“Precisely,” Lewis finally agrees. Despite his skepticism, the relief is plain on his face. “Monsieur Valmont. Mr and Mrs Wharncliffe. Good day, and best of luck.”
With a nod toward me and the couple, he tips his hat and disappears down the steps and into the crowd like a mongrel with its tail between his legs.
“Back to your daughter,” I say, refocusing the discussion on what has become a belatedly urgentmatter. “In a missing person’s case, we have a narrow window of time if we are to find her?—”
“We will be doing no such thing, because she is dead as nails.” Charles’s murky eyes bore into mine and I fight the urge to look down.
“I see.” This changes things entirely. If I’d had time to find my cap in my luggage this morning, I would’ve removed it. How horrible. “Elaborate, if you will.”
“Six days ago, our Alma showed the early signs of Consumption. Cold, even sitting at the hearth. Nose and cheeks scarlet. She let out a cough five days ago that was tinged red. We’ve both seen enough of this plague to know it doesn’t take long for things to turn for the worst. So, by early next morning, we’d brought her here. That was the last time we saw her.”
Fourdays ago, they’d seen her. “Pardon. Here?”
“Yes.” Charles motions toward the doorframe his wife has slumped against like a stray cat begging to be let in. “Beecham’s Infirmary.”
I step back, and, for the first time since we arrived, take a good look at the doorstep. Unlike the other shops, it’s nondescript, and looks nothing like a sanatorium. The two levels stacked above the peeling door are thin, barely enough room for anything more than an office, much less a chemist.
“Infirmary?” I’m dubious, unable to conceal my taut grimace. “In there?”
“It’s exclusive, you buffoon!” Blanche glares up at me. “This infirmary offers cures most cannot afford.” She pauses to hiccup between sobs, blowing her nose on her sleeve. “And we can mostcertainlyafford them. Our Alma didn’t deserve this. It just isn’t fair.”
“I hate to ask you to relive this, I know it must be painful. But could you please tell me,” I say gently, “if you haven’tseen her, what events have transpired to make you believe she’s dead?”
Charles reaches into his coat pocket and retrieves a crumpled piece of paper, holding it out to me in his gloved hand.
I accept it without question and unfurl a faded photo of a cherub-faced girl of about ten, along with four small objects that roll over my palm like dice. Two of them glint in the sunlight.
They aren’t dice at all.
“Where did you—” I stagger for the banister, my lip curling as I press the bundle back into Charles’s expectant palm.
He fishes around and holds a single tooth up, the roots still stained red. “The courier delivered this that same evening.”
“You’re sure they’re hers?”
“Yes. Those are her amalgam fillings.”
Charles then pockets his grim findings and brandishes a piece of folded parchment at me, which I accept as a welcome distraction.
Mr. and Mrs. Wharncliffe,
We sincerely regret to inform you of your dearest Alma’s passing. Her demise was unforeseen, as her condition worsened rapidly the day of her death. Here are her available remains, the rest of which have been donated to the noble cause of scientific research.
Our condolences and prayers are with you.
Your humbleservant,
A. BEECHAM
I can barely reread the letter before Charles snatches it back, cradling it to his chest as if it is the last tangible memory of her, save the teeth. I take a moment to recompose myself as they both stare expectantly at me.
Detective work is a curious venture. It requires striking the perfect balance between indifference and concern. Compassion and clinical poise. In this instance, my unadulterated empathy pushes me to dig deeper. “And you don’t believe this is what happened to her?”
They exchange glances.
“We don’t know what to believe,” replies Blanche.
“You showedthisto the police, and they didn’t believe you?”
