“About the matter we discussed earlier,” said Colonel Epson-Smith.
“Walk with me,” said Jarvis, turning into the corridor.
The two men’s footsteps echoed up and down the cavernous space. Epson-Smith kept his voice low. “It seems someone else has an interest in the event.”
“Who?” said Jarvis without breaking stride.
“Devlin.”
“Devlin? What is his interest in this?”
“He refuses to say. There’s a woman making inquiries, as well.”
“I’m not certain yet who she is, my lord. But word on the streets is that a gentlewoman has been asking questions at some of the lodging houses in Covent Garden and—”
“Forget about the woman,” Jarvis snapped and continued walking.
Epson-Smith inclined his head and fell into step beside him. “As you wish, my lord. And Devlin?”
Jarvis paused at the entrance to his own chambers. A thin, nervous clerk leapt to attention. “My lord!”
Jarvis thrust the Prime Minister’s pamphlet at the clerk and said curtly, “Burn this.”
The clerk bobbed a frightened bow. “Yes, my lord.”
To Epson-Smith, Jarvis said simply, “I’ll deal with Devlin.”
Chapter 14
Paul Gibson kept his surgery in an ancient sandstone building at the base of Tower Hill. Beside it stood his house, also of stone, but small and ill-kept, for Gibson house, also of stone, but small and ill-kept, for Gibson was a bachelor with a housekeeper named Mrs. Federico who refused to set foot in any room containing human parts in glass jars—a prejudice that effectively limited her to the kitchen, dining room, and hallway.
“It’s a pig’s fetus,” said Gibson, identifying the small purplish-pink curl floating in liquid in a jar on the parlor mantelpiece that had caught Sebastian’s attention. “I was using it for comparative purposes in my anatomy class at St. Thomas’s.”
“Ah,” said Sebastian, going to splash brandy into two glasses and carrying one to his friend.
“I told Mrs. Federico it was a pig,” said Gibson, taking the glass with thanks. “But she still refused to clean in here.”
Sebastian moved a pile of papers and books from the worn leather sofa to the floor and sat down. “One would think she’d be used to it by now.”
“Some people never get used to it.”
Sebastian wasn’t sure he himself would ever get used to the body parts Gibson scattered so carelessly around his house, but he kept that observation to himself.
Gibson said, “Sir William turned all of the women’s bodies over to the Friends for burial. The service is set for tomorrow evening. Unfortunately, the Friends refused to grant me permission to perform any postmortems. But they did allow me to examine the bodies more thoroughly.”
“And?”
“I don’t think any of those women died from the fire.” Gibson propped the stump of his left leg up on a stool, his head bowed to hide the grimace of pain that contorted his features. There were times, Sebastian knew, when the pain grew so fierce that Gibson could abandon himself for days to the sweet relief of opium-induced oblivion. “They were all dead—or close to it—when the fire was set. At least,” the doctor added, “I assume it was set. I have no evidence of that.”
Sebastian raised his brandy to his nostrils and inhaled its heady scent.
“It’s difficult to be certain,” Gibson continued, “but I wouldn’t say the killings were an act of passion. Whoever did it was very methodical. They must have killed each woman in turn, then simply moved on to the next. There was no superfluous hacking of the bodies.”
Sebastian nodded silently. In the War, they’d both seen men caught in the grip of a killing frenzy hack at bodies over and over again, long after life had expired.
“What can you tell me about the woman who was shot?”
“Not a great deal, I’m afraid. The body was badly burned. From her teeth I’d say she was less than twenty. She was a slim, fairly tall woman. Does that sound like your Rose Jones?”
“When she was at the Academy she called herself Rose Fletcher.”
Gibson raised one eyebrow. “You think that’s her real name?”
“Probably not. Joshua Walden thinks her name might once have been Rachel.”
Gibson grunted. “Not your standard Molly or Elizabeth.”
“No. Whoever she was, she was well-bred. Everything I’ve found so far suggests that her presence at the Magdalene House was the reason for the slaughter.”
Sebastian became aware of Gibson’s eyes upon him, studying him intently. “Why have you involved yourself in this?” Gibson asked.
