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“Because that is the name of the famous physician who wrote Gray’s Anatomy,” he replied. “The anatomical bible for every surgeon? You must know it.”

Astonishment pooled through her. An image of her uncle’s worn copy of the textbook dropped into the forefront of her mind, and Leo felt exceedingly stupid.

“I do know of it,” she said, furious with herself for not having made the connection sooner.

“Does this have anything to do with where you were for the afternoon?” Connor asked as he set the first closing stitch.

Briefly, she explained who Mr. Henry Gray was and what had occurred with Mrs. Lawlor. Afterward, Connor whistled.

“I can ask around to be sure there is no doctor by that name in London, but from what you’ve said, it sounds like he might have been using a false name.”

Just as Sebastian Lawlor might have been, Leo thought. If that was the case, had the two men been working together? Had the doctor, too, fled?

While Connor finished with the corpse, Leo went into the office and quickly typed the postmortem report for the dead man. As there had been no crime, there would be no inquest, and the report could simply be filed away. Connor had set the man’s personal possessions in a box for his wife, and Leo marked them down in the morgue’s registry.

Before Leo left for the evening, she fed Tibia, the morgue’s resident cat, a dinner of some tinned sardines, then found Connor in the postmortem room to bid him a goodnight. He told her—only half-jokingly—that she was not to miss work the next day under any circumstances. There were corpses to see to, and he had, after all, hired her on as a paid employee.

“I will be here,” she promised, and she had every intention of keeping that promise.

However, as she started home, a yellow brume swimming in the cones of light streaming from the lampposts, she acknowledged that consulting on Mrs. Lawlor’s situation and questioning her staff had been far more stimulating than assisting in a postmortem. With every stride, she tried to push the mystery surrounding Mr. Lawlor from her mind and instead think about the evening that lay ahead. She did hope Roy Lewis’s wife didn’t think her too odd for working at a morgue.

Leo had started along the busy pavements of the Strand when she felt an inkling of premonition skitter across the nape of her neck. Intuition slowed her, then stopped her altogether. When a throat cleared directly behind her, she turned—and found herself looking up at the familiar face of one of Andrew Carter’s hired men.

Chapter Four

Leo slid her heels backward to put some distance between herself and the man. “What do you want?”

He was at least two heads taller than her, built like a prizefighter, and had the placid expression of a man who was accustomed to following orders. Which, Leo knew all too well, he received from Andrew Carter.

“Got a message for the inspector,” the hired muscle answered, his deep voice as intimidating as his height and brawn. He extended a sealed letter and waited for Leo to take it.

She eyed it warily. “Why are you giving it to me?”

The hired man didn’t answer. He simply stood there, letter in hand, waiting. Leo plucked it from his fingers, and the moment she did, he pivoted on his heel and strode away. She exhaled, her knees surprisingly soft, and looked at the sealed envelope in her hand.

Andrew could have just as easily had this letter delivered to Jasper’s home. He’d had it brought to Leo for one reason: to show Jasper how easily he could get to her.

She continued on to Duke Street, checking over her shoulder several times before determining that she wasn’t being followed. Even still, she didn’t allow herself to relax until she’d hurried through the front door and locked it behind her. Releasing a long breath, she transferred the letter from her coat pocket to her skirt pocket. She didn’t want to give it to Jasper. Didn’t want his shallowly buried worries about his cousin to come forward, into the light.

Mrs. Zhao’s voice traveled from the back of the house. She was in the kitchen making supper, Leo presumed, and Flora would be seated in a chair at the table, knitting. Mrs. Zhao had introduced the pastime, thinking it might help to calm Flora. She’d been correct, and Leo’s aunt had since created a blanket and a pair of mufflers.

“Shouldn’t you be getting dressed to go out this evening?” Mrs. Zhao asked when Leo joined them in the kitchen.

The older woman, stirring a soup pot on the stove, smiled and arched a thin black eyebrow. She’d adopted the teasing expression as soon as Jasper announced he and Leo were courting. Like Claude, Mrs. Zhao had been pleased by the development. Leo wanted to believe the Inspector would have been too.

“Just stopping in to say hello,” Leo answered.

Flora ignored her presence, her attention on the blanket she was knitting with violet yarn, now so large it covered her lap.

Leo gathered up a little courage and addressed her aunt directly. “Aunt Flora, that is a lovely color.”

Her aunt didn’t respond, and after a moment, Leo turned to go upstairs, at least grateful she hadn’t been shouted at or accused of murder.

“It is her favorite color.” Her aunt’s frail voice stopped Leo from taking another step. Both she and Mrs. Zhao whipped around to look at Flora, whose needles were still clicking steadily.

“Whose favorite color, Aunt Flora?” Leo chanced asking.

“Andromeda.” Her voice was light. Happy, even. It was surprising, considering any mention of Leo’s mother usually pushed her into a tantrum.