CHAPTER1
January 1867
Dr. Julia Lewis eyed the morning’s post and a stack of earlier unanswered letters.
Her recent wrestling match with a killer and plunge into Regent’s Canal had kept the postman busy. Most of her friends and acquaintances—and a surprising number of strangers—had written to wish her well.
Over the past few days, letters of a different sort had arrived at her grandfather’s Finsbury Circus town house. A small item in theSunday Telegraphhad mentioned Julia’s addition to the list of Scotland Yard’s medical examiners, the first woman to be named.
One writer asked, “Have you learned nothing from your ordeal? Women belong in the domestic sphere as God intended. Remember, only the quick work of the men of Scotland Yard saved you from drowning.”
Julia tossed the letter aside.As if I need reminding.On that fog-shrouded day, the killer meant for her to die. Instead, she’d been granted a second chance.
Julia abandoned her pen and pushed back the chestnut strands that had fallen from her hairpins. Her fingertips brushed the bandage on her neck. Had the knife slashed an inch to the left, her story would have had a different ending. She’d been lucky.
Restless, Julia drifted around the drawing room, taking in the blue-and-white tiles surrounding the fireplace and the light spilling between starched, white curtains. But domesticity wasn’t the life she’d chosen, and two weeks of empty mornings and afternoon naps had bored her silly. It was past time she returned to her medical clinic in Whitechapel.
If some think that’s unnatural, to hell with them.
Julia looked up with curiosity and relief at a knock. Muffled voices and footsteps followed.
Mrs. Ogilvie opened the door. “Inspector Tennant is here to see you, Doctor Julie.”
The housekeeper stood back, and the tall, dark-haired detective with the erect bearing of a former army officer entered the room.
“Richard,” Julia said, smiling. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Not yet noon. It’s much too early for a social call.” Her eyes dropped. “And you’ve held on to your hat. Does Scotland Yard beckon so soon?”
“Quite right. I see you haven’t lost a step.”
“This is a pleasure.”
“I hope you’ll still think so after we talk.”
“Hmm . . . sounds ominous.” Julia patted the armrest of a chair by the fireplace and sat in its twin.
Tennant settled in and fixed her with his grave and steady gaze. “How are you?”
“Recovered.” She touched the bandage.
“Do you feel ready to—”
“More than ready.”
“I wonder if your grandfather agrees.”
“My only ailment is acute boredom.” Julia waved around the room. “All this quiet is driving me batty.”
“Let me see . . . two weeks caged in the house. I imagine Mrs. Ogilvie and the rest of the staff share the feeling.”
“Itching for Monday when they’ll finally see the back of me.”
“Who’s been in charge in Whitechapel?”
“Nurse Clemmie. But on paper, Gregory Barnes, a young doctor from the London Hospital. He’s filling in at the clinic, thanks to Uncle Max.”
“Doctor Maximilian Franklin to the rescue.”
Julia smiled. “Useful when the hospital’s chairman is your godfather. Doctor Barnes will stay on at the clinic, working two nights a week and every other Saturday.”
