“Do you agree that suicide is unlikely?”
“I’ve never witnessed a strychnine death, but descriptions in the medical literature are harrowing. The victim suffers violent convulsions and suffocation as the drug paralyzes breathing.
“A horrible death.”
“Doctor Scott would have known what he faced. It seems an unthinkable choice.”
“Murder, then.” Color had crept back into Tennant’s face, and his expression darkened. “We’ve drawn our net carefully, but if someone killed Scott to silence him . . .”
“Could his murder be unrelated?”
“A fantastic coincidence, but I must consider it. Perhaps anangry patient?” He smiled. “Which leads me to beg a favor—a task outside your role as a medical examiner.”
“You intrigue me, Inspector.”
“I have Scott’s casebooks for the past two years. I’ve looked at last week’s entries, but nothing stands out. And some of the medical terms and abbreviations defeat me.”
“You’d like me to review them?”
“Yes.”
“A homicidal patient with a grudge? As a doctor, I confess, it’s an uncomfortable thought.” She held out her hands for the books. “I’ll take a look.”
“Thank you,” he said, passing them to her. “I may be wasting your time. I still think it’s Rawlings or Allen. Someone else tied to their foul business.”
“Seems likely, given all that has happened.”
“A request to carry out raids went up the Met’s chain of command. Yesterday, it was approved. We hope to drop the net tonight and bag the scoundrels.”
“Thank God. Finally, a measure of justice for Jin and Kathleen and all the other girls.”
“It comes in many forms.” Tennant’s eyes glinted. “I’m on my way to Fleet Street to see an old friend of yours. Someone who will mete out justice in his inimitable way.”
“Fleet Street? Not Johnny Osborne?”
“None other. God’s gift to journalism.”
“I suppose you know what you’re doing.”
“Watch me.”
* * *
Julia had an hour before she had to be back at the clinic. She wanted fresh air, exercise, and time to think about Richard.
She knew he’d been injured in the Crimea. He mentioned recovering in the military hospital at Scutari. Julia remembered from childhood her grandfather’s friend who barely survivedan artillery barrage at Waterloo. Forty years later, shaking still gripped him during thunderstorms.
She knew there were no ready cures for such injuries.Still, to bottle it up. . . She had to find the right time and place to coax him to confide in her.
Julia heard her name and looked up, surprised to find herself on Harley Street. A familiar figure descended a set of steps she knew well. Mister Lloyd had exited her Uncle Max’s offices.
He raised his hat and smiled. “Are you here to see Doctor Franklin?”
She shook her head. “Just hunting for a cab to take me to Whitechapel.”
Lloyd looked over her shoulder and raised his walking stick. “Shall we share this one? It can drop me at Carteret Street and take you to the clinic.”
“With pleasure.”
