“He and Margot . . . she had some sort of vendetta against him. At our last sitting, well, she hinted . . . No, damn it, shesaidshe knew things about him, and he’d be sorry he crossed her.”
* * *
The following morning, the jurymen and witnesses in the death of Margaret Miller gathered at the Campton Arms on Kensington Road.
The jury would deliberate in the back room of the public house and reach a verdict on the cause of death. For the sake of the ratepayers who footed the bill, the coroner hoped to wrap things up by lunchtime: the publican’s rates went up each hour they drifted past noon. The jury would hear first from the unfortunate parkkeeper who stumbled on the body, then from the police, and finally from the doctor who performed the postmortem.
When the coroner asked DoctorJuliaLewis to take the stand, a surprised murmur, like a humming vibration from an unseen engine, followed her across the room.
Julia gave her evidence in a firm voice. When she finished, the coroner invited the jury to withdraw and consider the testimony. Ten minutes later, they returned the obvious verdict: death by a person or persons unknown. The finding was signed and sealed on the tenth of March 1867. The coroner thanked them and noted the time with satisfaction. By ten thirty, he’d sent all on their way.
Outside the pub, the sun shone palely on a wintry Kensington Road. Neither the inquest nor Tennant’s investigation had shed much light on the case. Everything about Margot’s murder remained stubbornly in the shadows.
Tennant spotted a coffeehouse across the street. He touched Julia’s elbow and pointed to it. “Have you time for a cup?”
“Hmm, that would be lovely. The coroner asked me to wait for him, so I’ll meet you.”
Tennant crossed to the café, slid into a street-side bench, andwatched Julia from the window. One of her hands struggled to keep the wind from spinning her hat down Kensington Road. The other clutched her cape below a chin that bobbed in agreement with the coroner’s comments. Whatever he was saying, he said it at length. Finally, after what looked like Julia’s third attempt to break things off, the coroner bowed and walked away, freeing her to cross the street.
They’d met many times, but Tennant could count on one hand the occasions they’d spent in each other’s company: times that hadn’t involved a dead body.
One hand? Hell, three fingers.
They’d had coffee once, and Julia’s grandfather had invited him to dinner at their town house. And they’d shared a walk around Finsbury Circus a few days after she returned home from the hospital. But even then, the conversation had turned to the shocking conclusion of their first case and other professional concerns.
None of that mattered. A long, solitary walk across the Kentish downs on a crisp Christmas afternoon had clarified his feelings for her. What Julia thought of him . . .Some detective, he thought, waving to her as she entered the coffeehouse.
Julia sat down, pulled off her tam-o’shanter, and fanned four coins across the tabletop. “My princely fee as prescribed by law. The two pounds, two bob from the coroner for my postmortem services.”
“Riches, indeed.” Tennant raised two fingers to the waiter.
Julia unbuttoned her cape and pulled off her gloves. “Given that I’m flush with pounds and shillings, I should offer to pay, but you invited me, so . . .” She brushed the coins into her palm. “I’ll pocket them.”
No other woman Tennant knew would make a breezy suggestion to foot the bill.
Then, as if reading his earlier thoughts by strange telegraphy, she said, “Speaking of invitations . . . Before I forget,Grandfather would like to invite you to dinner again. One of his Wednesday gatherings.”
“I’d be delighted.”
The waiter placed two cups of steaming coffee on the table. “Anything to eat, guv?”
“Julia?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing else, thank you.”
“Grandfather will send you a note.” She cupped her coffee with two hands to warm them, then sipped. “He understands that you might have to beg off at the last moment.”
“The policeman’s lot.”
Julia edged her cup and saucer to one side and leaned forward on her elbows. “I know you don’t put all your cards on the table at an inquest, but has the investigation dealt you any?”
“It’s too rich a hand. I’m unsure what to hold or discard.” He ticked off his fingers. “There’s the unknown father of Margot’s child and the mystery man who pays her bills. She has a father and stepbrother, both of whom seem unstable, to put it mildly. There’s an angry seaman-lover, Stackpole. He’s somewhere in the wind. And she’s modeled for all the male luminaries of the British art world. Landseer, Rossetti, Frederic Leighton, and other members of the Royal Academy, not to mention some lesser lights.”
“Oh, dear.” Julia’s smile twitched. “Chief Inspector Clark won’t like your stepping on those celebrated toes.”
“And we’ve uncovered Margot Miller’s role in procuring young women for the purpose of pornography.”
