“Empty caskets, I mean. Cremated ones. Don’t weigh an ounce, really.” He paused. “Didn’t you know, miss?”
Cremated? It made no sense that the professor’s body had been burned. As next of kin, Elizabeth would have been the one to make that request, and though she had modern beliefs, there was no reason for her to have done something so blasphemous.
“Who gave that order?” I asked.
He scratched his ear. “Came straight from the police.”
The police? There was something very odd about this situation. Cremations were only done in rare cases, such as if the body had been plagued with disease. The professor’s death had been violent, but his body was still intact and certainly not diseased. Why on earth would the police have ordered him cremated?
I mumbled my thanks to the gravedigger, who tipped his hat before shuffling through the snow.
The Beast’s words returned to me: I didn’t kill him. Believe me or not, it’s the truth.
It was true that the professor’s murder went against the Beast’s twisted desire to protect me. And thinking back, where had the Wolf of Whitechapel’s telltale flower been? A strange tingle began at the back of my spine.
If the Beast hadn’t done it, who had?
“Juliet,” Montgomery called.
I turned, watching him crossing the courtyard toward me. Behind him Balthazar stood in the cloister with a constable in a police uniform. I dug my fingers into the earth to steady myself.
“Are you feeling well?” Montgomery asked. “You’ve been out here half an hour. The service is over.”
I nodded, thoughts on the empty grave site.
Montgomery’s voice dropped. “Inspector Newcastle wishes to speak with you. I tried to put him off—said you’ve been feeling unwell, and today of all days, right after the funeral . . . But he says he can’t wait any longer for your statement. He’s already stretched the law as much as he can.”
I wet my parched lips. Scotland Yard was the last place I wanted to be right now. And yet, as the tickle grew up my spine, I realized Inspector Newcastle would have details of the professor’s murder. He’d have the autopsy reports, investigation reports. He might be able to tell me why the professor had been cremated, and why no flower had been left by the murderer.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll go.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said. He led me past the professor’s freshly dug grave, toward the waiting constable.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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THIRTY-FOUR
STEPPING THROUGH THE FRONT doors of Scotland Yard with the constable at one side reminded me of the last time I was here, months ago, handcuffed and sick and seething with anger at Dr. Hastings and a society that would let him accuse me when he was to blame.
“This way, miss,” the constable said, motioning to a staircase. “I’m to take you to the inspector’s office. The gentleman will have to wait here, I’m afraid.”
Montgomery touched my back. “Will you be all right?”
“This is a police station. If I’m not safe here, god help us.” I motioned him to the bench lining the chilly entryway hall. “I’m sure it won’t take long; he only needs my statement.” I didn’t say how I wanted to feel out Newcastle cautiously, perhaps discover some new information about the professor’s murder.
The staircase of Scotland Yard was made of marble that might once have been grand, but years of dragging feet had worn it through. The constable led me up three stories, where the freshly polished floor contrasted with the rest of the worn-out, perfunctory building. These must be the officers’ offices, high above the riffraff.
The constable knocked on the last door, which swung open to reveal Newcastle in his copper breastplate and black silk cravat he’d worn to the funeral. He dismissed the constable and gestured me in.
“Miss Moreau, I do apologize for this unforgivable inconvenience. I know you’re grieving, and Elizabeth told me you’ve been unwell recently.” He shepherded me into his office. “Some tea, perhaps? One of the constables swears by an herbal remedy for getting over illness. I could have some sent up.”
I put a hand to my head, wishing he didn’t speak so fast. “I’ll be fine, but thank you,” I sank into the wooden chair across from his desk.
His office was a bastion of academic learning. Bookshelves with stately tomes spanned the length, and two paintings hung on either side of his desk, one of London in the rain, the other of a Middle Eastern bazaar. I supposed the son of a shoe seller didn’t have portraits of illustrious ancestors to hang on his walls.
I reminded myself that I would have to be very cautious. Newcastle wanted what was best for the city, but the King’s Club was powerful, and an orphan girl making accusations against them would seem preposterous. It might even stir questions about my own background.
He took his place at the desk. “You’re certain about the tea?”