“Of course. I understand now. It must have been difficult to investigate the deaths of these women and also search for my sister.”
His face flickered with some emotion she could not make out.Fear, perhaps. Or suspicion. It settled again into that bland, pleasant smile.
“I assure you, Miss Elderwood. I devoted every resource at my disposal to your sister’s case.”
“Thank you, Inspector. Tell me—have you made any progress in discovering the Reaper’s identity?”
The man again paused, his smile never faltering. “We are making great strides. I am sure he will be apprehended soon, and we can all sleep much better.”
They stared at each other for a moment, neither moving. When she did not approach the door, he moved to the corkboard.
“Here—why don’t I share something that we recently discovered? I know how fascinated the public is by this Reaper character. A little peek for you, before it hits the papers.”
He took a large photograph and pinned it to the board. It showed something black and shining lost in pale folds of flesh.
“This is the intestinal tract of Hazel Fairburn,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Can you tell what that is, right there? The little black smudge? It’s hard to tell, I know.”
She swallowed, not wanting to look at the photograph, but not wanting to give him the satisfaction of looking away.
“It’s a grape,” he said, “a red grape. Lodged just beneath the pyloric sphincter. Poor girl didn’t even have time to digest it before she died. They’ve been found in the digestive tract of each of the Reaper’s victims. Odd, don’t you think? Fresh fruit is rare in the Rows, even with floromancy—a starving floromancer wouldn’t waste their vitæ making fruit for someone else to eat.”
He considered it again, then caught her gaze. “Would you like a closer look?”
“I’m quite all right, Inspector,” Elswyth said coldly.
“Of course, of course—forgive me. I don’t mean to frighten you with such macabre details.” He smiled blandly at her again, then made for the door, gesturing her out. “But it is important to understand the danger present to you, as a woman walking around London alone, unchaperoned. If I were you, Miss Elderwood, I would be very,verycareful.”
Elswyth raced down the stairs, pushing past constables, and headed straight for the doors. Her mind swam with new information, yes, but also with a quickly spreading rage. Shehatedthat man. Hated what he stood for, what he’d failed to do for her sister, the many ways hecontinuedto fail. And all of it hidden behind a placid, ingratiating smile.
Mrs. Rose, waiting on a bench in the lobby, leapt up at the sight of her. The scolding started immediately, but Elswyth ignored her, racing to the exits.
“… insane, irrational, reckless, dangerous, disrespectful…”
Mrs. Rose counted off each insult on her fingers, following Elswyth through the doors and into the street.
“… uncivilized, unladylike, unorthodox—”
Elswyth turned on her heel in the busy street so quickly that Mrs. Rose almost slammed into her. “Mrs. Rose. I believe we are done with lessons for the day. If you wish, we may resume tomorrow.”
Mrs. Rose’s mouth dropped open, her fingers still splayed. Elswyth turned around, hiking up her crinoline and walking swiftly away from Scotland Yard. She turned on Whitehall, amid the passing people holding their umbrellas. It had begun to mist, and water clung to her face and gown.
“Justwheredo you think you’re going!” Mrs. Rose said, following her.
Elswyth continued to ignore her, weaving through the crowd of businessmen, not caring who stared.
“For goodness’ sake, Miss Elderwood, small steps!” Mrs. Rose cried, following after her as daintily as she could. Elswyth ignored her, stopping on the street corner and reaching into her reticule for her map. She looked both ways, lifted her skirts, and then plunged into the street, stepping over puddles. Mrs. Rose followed, making sounds of abject horror as carriages rattled by.
“Stop!” Mrs. Rose said. “I said stop thisinstant. Your father will hear about this, believe me, and you’ll beMrs. Cousin Ficusbefore you can saychrysanthemum.”
When they reached the other side of the street, Elswyth turned to face her.
“No, he will not,” Elswyth said.
Mrs. Rose scoffed. “I will write him the moment I have a pen in my hand. Don’t think I won’t.”
“And you’ll admit to losing his daughter in such a busy, dangerous city? Lord Elderwood is certainly concerned with the well-being of his only remaining child. I doubt he would continue to leave me in the care of someone so irresponsible.”
“Youran,” Mrs. Rose said. “It wasn’t my fault—“
