“A bit of the drink then? We have some of that fine whisky as ye well know.”
For myself, I would have liked very much to have had a dram of whisky—it would not be the first time, as her ladyship had not treated me as a child for some time now.
I was still angry, confused, and trying to move past the sight of Dory on that steel table and the cut across her throat like a gruesome smile the murderer had left.
“Coffee, if ye please Sorcha, for the both of us,” Munro told her.
“Aye, and we’ve got hot meat pie for the day,” she added.
“That will do as well, and a clean cloth if ye will,” Munro replied. “The young lady has cut her hand.”
It did not seem to matter that he had not inquired if I wanted anything to eat, even as my stomach rumbled loudly, a reminder that I had only a biscuit that Elizabeth Cheney had provided.
Sorcha returned and set two cups of steaming black coffee on the table, and a cloth from the bar. I was aware of the curious look she gave me.
“I’ll bring the meat pies when they come out of the oven,” she informed us, then moved on with the tankards of ale on her tray.
I took a sip of coffee. It warmed my stomach even as I wished it was a dram of Lady Antonia’s Old Lodge whisky—a full cup of it.
I took the cloth and wrapped it around my hand.
“You knew about the opium.” I saw it in his expression at the time, and his acknowledgement to the surgeon’s comment. “How did you know?”
“There is a particular scent about someone who has used it, spicy with a smell of flowers, if ye will. There were no other bodies in the holding room, it was obvious the smell of it came from yer friend.”
“You’ve had experience with that sort of thing.”
“It is a sad part of life on the street,” he replied, not unkindly.
A life that I might have shared, if not for my encounter with Mikaela Forsythe.
“Dory did not use drugs. She said that she couldn’t afford for it to jeopardize...”
“Payment from a customer?” he suggested. “It’s been a while since ye last saw her, aye? Things change…people change.”
There had been nothing in the letters she had sent to indicate that she had changed. Still...
I thought of myself, once a maid in a brothel, now educated. Even my way of speaking was different. But the things that were important had not changed. I caught his glance at my bandaged hand.
“Wot do ye know about the trinket the surgeon found among her clothes?”
I had put it in my pocket as we left the morgue. I retrieved it now and stared at it.
“It belongs to me.”
Our food had arrived. Sorcha set out plates of steaming meat pie along with forks and spoons.”
“Will ye be wanting bread as well?” she inquired.
I felt that blue gaze watching me. There were questions there, but he did not ask them. He shook his head and she left to attend to another customer.
I felt the weight of that gaze. I didn’t owe an explanation, still...
“It was all I had as a small child. I don’t know how I came by it. This and the name Jacobson. I asked her to make inquiries about when I first arrived atThe Church. I sent it to her with the hope that she might be able to learn something about it.
“We exchanged letters. A woman she knew helped her write them. I received her last letter two weeks ago. She was excitedabout something she had learned, and I made my plans to travel here.”
It all seemed so simple at the time.
