“They grew unconcerned after reading the letter.”
Bastards. They didn’t have a missing girl to find alive. “Have you engaged with the infirmary since?”
Another roll of thunder grinds through the darkening clouds. “We’ve tried,” says Charles. “Apparently, they don’t let anyone who’s not of poor health past the intake.”
“What time was it delivered? Your letter, the day she was pronounced dead.”
“A little past six,” Blanche answers brusquely.
“And which one of you received it?”
“I did, but we didn’t know of its contents until Charles opened it.”
“Do you usually retrieve the evening mail, Mrs Wharncliffe?” It is customary, especially in the evenings, for the husband to answer the door. Couriers, after all, come and go at all hours—though I’m under the impression the residents of Piccadilly are afforded prime mail hours, if not the earliest.
“Not usually,” Blanche replies, face flushing. “But Charles was out.”
“Does he normally stay out past…” I trail off, glancing between them both.
The shadows beneath their eyes are suddenly more noticeable. Charles steps forward to place himself between me and his wife, and Blanche is now completely removed from our exchange. Trembling, she cups her hand against the breeze to light the pipe she’s procured from God knows where.
I run my hand over my face. They aren’t suspects. Just a pair of exhausted parents in dire need of sleep and some answers. Two individuals thrust into the sudden misfortune of loss, just as I’ve been.
“My humblest apologies.” As if on cue, a raindrop grazes my knuckle. “I’ve forgotten my place.”
“Youdarequestion us. You should be in there!” Charles jabs a finger toward the infirmary door before his hands go to his hair. He turns to Blanche, no longer addressing me. “After all of the funds my parents poured into this city, this is what we get in return. Ajuvenile detective.”
Frustration surges through me at his words, at my overestimating my own ability and thinking I could do this a month after my father’s demise.
Not when I’d received no answers myself. Not when I’d escaped by the hair of my teeth.
Charles is an angry father, he has every right to be, but barging outright into Beecham’s Infirmary would prove useless. Just what was I supposed to ask?
Show me the Wharncliffe girl’s corpse! And why the fuck are her teeth missing?
I could try, but it was likely they’d require the kind of warrant that only the department could give me, and not without pushback. This investigation required stealth—not the usual bedlam of the Yard’s constables.
The tinny ring of a bell breaks thesilence; behind Charles, a carriage has parked. A tissue-clutching older woman and her coach driver have made their way into the shop next door.
Right, then. We’ll start with the neighbor.
“Monsieur Wharncliffe.” I tip my proverbial hat and begin retreating. “Madame Wharncliffe. I’ll be commencing my investigation immediately.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Charles snarls as I step back onto the sidewalk, barely dodging a man and his bumbling beagle. “The infirmary is in there!”
I wave my hands and cup my ears, pretend I can’t hear him, then shrug. What can I say? English is not my first language. “I’ll be in touch within twenty-four hours, you can be sure of it. Expect to hear from myself or Lewis!”
CHAPTER 2
IN WHICH HEATSTROKE IS MISTAKEN FOR FLIRTATION, FLIRTATION FOR ESPIONAGE, AND I AM THREATENED WITH TAILORING SHEARS
The bell sounds a second time as the door latches shut behind me, and I’m greeted with an overwhelming sense of midday London aristocracy. It takes a moment for my vision to fully adjust from pale sunlight to the dim interior, but there are shapes. Mirrors and mannequins at the back. Rows of silks and fabrics.
A perfect afternoon for the dawdling upper class.
Except, when it does—not one, nor two, buteightbonneted heads snap in my direction. The woman who’d entered before me glances up and sighs, muttering something about police work.
“Just a moment,” a disembodied voice calls from the room beyond the register to my right, and I crane my head, trying to place its flustered source.
