Page 77 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

“Because a woman is dead.”

The answer was so plain, and so wholly sufficient, that I was briefly ashamed of having put the question.

“I came back to London two days ago,” she went on. “Two days ago, I bought a newspaper, as I have every morning of my life, and there was your solicitor’s notice in it. The constable had not listened to what I said. So I thought I would try once more, with a man who had gone to the trouble of asking.”

The constable had not listened. Or had been paid not to listen.

I closed my notebook.

"Miss Preston, would you be willing to repeat all of this before my solicitor?"

"Mr. Harkness?"

"The same."

"Of course."

"The statement will need to be taken formally."

She gave a short nod. "Then tell me when to be there."

I hesitated. "Any expenses you incur will be reimbursed."

A look of faint annoyance crossed her face. "No, my lord. Keep your money."

"Miss Preston⁠—"

"I did not speak because of the notice. I spoke because a woman was killed, and because no one listened when I said so." Her mouth tightened. "If your solicitor needs a formal statement, I will be more than happy to provide it to him."

I inclined my head. "Very well."

"I want the man caught," she said.

I believed her. “Thank you, Miss Preston. You have done more this afternoon than the whole of the Metropolitan Police managed in three weeks.”

Her expression softened, and the boot-button eyes lost a little of their sharpness. “I hope you find him.”

“I intend to.”

A man with ginger hair. A scar to the jaw. A broken nose. The sort who let out his fists by the job.

London was a large city. But men of that description tended to leave footprints wherever they trod. And somebody, in some public house off Gower Street, knew exactly whose errands he had been running.

I would find out who.

But first, Lark. She needed to know.

Chapter

Thirty

The Empty House

By the time our train reached London, dusk had begun to gather beyond the carriage windows, smearing the rooftops to soft grey shapes and turning the gas lamps to pale, uncertain stars.

I wanted nothing more than a pot of tea, my quiet room, and several uninterrupted hours to think things through properly until the pieces settled into a shape I could act upon.

We hailed a hansom at London Bridge station. Half an hour later, it rolled to a stop before Everly House.