“In bushes by the southwest entrance. About fifty yards from where we discovered the body.”
Julia picked it up. “It was a risk to carry the thing unless the killer had some means of concealing it until it was safe to discard. But why not strip it off and leave it with the body?”
Tennant shrugged. “In a hurry to get away after he did the deed?”
“And he rid himself of the glove at a safe distance. Yes, that sounds right.”
“These gloves . . . who uses them?”
Julia pushed back her hair with the flat of her wrist and considered the question.
“Doctors. Those like me who perform autopsies, at any rate. One wouldn’t use them for surgery. The gloves are thick and clumsy. I witnessed an embalming once, and the undertaker wore a pair. For mucking out sewers? Men who work with chemicals or use them for other industrial processes?”
“Someone working with paints?”
“That’s a possibility,” Julia said. “It mostly comes in tubes nowadays, but Mary mentioned mixing colors. I’m trying to remember if I noticed a pair in her studio.”
“It’s worth checking.”
Julia raised the glove. “Would you consider allowing me to remove some of the blood to see what’s underneath?”
“I don’t usually like to tamper with evidence, but in this case . . .”
“Shall we start with the underside of the sleeve? I can leave the rest of the glove as you found it.”
Tennant nodded.
Julia poured out a basin of warm water and unrolled a length of cotton wool. Carefully, she dabbed away the gore from the glove. A multicolored spattering of paint appeared.
“I think you have your answer, Inspector.”
Julia returned the glove to its wrapper and handed it to him. They hadn’t quite resumed their old rapport. Julia felt a lingering constraint between them.
“Well . . .” He hesitated. With a slight shrug, he said, “Now, to find the glove’s mate.” He headed to the door and stopped. “I suppose . . . you think it might have been Miss Allingham on the table if the blackmailer had turned up at the maze that day.”
“The thought had occurred,” Julia said. “Richard, we differed. Let that be the end of it. I don’t expect you to agree with all my opinions.”
“No? That’s what people usually expect.”
“That’s not . . .” Julia smiled ruefully. “Fair enough. But don’t expect me to hold back on my opinions.”
“Only when the sun rises in the west.”
“I say we call a truce.”
“Agreed.”
His expression softened, and a slow smile spread, reaching and warming his gray eyes. He extended his hand, and Julia took it. It felt warm in hers. He held on to her hand with subtly increasing pressure until he finally released it.
Tennant pushed through the double doors. Julia stared as they swung and settled closed. She looked at her palm, and her eyes widened. A smile played on her lips as she packed her scalpels and snapped the catch on her medical bag.
* * *
Two hours later, Sergeant O’Malley drew down a sheet to reveal Margaret Miller’s face and shoulders. A granite-faced Josiah Miller identified his daughter with a single nod.
O’Malley had found several witnesses at the East Indiaman pub who had seen the cooper in his workshop around the time of Margot’s death. The old man had paid the costs and fines for Micah Miller’s vandalism. The stepson was out of jail and onthe loose, and his whereabouts were hard to pin down. Josiah Miller had sent him to a ropewalk to purchase some barrel cording on the afternoon of Margot’s murder.
“Bunked off for most of the day,” O’Malley said. “Two hours missing at least. Walking is the lad’s story. Stopped for a pint but couldn’t remember where.”
