Tennant said, “That explains the chairs in the workshop.The sign says ‘Miller and Son.’ What can you tell us about Micah Miller?”
“The boy . . .” Bailey narrowed his eyes. “The lad came into the family when Josiah married his second missus. She’s dead, too. Still, the old blighter gave the boy his surname. Micah Miller—he’s a strange one. Quiet. Always watching.”
“So, Margot Miller isn’t his sister,” Tennant said.
“Margot? Oh, you mean Peggy Miller, that was. Not blood, and a good thing, too, with him always drooling after her. She’s a looker, that Peggy Miller, whatever she’s calling herself nowadays.”
“Did she look back?” Tennant asked.
“Nah . . . but the young sod could hardly help himself. He was mad jealous if anyone eyed her. And that was just about everyone, all the time.”
“We questioned the old preacher about Margot Miller,” O’Malley said. “He denied having a daughter.”
“Dead to him, Josiah said, ever since she started dropping her knickers for those artists.”
“I’m seeing how old holy Joe wouldn’t like that.”
“Nor the stepbrother, I’d wager,” the pubkeeper said. “Then there’s her bloke, Arnie Stackpole. He’s a seaman back after a twelve-month on the China seas. She’ll be dead to him, too, once he finds her.”
Tennant said, “And why would that be?”
“Rumor has it she’s . . .” Bailey traced a mound over his belly.
“Up the pole,” O’Malley said. “And himself away for a year?”
Bailey nodded. “Heard he’s back and hunting for her.”
* * *
It had been a long day. Late in the afternoon, Tennant halted in the vestibule of the Whitechapel Clinic. He’d been on his feet since morning, and his leg ached. He longed for a whiskeyand his comfortable chair, but Julia had sent a message asking to see him, and she wasn’t one to waste his time.
Tennant pushed open the inner door, and two familiar sensations struck him. First was the calm of the well-managed clinic and its contrast with the gritty, chaotic world outside its doors. And lingering in the air was the sharp scent of carbolic soap. He spotted Julia’s head nurse at the end of the hallway, buttoning her blue wool cape. Gray threaded Nurse Clemmie’s dark hair. She wore it pulled back and tucked under her cap. The middle-aged nurse cut a trim and deceptively slight figure: Tennant had watched her shift male patients twice her size with surprising ease. It was the first time he’d seen her since the day he’d burst through the clinic doors looking for Julia, only to find that the killer had lured her away.
“Good evening, Inspector. Doctor Lewis is in the men’s ward.”
“With the doctor back, are things settling into their normal routine?”
“Normal may take some time. I still see him waiting for her in the corridor. Smiling. Sipping that last cup of tea.” She opened the door to Julia’s office. “I’ll tell the doctor you’re here.”
The inspector understood. The gut-wrenching drive through the fog, the knife at Julia’s throat, the plunge into the canal’s dark waters: those memories had become new nightmares for him. Lately, they had replaced the dreams that recurred more than a decade after the end of the Crimean War.
Tennant took a seat and eased his leg.
Julia didn’t keep him waiting long. She touched his shoulder as he rose. “Don’t get up.” She settled in behind her desk. “You look tired. It could have waited until tomorrow.”
“Days have a habit of getting away from me. But you look as if you could do another shift, and here it is, nearly six o’clock.”
That was another reason he’d come that evening: he wanted to see how Julia fared in full harness.Who am I kidding?he thought.Any excuse to call.
“Sitting has made me realize I’m ready to sink into a chair and share a sherry with my grandfather.” She smiled. “Or something a little stronger.”
Julia leaned forward and plucked a pencil from the beaker on her desk and tapped it. He’d noticed her habit of fiddling with one when she was thinking. Tennant waited for her to make up her mind. Sitting reminded him how tired he was, too. He stifled a yawn.
“To be honest—” Julia stopped. “I’m not sure . . .”
“Not sure of what?”
“That there’s anything much you can do. Still, given everything that’s happened, you should know that the little hatmaker came to see me today. Annie O’Neill.”
