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There didn’t seem to be any reason not to tell her the truth. “I have already found him. He is dead.”

Miss Chandler’s expression slackened with shock.

“I’m now seeking Mr. Gray. If you see him, or hear anything about him, contact me at once.”

Jasper was shown out, and as he started along Percival Street toward a cabstand, he considered the differences between the Lawlor and Herrington cases. Unlike Sebastian Lawlor, Rupert Herrington had maintained his false identity long enough to fully claim his dead wife’s fortune. A significant amount, Jasper imagined, though he would learn just how significant once Sergeant Warnock returned later from another trip to the probate registry offices at Somerset House.

Something—or someone—had caused Sebastian Lawlor to rush the death of Augusta with a large dose of an opiate, and before he knew she had not died, he’d fled with the contents of the household safe, and four thousand pounds withdrawn from the bank the previous week. Had he been preparing to bring about her death faster than originally planned? Had he been preparing to run? It was a strong possibility.

And now, Sebastian was dead.

Jasper needed to find Henry Gray, as he was now the prime suspect.

Chapter Thirteen

Throughout the morning and afternoon, Leo found herself continually needing to tame her mind, as her thoughts kept drifting back to the previous evening at Jasper’s home.

The cozy contentedness of lounging with him on the Chesterfield sofa in his study while a coal fire hissed and popped in the grate kept claiming Leo’s attention, diverting her focus from her tasks at the morgue. To spend every evening in such a manner, reading the newspapers, sipping whisky, and making easy conversation would be gratifying, she admitted. So much so that Leo imagined she would be waiting all day for the hour to depart the morgue so she could make her way home to Jasper.

Of course, they were merely courting for now, and Leo didn’t wish to jump too far into the future, as Thea Lewis had done the other evening after dinner. Roy’s wife’s mention of marriage and little ones had kicked up Leo’s pulse. They were two things she wasn’t entirely sure she was ready for just yet.

As she and Connor made their way through a busy day at the morgue, he caught her woolgathering a few times.

“Are you well, Miss Spencer?” he inquired in between postmortems and the careful handling of two grieving families that had arrived at the same time. “You aren’t yourself today.”

“Oh? A lot on my mind, I suppose,” she replied.

“Having to do with the case you’re consulting on?”

She nodded, though in fact, she had not been thinking of Mrs. Lawlor’s case at all. With any hope, Jasper would gain some information from Victoria Herrington’s maid that could further the investigation. Leo’s mind had been stuck, selfishly, on Jasper.

And on her upcoming visit to Castelan’s Private Inquiries that evening.

As the burnished late-afternoon sun slid through the stained glass windows of the postmortem room, Leo grew restless for the five o’clock hour to strike. A part of her had wondered if she might see Jasper before the end of the day. If he might implore her to change her mind. She would not, of course. She’d already sent a note to the private inquiry agency earlier that morning, alerting Mr. Castelan that she would be calling on him. While Jasper had come around to the plan last night at dinner, she knew he despised the idea of her working with Mr. Castelan’s private detectives to find Tabitha Pierce. Leo wasn’t overly eager to accept Mr. Castelan’s offer, either, as he’d struck her as manipulative and a little unscrupulous at the close of their last conversation. However, if she could help bring the search for Cillian Carter to a conclusion, it would be worth the time spent with him.

She bid Connor goodnight and left the morgue. There was no sign of Jasper as she made her way toward a cabstand at Trafalgar Square. She took a seat on an omnibus heading for High Holborn and stepped off at the nearest stop to Castelan’s agency.

The bowed front windows of the offices glowed with electric light. This time when she stepped inside, there were only three men present—and Dita was there too.

Leo’s friend sprang from where she’d been perched on the edge of a desk while speaking to a man.

“I heard you were planning to come,” Dita said excitedly, coming forward to greet Leo She wore a maid’s uniform, complete with white pinafore and frilly mobcap. “Sorry I missed you yesterday. I was out on assignment.”

“I heard,” Leo replied as she eyed the uniform. “You’re assigned as a maid somewhere?”

Dita huffed and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Another fine lady wants proof her husband is conducting an affair. She had me hired on as a charlady to discover who his mistress is. She suspects it is a servant within the household.”

So far, this was the only type of inquiry Dita had been assigned to. It couldn’t have been very rewarding, Leo thought. But then, it was what Mr. Castelan’s agency was known for.

“Any idea who it is yet?” Leo asked.

Dita raised a brow. “I think so, and with any hope, I’ll have proof soon. Being a charlady is awful. I’ve never had a single blister in my life, and now I have two!” She pouted as she rubbed her palms.

It was a challenge to imagine Dita cleaning hearth grates, scrubbing floors and windows, or any of the other lowly tasks a housekeeper would assign to her. Charwomen weren’t members of a regular full-time staff but were hired out on a part-time basis, and they were often given the jobs other maids didn’t wish to do.

Some middle-class families could afford the expense of a charlady. Listening to Dita explain about her undercover role, Leo recalled an interview included in the Inspector’s file on the Spencer family murders. When she’d finally sat down and forced herself to go through the entire file, a brief report from a constable had caught her interest. The constable had questioned a charwoman, Opal Rosen, aged fifty-two, who had cleaned for the Spencers three times a week.

The memories Leo had from before the killings were often sparse and fragmented, but one had always stuck with some clarity: an older woman, in the kitchen of their Red Lion Street home, speaking a language other than English. Leo had asked her aunt if they’d had a cook or a servant, but Flora had scoffed, saying Leonard and Andromeda could never have afforded it. But it seemed they had been able to, after all.