“A wise choice.” Henry shifted forward in his chair, preparing to leave. “We wish you the best with that.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Olson lifted his hands as if to say he wished he could share more. “I hope I was of some assistance. I’m sure everyone’s experience at the sanatorium is unique, but though it was difficult, I’m pleased with the results.”
“That’s helpful, sir, thank you.” Henry stood as Fletcher did the same, and they said their goodbyes and returned to the waiting hansom cab.
“If only he knew what the hypodermic needles were for,” Fletcher mused.
“I can’t imagine what version of hydropathy they might involve, though I’m not a doctor.” Henry intended to ask Arthur the next time he visited the surgeon.
The cab rolled toward the Yard and Henry tried to relax against the seat, already feeling his headache worsening.
“I had hoped Mr. Olson might mention something that would require the second postmortem.” Fletcher shifted as if unable to get comfortable. “I can’t help but think something foul is going on at Hollowgate Heights.”
“Agreed.” Henry would have to risk the Director’s refusal to exhume Mr. Dunn’s body after all. “We might not have enough evidence to pursue the case, yet neither can we answer the questions that have arisen.”
Fletcher frowned. “Where do we go from here?”
“If you can discover information on Mrs. Symes from an obituary, that would be helpful. I’d like to speak with her family. And could you also leave a message for Marcus for me? I’m going to have another conversation with Reynolds.”
“Better you than me,” Fletcher said with a smile.
“Can’t say I’m looking forward to it. We also need to look deeper into the jewelry theft.”
“I thought Marcus might be of help with that.”
Henry stilled.Thatwas what Marcus had been about to tell him before the bomb exploded. Relief rushed through him to have remembered. Surely that meant some of the other holes in his memory would fill as well. The thought was enough to loosen the tightness in his chest.
Perhaps the day was going to be better than he’d expected after all.
Eighteen
HadHenryreturnedtowork as planned?
Amelia wished she knew. She had enjoyed visiting him and his parents the last three days. He’d looked pale by the time their dinner had ended the previous evening, but hopefully a good night’s sleep—and judicious use of the peppermint oil she had left—had eased his pain a little more.
Though worry continued to sit on her shoulder, ever present and impossible to ignore, she refused to let it rule her day.
Amelia sighed as she settled at her desk in the drawing room, pulling toward her the book on forensic practices, a notebook, pen, and ink at the ready. There was no particular case she could assist with at the moment, but she wanted to be familiar with the methods in the book. That way, she would know what to offer when the time came.
She was also scheduled to meet with her editor fromLondon Lifethat afternoon. Though she’d intended to suggest a story idea, none truly worthy had yet come to mind. Chances were Mr. Stearn had an idea or two which would stir her interest—and since Henry had presumably returned to work, that meant she should as well.
Nothing fulfilled her more than having her own purpose, something she’d struggled with since losing first Lily, then Matthew. Though it was up to her to discover that purpose, since she no longer had a family of her own to care for, article ideas had been few of late. Was it any wonder therefore she tended to involve herself in Henry’s cases?
After spending the morning making notes on forensic procedures, she enjoyed a light luncheon, advised Fernsby of her plan, then decided to walk to the nearest cab stand. The late May weather was delightful, the temperature now warm enough to wear a pelisse rather than a cloak, and she felt lighter for it. She paused to appreciate the daffodils and crocuses blooming along the walk and magnolias scenting the air, peace filling her, before continuing on to the cab stand.
Less than half an hour later she arrived at the offices forLondon Life,located on the Strand where several other publications had their offices. The building, with its stone façade, arched windows, and ornate cornices, matched the periodical and her editor in Amelia’s mind—old-fashioned, timeless elegance. She was proud to be a part of it.
After a few minutes waiting in the small reception area, she was escorted to the second floor, where her editor’s office stood against one wall, offering a lovely view.
Paul Stearn walked around his desk and offered his hand to clasp hers after she was shown in. “Mrs. Greystone. The very person I was thinking about. I hope the day finds you well.” As always, the older man was well-dressed in a fine woolen suit, his beard closely trimmed.
His appearance made her pleased she’d taken time with her own. She’d set aside her normal gray attire for a violet gown with a modest bustle and liked to think she looked like she belonged there. Now she just needed to settle on a topic for an article to feel the same.
“It does, and I hope you are also well.” She smiled, releasing his hand to take the chair he gestured toward.
“I am. What brings one of my favorite correspondents by this afternoon? Dare I hope you are here to propose a new article concept to me?” he asked with a questioning look.
“That is why I came by.” Yet as she started to form the question about his own ideas, she realized one had been simmering in the back of her mind since she and Henry had first visited Hollowgate Heights. The topic felt right, and she hoped Mr. Stearn agreed. “I am still mulling over the details, but I have recently noticed how many supposed miracle cures are floating about. The number of advertisements for such remedies is alarming, as are their claims.”
