Coaches were a rare sight in Whitechapel. We drew attention on our slow drive through the labyrinth of gloomy streets but it wasn't from curiosity. Not even the children looked upon us with wonder in their eyes, but rather with calculating assessment. If we wanted to keep our possessions, we had to keep our wits about us and our valuables hidden from light fingers.

We pulled to a stop outside a brick archway too narrow for the coach to fit through. The faded sign painted above the arch announced Bright Court waited beyond. The singularly unsuitable name was a joke played on the miserable stranger in search of safety. There was no beautiful sun-drenched land beyond the sooty bricks. It was all gray, in every direction. Even at mid-morning, the soupy air made it feel like dusk.

My only possession of value was my watch. I'd hung it around my neck, tucking it out of sight beneath my jacket. It would chime a warning if danger came near. Even so, I took Matt's offered arm and kept close to him. Duke remained with the coach and horse. I wished we'd brought either Cyclops or Willie with us, but Cyclops had volunteered to stay at home and keep an eye on Chronos, as he didn't yet trust him not to leave. Willie had announced she was going out for the day. I suspected she would regret not coming with us, only because the opportunity to wave her gun around was likely to present itself at some point.

"Shall we split up and question twice as many people?" I asked, counting the number of tenements edging the square court. There appeared to be eight, but it was impossible to tell if the old buildings, some made of wood and others brick, were split into even more tenements inside. How many families did each one house?

"Only you could joke about that," Matt said.

We crossed the slippery cobbled courtyard with care, heading for a stooped woman struggling with a pail at the pump. Water sloshed over the sides with every jerky step and splashed over her skirt.

"Allow me," Matt said, taking it from her.

She swatted his arm. "You give that back, you prick! It's mine!"

"I don't want it," Matt explained with a hint of humor in his voice. "I merely want to help you carry it to your destination." He nodded at the nearest door. "In there?"

The woman stretched her back and rubbed her hip with red, chafed hands. She wasn't as old as I originally thought. Her face was clear of deep lines and none of the strands of hair that escaped from beneath her cap sported any gray. Her eyes, however, were as tired and hollow as Matt's when he needed to use his watch. I guessed her to be about forty.

"What do you want from me?" she said carefully. "I ain't got nothing for the likes of you." She eyed me. "I ain't that kind of woman. You want to go round the corner for your pleasure."

"That's not why we're here," I assured her, not wanting to think too carefully about her assumption. "We simply need to ask if you remember a crime that happened here years ago."

She hunched her shoulders, drawing her ragged shawl further up the back of her neck as if warding off a chill. "You don't look like the pigs."

"We're not," I said. "We're relatives of a man who died here and simply wish to find out more about his death for our own peace of mind." That was the explanation we'd rehearsed in the coach, and I thought I did an admirable job at lying. Matt probably would have done better, but we'd agreed that if we spoke to a woman, I ought to question her and he the men. Women tended to trust their own gender more, particularly women in this part of the city who were often mistreated by their menfolk.

"You got to be sp'ific," the woman said. "There's been a lot of crime here, a lot of death."

"This was a murder," I said. "It happened years ago. Did you live here then?"

"I've lived in Bright Court my whole life." The woman sucked air between her gapped teeth. "I remember it. I were only a child then." She pointed to the corner at the back of the court, not far from a door. "They found him there one morning. Toff, he was. Like you, sir. That's why I remember that one."

How many murders occurred in Bright Court that she would struggle to remember them all?

"Did you see the body?" I asked.

The woman held out her hand. Matt took a coin from his pocket and placed it on her palm. She squirreled it away among the folds of her skirt. "Aye. We all saw it before the police showed up."

"What do you remember about it?"

"Not much. His clothes were covered in blood, here." She indicated her upper chest and throat.

Raised children's voices came from inside the nearest tenement. Our informer didn't blink an eye or move to check on them. Behind us, someone coughed. I looked around to see a woman watching us from where she stood over a steaming copper. She prodded the contents of the copper with a staff, but her gaze never left us. She was the only other person in sight, yet I sensed a dozen eyes. I felt conspicuous in the courtyard, despite my simple gray dress, and very exposed. With only one exit, we would be trapped in here if anyone chose to attack.

Like Dr. Millroy.

"A child claimed to have seen the killer leave the scene," I said. "Were you that child?"

"My brother," our informant said. "He liked to come out here at night when our Ma was working and Pa slept."

"Where can we find him now?"

"Pauper's grave in Kensal Green." She laughed at her joke, a brittle sound that ended in a dry cough.

"Did your brother tell you anything of note about the killer?" Matt asked.

"He said he were a man, but he couldn't see his face. Said he just walked away, all calm like, wiping the blood off his knife on his coat. He weren't in no hurry to get away." She adjusted her shawl at her neck again. "Who kills someone then don't run off? That's what got me."

"Did your brother see the killer steal anything from the body?"

"He thought so. The killer was at the body's side for a bit after, so he prob'ly did. I would of. The dead don't need chattels no more."

"You said you saw the victim's face," I said. "Had you, or anyone living here, seen him before?"

"No. They told us he were a doctor." She shrugged thin shoulders, dislodging her shawl again. "He were a stranger. He didn't do his doctoring round here." She snorted a laugh.

"Any thoughts on why he might have been in Bright Court at all then?" Matt asked.

Another shrug of her shoulders. "He got lost after visiting a whorehouse." She flashed a grin at me. "That shock you, miss?"

"Not at all," I said. "I don't suppose there was a whorehouse operating within Bright Court at the time?"

Her grin slipped. "We're respectable women here!"

"I'm sure you are. But what about then?"

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. The movement did not distract from the direction of her gaze. It slid to where the body of Dr. Millroy had been found. Then it shifted to the door.

"Is there something you want to tell us?" I prompted.

"May be, but gawd, I'm starving." At that moment, two children burst out of the nearby door, cursing one another at the top of their lungs. "My little uns be starving too. I got to go see what I can scrape together for 'em." She did not move off.

Matt took the hint and handed her two more coins. They vanished like magic into her skirt.

"Old Nell had men call on her sometimes," she said. "There was always enough food on the table for her and her baby, her brother too. We children guessed why, partic'ly because our mothers never liked her."

"They didn't like her because she was a prostitute?" I asked.

"Aye, but because Old Nell thought she were better than them too. She were hoity toity then and is even worse now, on account of her son doing all right for himself."

"What sort of clients came and went from her lodgings?" I asked. "Were they men like Dr. Millroy?"

She mused on that for a moment before finally nodding. "Makes sense, but she never said nothing about him being known to her at the time."

Why would she if she had something to do with his murder? Even if she didn't, she wouldn't want to attract the attention of the police or more hostility from her neighbors.

"Anyways, her customers weren't gentlemen like him," the woman said as her children ran past again, still shouting at one another. "But they weren't the worst sort, neither. Laborers with a bit of ready to spend, mostly. Her brother found 'em for her. He used to live with her but he's long gone."

"And her baby?" Matt asked. "Is that the son you spoke of, now doing well for himself?"

The question took her by surprise. "Aye. Jack no longer lives there but he visits reg'lar. But he can't tell you nothing from those days. He were a mere babe."

"She still lives in that tenement?" Matt asked, nodding at the door near where Dr. Millroy's body had been found.

"Aye." She shifted her weight. "If you got more questions, then I got to ask for more coin. It's the children, see. They're starving."

Matt handed her another coin. "Where do you want this pail?"

She stared at him with round eyes, as if she'd expected him to drop the pail now that he'd got what he wanted from her. "Inside."

"India, come with me."

I followed the woman and Matt in, passing by the two children, a boy and a girl, who stopped arguing long enough to watch us. The tenement was clean, although a damp odor came from the walls and the floorboards were uneven. We bypassed a staircase leading up to another family's residence and headed along the short corridor. The tenement comprised of two rooms downstairs, one a bedroom with two sagging beds in it and mattresses on the floor, and the other a kitchen and sitting room all in one. Matt set the pail down on the floor by the table, thanked the woman, then headed back outside.

"You ask Old Nell the delicate questions," Matt said, offering me his arm without looking at me. His eyes were fixed on the door near where Dr. Millroy's body was found. "You're better at that than I am."

"I don't necessarily agree," I said, taking his arm. "We'll see what sort of woman she is. She might respond to your charms better than my direct questions."

He laughed softly, and I was pleased that he was in a good mood. I wondered how much it had to do with the fact we were about to speak to the woman who might have been Dr. Millroy's mistress and her son Dr. Millroy's son—we could be on the brink of finding a medical magician.

Matt rapped firmly on the door and a voice from the depths ordered us to leave her alone. Matt knocked again.

"Go away you filthy little devils before I set my Jack onto you!"

"Just go in," said the woman sweating over the boiling copper. "She don't get out of bed no more, and the children sometimes play nick-knocking to set her off. And sir?"

"Yes?"

"Don't believe everything Maisie tells you." She nodded at the neighbor's house where we'd just been. "She'll say anything for a bit o' ready. That information's for free." She grabbed the staff with both hands and stirred the laundry. Behind her, a shirt hanging over a line dripped into the muddy puddle.

"Do you know anything about the murder of Dr. Millroy, some twenty-seven years ago?" Matt asked her.

She shook her head. "Before my time."

"We're back at the beginning if we can't believe Maisie," I said to Matt as we studied the door.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps we have to untangle the truths from the lies. Most lies incorporate some of the truth for authenticity."

I squeezed his arm. "Let's see what Old Nell has to say."

He opened the door and headed into the gloom. It took my eyes several moments to adjust to the dark. When they did, I realized the layout was similar to Maisie's place, with a narrow staircase leading up to our left and an equally narrow hall on the right. Straight ahead, at the end of the hallway, was the kitchen. Someone moved around back there, chopping. Cooking smells wafted up to us. It was a pleasant change to the damp odor of Maisie's rooms and the smoke from the fire beneath the copper.

We headed toward the kitchen but stopped at a door behind the staircase. It was open and led to a bedroom. A woman sat up in bed, propped against a pillow, her eyes closed. She wasn't as old as Chronos, but she was past middle age, and only the ghosts of her beauty remained in the high cheekbones and full lips. A thick blanket covered most of the bedspread and another was folded on the chair tucked into the dressing table by the wardrobe. On the dressing table was a white enamel hand mirror and matching brush, and on the table beside the bed, a lamp glowed softly. A tin of sugared sweets sat open, half empty. This was not the bedroom of a woman struggling to make ends meet. It was simple, but not filthy, damp or sparse. Someone took good care of Old Nell.

Matt nudged me.

I cleared my throat. "Nell?" I said, wishing I'd learned her last name from the neighbors.

Her eyes opened and her mouth worked furiously. I thought she was struggling to speak but then she made a sucking sound, and I realized she had one of the sweets in her mouth. "Who're you?" Her voice was another thing I wasn't expecting. It was strong and deep for a woman, and not at all thin or frail like the figure in the bed.

"My name is Mrs. Wright and this is my husband," I said, using the false names we'd decided upon on the way.

Nell's gaze flicked over me but lingered on Matt. She arranged her long white hair over her shoulder and picked up the tin. She smiled, revealing a patchwork of teeth. "Sweet?"

It took me a moment to realize she was offering him one of the confections from the tin but not me.

He popped a sweet in his mouth. "Mmmm. My favorites. I buy them from Oxford Street." He inspected the label on the side of the tin. "Where's this shop?"

"I don't know. My son buys them. He's very good to me."

If her son was the source of the sweets, blankets and trinkets, then he was indeed doing well. He had more money at his disposal than most East Enders. Because he was a doctor? Or, if not a university trained doctor, at least some sort of healer?

I was about to question Nell when she said to Matt, "You're not an Englishman."

"I'm lately from America."

"How exotic."

He complimented her on the smells coming from the kitchen. "Is it cake?"

She sniffed. "I don't know. Mary will know. Mary! She's deaf," she added, quieter. "If I don't shout, she won't hear me. Mary!"

A young woman entered but stopped inside the doorway when she saw us and gasped. She must indeed be hard of hearing if she hadn't heard us enter.

"Mary, this is Mr. Wright and his wife," Nell said. "Are you baking?"

"A cake for Jack." Mary blushed. "He seemed a mite unhappy last time he were here so I wanted to cheer him up."

"Jack is fine. He's always fine. Fetch cake and tea, Mary. I have guests."

"We can't stay," I said. "We have a few questions we need to ask you and then we'll be on our way."

Nell's face fell. "Pity. I get so few visitors now. Not like the old days." She chuckled into her chin. "Such a time I used to have when I was younger. I was real pretty. My hair was blonde and it curled real nice too."

"It's still beautiful hair," Matt said gently.

Nell smiled. "Off with you, Mary."

"Yes, Miss Sweet." The woman bobbed a curtsy and left.

"She's not good company," Nell said. "And she's rather plain to look at, but she don't cost my son much, on account of no one else wants her. She's had it hard too. Hard like me. But Mary and me, we're soldiers. We fall down, then get back up again."

"Mary's very lucky to have you and your son," Matt said. "Not everyone is so fortunate."

"Aye, true."

"Did she call you Miss Sweet?" Matt asked with an arch of his brow and a smile on his lips. He indicated the tin. "Sweets for Sweet?"

Nell giggled. "Does your wife know you're a flirt?"

"Actually, I do," I said.

Nell's smile faded, and I decided to stay quiet. Matt would do better without me where Nell Sweet was concerned, if he ever got around to asking her questions about the murder. He seemed to want to talk to her about everything else excerpt that.

"Your son must be an excellent fellow," Matt said. "I find gentlemen who take care of their mothers usually are." I thought calling the son of a fallen woman a gentleman was a stretch but bit my tongue.

Nell smiled. "Do you have children, Mr. Wright?"

"Not yet."

"Well, don't leave it too long." She looked at me. "She's not getting any younger."

I bit my tongue harder.

"Where does Jack work?" Matt asked.

"In a shop in a good part of London, that's what he said."

"In what trade?"

"Fixing things. That's my Jack, always fixing things."

"What sort of things?"

People, I willed her to say.

"I don't know." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "I'm right glad he got himself a reg'lar job, out of Whitechapel. The people round here, they'll lie to your face and sell their own mother for a bob. But my son is a good boy. He cares about his old mum."

"And his father?"

"Dead." She lowered her gaze to her lap. "God rest his useless soul."

"When did he die?"

"A long time ago. Years and years."

"What was his name?"

She blinked hard at him and tilted her head to the side. "Why do you want to know?"

Matt put up his hands. "I'm merely curious."

Nell replaced the lid on the tin of sweets. "What do you want?" It would seem she'd suddenly woken up to his charming tactic. Perhaps questions about Jack's father made her close up.

"One of your neighbors suggested we speak to you," I said. "We have questions about an old crime that was committed here. Do you remember the murder of Dr. Millroy? His body was found just outside your door."

"I know that. Course I remember. I'm old, not daft."

"Did you see the body?"

"No."

"Do you know why he was in Bright Court?"

"Course not. Why would I?"

"So he didn't come to see you?"

She crooked her finger, beckoning me. I cautiously stepped closer. "Look here, Mrs. Wright," she sneered in my ear, "I didn't need no doctor then. You prob'ly heard how I got by in those days, how I put food on the table for my brother and son."

I felt my face redden despite my efforts not to be embarrassed. It was one thing to discuss prostitution, but quite another to discuss it with the prostitute herself.

Nell poked me in the shoulder with more strength in her bony finger than I expected from a frail old woman. "That Maisie's got a vicious tongue on her and likes to spread lies about me whenever she can. Well, let me tell you, I was clean. That doctor never came here. He died outside my door, but that ain't my fault."

"What about someone else visiting you that night?" Matt asked. "Could one of your…guests have known him?"

"I don't remember if I had any callers that night. It were too long ago."

"What about your brother?"

She sighed and shook her head. "It weren't him," she said with no anger in her tone. "He was gone by then. Ask anyone."

"Gone?"

Her big blue eyes filled with tears. "I don't know where he went." She sniffed and dabbed at the corner of her eye.

Matt patted Nell's hand. "Thank you," he said. "Can we come back if we have more questions?"

"No. You can come back if you want to sit with me and share my sweets, but not if you've got questions. I don't like talking about the past. Unless it's about Jack. You can come and talk about Jack any time."

I thanked her too and we left, seeing ourselves out. We crossed the yard, and my spine tingled with a chill. Nell's neighbors watched us, I was sure of it, although the yard was entirely deserted. Only the unattended copper boiled away over the fire, and two shirts now hung on the line. I couldn't even hear the sounds of Maisie's children fighting with one another.

"Everything all right, Duke?" Matt asked as we reached the coach.

Duke stood by the horse, his hand on its nose. "Aye. Just some stares and a cheeky lad climbed in."

Matt chuckled. "Thought one would try."

"He enjoyed his few minutes playing lord of the manor with his friends guffawing from the pavement."

"We'll proceed to Mrs. Millroy's house," Matt said, opening the door for me. "Then return home for lunch."

And a rest, I knew, but didn't say.

"I was thinking of something else," Duke said. "I got bored while I waited so I asked some of the folk if they knew about a society offering shelter for the homeless near here. You see, I started wondering if the vagrant what Chronos and Dr. Millroy experimented on was really homeless, or if he'd tried to get into one of them charitable establishments or maybe a workhouse. I don't see a reason for any man to live on the street if he don't have to. There's one in Bethnal Green, not far from here, and Chronos said he and Millroy picked up Mr. Wilson in Bethnal Green. I reckon we should go now since we're close."

"It might be worth trying," I said to Matt. "Someone may remember him."

"It was so long ago," Matt said. "It's unlikely any of the staff who were there then are still there now."

"They might keep records. We know he was named Wilson. Lets visit this one then leave it at that if it's a waste of time."

Matt stroked the horse's flank. "You're right. We'll see what we can unearth, but there's no way we can get to all the shelters and workhouses. I suppose if Wilson did try to find shelter that night, he would likely have gone to the one in Bethnal Green."

I climbed into the carriage and Matt followed. Duke folded up the step and the carriage dipped as he climbed up to the driver's seat. Matt removed his hat and scrubbed his hand through his hair and down the back of his neck. He stretched out his legs, angling them to the side for maximum space. I did not ask how he felt. He looked in no mood to tell me the truth anyway.

"Do you think Nell could have been Dr. Millroy's mistress?" I asked, deciding it was best to keep his mind occupied. "She claims she was beautiful back then, and I believe her."

"I'm not sure beauty is enough."

"It is for some men. Indeed, for many, it's the only thing that matters."

He huffed softly as he watched Whitechapel slip past in an endless stream of gray. "Any man who says that is an utter fool who does not appreciate good conversation and wit. Anyway." He finally turned to me. There was no sign of the charmer who'd made Old Nell blush. "For one thing, it seems she was still…being attended upon by other clients then. I would expect a well-to-do doctor to demand exclusivity."

I pulled a face. "I can't believe we're discussing this as if she were a box at the opera. It's so sordid."

"It's a sordid business, but make no mistake, her profession is a business. However, I still don't think she was his mistress." He turned back to the window. "For a few minutes I thought we'd found Dr. Millroy's bastard son. I thought she was his mistress and her son, Jack, the illegitimate child. Then it fell apart somehow. I'm not even sure when."

"I don't agree."

He turned sharply. "Go on."

"She said Jack fixes things. A doctor fixes people, in a way. Could that be what she meant? Could the shop where he works be a surgery or center for patients who aren't too discerning about university degrees?"

"Perhaps. It's a tenuous connection but it is still a connection. We have so little else linking Dr. Millroy to her. All we know for certain is that he was murdered outside her building. The location could be mere coincidence."

When he put it like that, our evidence was sparse. I was beginning to think he was right and we'd learned almost nothing today. Perhaps we should have questioned more of the Bright Court residences.

"Did you notice how Mary called her Miss Sweet?" I said. "A slip of the tongue, or do you think Nell never married?"

"The latter, but it seems she did remember the boy's father."

"She called him useless. And what do you think about her brother?"

He shrugged. "He either left or died before the murder, so he's not a suspect."

"Unless he came back and she's protecting him."

"Good point." A small smile crept across his lips. "I like that theory."

I smiled back and allowed the rocking coach to lull me into contemplative silence. Matt did too, his handsome features schooled in thought.

"Nell's life must have been hard," he said to the window's reflection. "She brought up her son alone. It's not easy for a woman on her own."

"Only for those without independent means." I had independent means, thanks to the reward money. With it invested in the cottage, I shouldn't need to worry about marrying.

The thought opened up a hole in my chest. I may not need to marry, but I wanted to. To the right man, of course. I turned away from Matt and studied my own reflection in the other window. I wasn't young anymore, and if I wanted children, I had to marry within a few years. Since marrying Matt was out of the question, if I wanted to do the right thing by him and his aunt, I must turn my attention elsewhere.

I wasn't sure I could stomach it.

"Have you put any more thought into whether you'll stay or go?" Matt asked softly.

My gaze connected with his in the window's reflection. It was as searing as looking at him directly. "When this is over, I'll make my decision. For now, I'll stay in your house." And keep an eye on his drinking and gambling habits.

"When this is over, everything will be different," he said. "In a good way."

I finally turned back to face him and smiled, even though it hurt to do so. I didn't want him thinking I hoped he wouldn't be healthy again. Of course I did, and yet it meant a difficult discussion would need to be made, hard truths brought to the surface, and he would most likely leave England angry with me.

But I was getting ahead of myself. He had to get healthy first. That was our priority. It was also possible the feelings he alluded to having for me would dampen by the time we found a doctor magician.

It was a short drive to the Society for Affording Shelter to the Homeless in Bethnal Green. Like Whitechapel, Bethnal Green crammed London's poor into as many of its nooks and crannies as it could. Duke drove right past the non-descript entrance to the shelter and had to turn back after Matt thumped on the cabin ceiling to alert him. The shelter looked to be part of a long building with a plain brick façade and regularly spaced windows. There was nothing striking about the building at all, but it looked solid, and that was perhaps its single most redeeming feature for the homeless in search of shelter.

It was quieter than I expected inside. Female voices drifted to us from the back of the building but there were no signs of the miserable poor coming and going through the door. Matt opened the next door to see where the voices came from. Beyond was a large room filled with row upon row of rectangular boxes laid out on the floor, each lined with a flat hessian sack. There must have been hundreds. It took me a moment to realize the boxes were the so-called beds and the hessian sacks used as pallets to sleep on. The beds weren't long enough to fit a man of Matt's size, that was for certain.

The left part of the room was sectioned off with faded old curtains. A woman flipped a curtain back, and I caught a glimpse of a wash stand. Cleanliness was valued here, but comfort was not, it seemed.

Another woman broke away from two companions rearranging the beds. "May I help you?" she asked, pushing a pair of spectacles up her Roman nose.

"Are you in charge here?" Matt said.

"Mr. Woolley is." She pointed at a closed door to the left. "I'm one of the volunteers who comes in each morning to set the place to rights again."

"Before tonight's batch of men come looking for shelter?" I asked.

"Not just men, madam. We have women and children too, on the other side of Mr. Woolley's office."

"How many each night?"

"That depends on the weather. On a fine evening, only a quarter of these beds will be filled. In winter, we simply don't have enough room."

"Do you turn people away?"

She nodded, causing her glasses to slip. She pushed them up her nose again. "If you're here to make a donation, it will be greatly appreciated. We're always in need of clean linen, carbolic soap and food."

"You feed them too?" Matt asked.

She nodded and smiled. She had a pleasant face, if unremarkable, and I was glad there were people like her willing to do such work here. London needed her.

"Are there any staff members who've been here for twenty-seven years?" Matt asked.

She blinked at him, surprised by the question. "Mr. Woolley may have, but no one else. May I ask why?"

"We're trying to trace the movements of a homeless man who died twenty-seven years ago. We hoped he may have spent a night or two here at the time and someone would remember him. We want to learn more about him."

She pressed her hand to her stomach. "I see. This used to be a doss house in those days."

"Doss house?" Matt asked.

"Poor unfortunates with nowhere to go paid a small fee for a bed. Times have changed though, and a charity took over. No fee is required now, but the beds only go to the deserving."

"Wastrels need not apply?" I mocked.

"Definitely not," she said, all seriousness. "Perhaps Mr. Woolley will remember the victim or he can look him up in the records for you."

"There are records that far back?" Matt asked.

She smiled again. "Most likely. He's a meticulous record-keeper. Our benefactors require it, you see, so that they can tally the numbers. I believe the government pays a stipend for each person who seeks shelter here."

That sounded like a system rife for corruption but I didn't say so.

"Nor does Mr. Woolley like to throw anything out," she went on. "It makes the cellar quite crowded, but despite our requests for more storage space, he won't destroy anything. He says the benefactors or government may require the information one day and it isn't his place to destroy it. Come with me. I'll introduce you."

Mr. Woolley welcomed us into his office with an enthusiastic greeting. The office was as uninspiring as the building itself. Other than a large portrait of the shelter's founding benefactor, the walls were barren. Paperwork and ledgers decorated most of his desk's surface, and I suspected the filing cabinets off to one side were filled with records of those who'd sought shelter recently. My hopes swelled as I anticipated rummaging through the records in the cellar and finding our Mr. Wilson.

"How may I help you?" Mr. Woolley asked, steepling his fingers. He was rather nondescript too, with his balding pate and trimmed beard. The faint smell of carbolic soap drifted from him, or perhaps it came from the dormitory room. It gave the impression the entire building, as well as its occupants, had been scrubbed clean.

Matt introduced us and repeated the reason behind our visit. He finished with, "Since you have been here longest, perhaps you remember him."

"I wasn't here twenty-seven years ago, although it does feel like it sometimes." Mr. Woolley laughed. "Besides, we have so many people come through our doors that it's impossible to remember all their names. Some spend only one night here and we never see them again. We've housed thousands over the years if you include the days of the doss house."

"Perhaps your records are more revealing."

"They may be, but I cannot let just anyone look through them." He parted his hands and shrugged. "I am sorry, but that's my rule."

"Then why keep the names at all?" Tension edged Matt's voice. He gripped the chair arms so hard his knuckles whitened. I resisted the urge to lay my hand over his to show my support.

"To know if those who come here are truly worthy of assistance or are simply lazy." At our blank looks, he added, "Too many requests for assistance usually mean the resident is taking advantage of our charity, and not trying hard enough to find employment and permanent lodgings."

"Or it means there is no employment or affordable housing available," Matt countered.

Mr. Woolley pressed his lips together. "In my experience, which is extensive, these people will take something for nothing if they can. Hence the records. I write their names in the ledger then at the end of the week, I transfer the dates of their stay to their individual file. One must keep score or suffer the return of the undeserving night after night. They must be forced to help themselves, sir, or they become their own worst enemy."

"You turn people away even if you have available beds?" Matt said, incredulous.

"Of course."

"Widows with children too?"

"Naturally."

"How many nights do you deem enough?" Matt said hotly. "Is there a number that separates the deserving from the so-called undeserving?"

Mr. Woolley paused. "With respect, sir, you do not know these people. You don't know how readily they'll take advantage of charity. I do."

"We're here on police business," I said before Matt forgot his manners altogether and ruined our chances. "Commissioner Munro has asked us to investigate the murder of a Mr. Wilson in sixty-three."

"As I already said, I cannot just let anyone see the records." He opened his hands again then flattened them together as if in prayer. "Do you have a letter of introduction from the commissioner stating that you're assisting with his investigation?"

"You don't believe us?" Matt growled.

Mr. Woolley's lips pinched. "I hope you understand that I cannot give away private—"

"You made your point." Matt stood abruptly.

I rose too. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Woolley. We'll return with the letter from the commissioner."

"Thank you for your understanding, Miss Steele. I look forward to seeing you again." He gave my hand a weak shake. Matt didn't offer his, and I admonished him for it on the way out.

"He went out of his way to be difficult," he said as he opened the front door for me. "He could have let us into his cellar today. Now he has a chance to remove any record of Wilson."

"You think he lied about being here back then and knowing Mr. Wilson? You think he has reason to destroy Wilson's records?"

"It was the impression I got."

I'd got no such impression, but I wasn't the best at recognizing when people lied to me. "Should we go to Commissioner Munro now and return immediately?" It grew late and Matt needed to use his watch again before too long.

Duke thought the same as me. When Matt ordered him to drive to New Scotland Yard, he refused at first. "You need to go home."

"Don't tell me what to do," Matt snapped.

I bit my tongue and did not make the same mistake as Duke. I remained quiet on the journey to New Scotland Yard and did not enter the building with Matt. I sat with Duke on the driver's seat and watched the passersby on the Victoria Embankment until Matt rejoined us, in a blacker mood than when he went in.

"He's out all day," Matt said before we could question him. He assisted me down from the driver's seat and back into the cabin. "We'll return home for luncheon. We've wasted enough time. After lunch we'll visit Mrs. Millroy."

"What about returning to the shelter?" I said. "Do you think it's not worth it after all? It's not a certainty that Mr. Wilson spent the night there or that his records will reveal personal information about him that will be of any use to us."

"I will return." He stretched his arm along the window sill and drummed his fingers on the frame. "You're staying home, India."

"Why?"

"Because I plan on going back tonight."

I gasped. "You're going to break in?"

"I'm going to seek shelter there and locate the cellar."

I stared at him and waited for him to tell me he was joking. He did not. "Don't be absurd, Matt. Mr. Woolley knows your face as does at least one member of the staff. They'll recognize you."

"Then I'll go in disguise."

He was mad. There was no other explanation for it. Mad and desperate. "Alone?"

"Yes."

"No."

He turned to me. "Pardon?"

"I said no. I'll go with you."

He huffed out a laugh, as if I'd said a pathetic joke. I arched my brow at him. "You don't think I'm capable of disguising myself as a woman in need of shelter? Perhaps I ought to remind you that I was very close to sleeping in a place like that the day I had tea with you at Brown's. If you hadn't taken me in, the only roof over my head would have been a charitable one."

Matt drew in a breath and held it. His gaze lowered to his lap. "You're not coming."

We would see about that. His idea was wild and his mood foul. He needed someone to accompany him and insure he kept his wits about him. Cyclops, Willie and Duke were all too conspicuous with their accents, and I didn't trust Willie to be discreet anyway. Matt needed a steadying influence. A pocket watch that chimed when danger neared was a good alarm to have on side, too.

We drove home in strained silence but Matt was all gentlemanly again as he assisted me from the coach outside number sixteen Park Street.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you, India."

"It's all right. You're under enormous pressure."

"There's no excuse for it." He folded his other hand over mine. "I'm glad you snap right back at me. I deserve nothing less." He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed the back of my glove. He raised his gaze to mine and watched me through his long lashes. It nearly broke my heart to see the misery in the depths of his eyes and for a moment I couldn't speak through my tight throat. "Do not let me get away with that kind of behavior," he murmured.

I was saved from attempting a response by the front door opening. It was not Bristow who greeted us, however, but my friend Catherine Mason, wringing her hands and looking wretched. What was she doing here? And where was everyone else?

"Catherine?" I raced up the steps, Matt at my side. "What's the matter?"

"Oh India," she moaned. "It's all my fault."

"What's happened?"

"He's gone! Your guest—Chronos—is gone! And it's all my fault."