“He was at home,” Jasper replied, tucking the tear catcher into his coat pocket. “His valet confirmed he was given the night off, but he checked in on Anthony around five o’clock in the morning anyway, only to find the man asleep on the floor. He was so drunk off his face that he hadn’t even made it to the bed.”
Leo didn’t care for Anthony Dalton, but it appeared he was in the clear as a suspect.
The postmortem room door opened, and Connor joined them.
“Inspector Reid,” he said urgently. “Have you heard anything at all about what is being done with Lydia Hailson’s murder case?”
As Leo had just sent the postmortem report to Scotland Yard a few hours earlier, the shake of Jasper’s head was expected.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been at the Yard yet to learn if the case has been assigned,” he answered, even as Connor’s expression turned stern. “If you inquire with Constable Wiley at the CID, he might be able to tell you something more than I can.”
Leo detested the front desk constable at the CID and couldn’t suppress her bilious reaction to his name. Jasper witnessed it and sent her an impatient glance.
“I already went there yesterday to report her murder,” Connor replied, startling Leo. He hadn’t told her that earlier. He must have gone after leaving the morgue, when Claude stepped in to do the postmortem. “The Wiley fellow said there is a backlog of cases, and it might take weeks for this one to be assigned.”
Jasper’s grimace was one of sympathy. “I understand the victim is someone you cared for. But the Met has too many cases and too few detectives. I’m sure it will be assigned?—”
“And meanwhile, Lydia’s killer gets to slip away? Cover his tracks?” Connor blurted, crossing his arms over his chest. Leo had never seen him angry before, but she could understand why he was. “Maybe I should hire a private detective. Someone needs to investigate her death, and at least they would take it seriously.”
Leo held back her instant urge to defend Jasper and the Yard. She knew full well the police were already disparaged for not solving every murder or suspicious death that came across their desks. The newspapers and public opinion, in general, often called them lazy, bumbling, or even worse, corrupt, only caring to solve crimes committed against the wealthy and influential, while working-class Londoners, orphans, vagrants, and the poor were brushed aside as inconsequential.
While it was true that not every case could be solved, Jasper cared about each one he was assigned. Connor, underneath his anger and heartbreak, knew that as well. He was only lashing out in frustration.
If Jasper took offense, he didn’t reveal it. “If that is the route you’d like to take, I’ll only advise you to be selective. The Yard has worked with a few private investigators from time to time, but most of them eventually swindle their clients in some way. Stegman and Bishop are a reputable agency.”
Connor nodded tightly, accepting the advice. But he wasn’t pleased.
Jasper turned to Leo. “I’ll call on you tonight,” he said softly, then left.
Connor rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry. I know it isn’t Inspector Reid’s fault. But I’m impatient to know what happened to Lydia and for the person responsible to pay for what they did.”
“I understand,” Leo said. “Jasper understands too. He must, since he recommended Stegman and Bishop so confidently. He almost never has nice things to say about private agencies.”
They moved back into the postmortem room, where Lydia’s body remained on the morgue table. With any hope, the funeral service would arrive soon to take her away. It must have been torturous for Connor to keep having to look over and see her draped figure there. Much had happened since the day before, but Leo couldn’t forget the dress Lydia had been wearing: the shopgirl uniform for Gleason’s Department Store.
“Did you know that Lydia was working at Gleason’s?” she asked Connor. He’d approached the next corpse on the docket for the day, his movements shuffling and distracted rather than confident and prompt as they normally were.
“No, I didn’t. Last I knew she was working at a telephone exchange on Coleman Street.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
He rolled his shoulders, as though uncomfortable with having to remember. “The spring. When we…parted ways.”
Leo was curious. “Why did you separate?” Then she added, “If you don’t mind saying,” when he visibly stiffened his back.
After a moment, he relaxed. “She wasn’t ready to marry. Like so many young ladies seem to be doing these days, she wanted to work, have some independence.” He shrugged and, with a self-deprecating laugh, said, “And I suppose she just didn’t love me enough.”
It must have pained him to say it; however, Leo suspected that Connor would make a fine husband. He was good-looking, kind, intelligent, and seemed to be progressive in his views on women in the workforce. But Leo wouldn’t placate him, as she knew he wouldn’t want it.
“I know someone who works at Gleason’s,” she said instead. “What if I were to ask her if she knew Lydia? Maybe she knows something that would be helpful.”
Dita had only been working at the store for a few days, but it was worth the ask.
Connor perked, his attention snagged. But then, he winced. “I don’t think so, Miss Spencer. This is a murder. It wouldn’t be safe for you to go there asking questions. I will consider Stegman and Bishop.” He winced again, and this time, Leo thought she knew why.
“Hiring them will be quite an expense,” she said. While Connor’s grandfather, Sir Eamon Giles, a knighted barrister and the city’s chief coroner, was wealthy, Connor had made a point the last several months to proclaim his independence from his family and live off his own earnings.
“It’s hardly dangerous for me to take my friend to a tea shop and ask a few questions,” Leo said. Thankfully, Connor’s hesitation melted under his desire for answers.
