child.”

“Then, they’re probably a relative’s children.”

“But to carry it with her in her handbag?” Leo shook her head and grimaced. Her views on death photography matched his own: that it was a maudlin, morbid trend. “The edges of the photograph had been cut, removing the photographer’s stamp,” she added.

Most reputable photographers would foil stamp the corner of their work. Without the signature mark, there would be no way to track down the studio from which it had come.

“I’ll see what I can find out about it when I talk to the husband,” Jasper replied.

“Are you going to see Mr. Carter now?”

He was keen to put off the trip, if only by a few hours. “No, I’m going first to Bloom’s club. I need to interview him and his staff.”

“I’ll come with you,” Leo said, eagerly. He held up a hand.

“That isn’t necessary.”

“I know him somewhat. And Mr. Bloom doesn’t like you, if you recall.” She needn’t have reminded him. He hadn’t forgotten Eddie Bloom’s cold reception at Striker’s Wharf in January.

“A lot of people don’t like me,” he remarked. “I’ll be fine. Tell Claude he can release the body to the victim’s family.”

He started for the back door, where a dirt lane ran behind the morgue, dividing the old vestry from the church’s burial ground and gardens. This door was where the bodies were delivered to the morgue, providing greater privacy.

“You should also question Dita,” Leo called after him. “She had a better view of the Carters’ table and might remember more today than she did last night, what with all the commotion.”

Jasper faced her again. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job, Leo.”

She flinched. Hell. He hadn’t meant the statement to bite as sharply as it had.

Leo turned and sat back down at her desk. “Very well. I’ll have the report to you by the end of today.”

He exhaled and softened his voice. “I shouldn’t have barked at you. I apologize.”

“No need.” She fed a piece of paper into the typewriter and avoided looking at him.

“Thank you for your statement,” he said, folding the typed sheet she’d given him and sliding it into his pocket.

He opened the back door to leave but was detained once more.

“Would it be a bother if I stopped by the house later this evening?” Leo asked.

Jasper pulled up short, lingering in the threshold. He didn’t know what to think about the catch in his pulse.

“No bother at all. Why?”

“I’d like to collect the file the Inspector wanted me to have.”

Jasper nodded, his pulse returning to normal. “Of course.”

He’d noticed it was still in the desk drawer in his father’s study. The thick file held everything Gregory Reid had ever collected regarding the investigation into the murders of Leo’s parents, brother, and sister. Jasper had hoped she would leave it alone. That damn file would just drag up old demons.

Something he suspected this case was going to do too.