“Yes, thank you.”
He smiled sympathetically, drumming his fingers on the edge of his desk. I folded my arms self-consciously, waiting for him to start, so I could ask my own questions. My eyes fell on a daguerreotype of Lucy on his desk, in a silver frame that must have been the most expensive item in the room. It made me smile, despite everything. At least she had someone who loved her, who would keep her safe.
“I didn’t get a chance at the funeral to offer my condolences on the professor’s passing,” he said at last, easing back in his chair. “I understand he was quite gracious to take you in, with no living parents of your own. I found it curious that you insisted at the masquerade that your father had passed away, and yet there’s been no obituary, no court records. . . .”
“I’d rather discuss the professor’s murder. I’m sure you understand.”
“Indeed,” he said. He moved to the edge of his chair, producing a handkerchief from his coat pocket. “I imagine his death affected you very much. I’m sorry for that. Especially at the hands of that monster.”
I didn’t answer, wondering if I dared to share my doubts with him. A glance at his desk revealed a thick brown file labeled WOLF OF WHITECHAPEL.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened that night,” he said gently. “If you can manage.”
I tried not to keep staring at the file I so desperately wanted to look into. “Montgomery James is an old friend—and my fiancé, though we haven’t made a public announcement. He escorted Lucy and me to a lecture at the university. When he brought me home, that’s when I saw the morgue carriage and learned of the murder.”
He scribbled some notes on a pad, nodding solemnly. “Very good. Terribly sorry to make you come all this way today, of all days. But we’ve policies, you know.”
I started. “You mean that’s all you need from me?”
He nodded, setting down his pen. “Unless you wanted that tea?”
“No,” I stuttered. Now was the time I was supposed to leave, and yet I still couldn’t shake the feeling something about the professor’s murder wasn’t right.
“I wonder, Inspector,” I asked slowly. “Do you have other leads on the case?”
“Oh, I’m quite certain the murderer is the Wolf of Whitechapel. The wounds were identical.” He cocked his head. “Why, do you have cause to believe someone else might be responsible?”
I balled his handkerchief in my hand, thinking of the Beast chained in the greenhouse.
I didn’t kill the professor.
“It struck me that there wasn’t a flower left in the professor’s study the night he was murdered. Strange, don’t you think?”
He nodded, leaning back in his chair. “We’ve been looking into that, but it means nothing in and of itself. Perhaps the murderer ran out of them. Perhaps they all froze.” He rubbed his chin. “You’re very observant to have noticed.”
“Well, it didn’t occur to me until later.” I hesitated. I might not like the police, but Inspector Newcastle had proven quite different from those constables who had arrested me at the hospital. He’d made his way to the top at such a young age through hard work and ambition. He had every reason to want to solve this case—a promotion, gratitude from an entire city, perhaps even a more favorable chance with Lucy.
My eyes traced over the books lining the shelves. Philosophy, academics, forensics. If I told him that I suspected there might be another murderer, a monster even, would such a rational man believe me? The Beast had said he was innocent, but there was no way to verify that claim except by proving the identity of a second killer.
I tapped my boot against the floor, debating. Inspector Newcastle might think me mad. Or perhaps he might have the tools to help. . . .
“There might be another possibility,” I said slowly.
Newcastle raised an eyebrow. I stood and paced in front of his bookshelf to help ease my nerves. “I’m afraid it will sound a bit far-fetched,” I said.
He smiled. “You’ve no idea how many far-fetched theories I’ve heard of the Wolf’s identity. A girl as observant as you, however, I am inclined to take a bit more seriously, unlike all those other blatherskites.”
I froze at the word. Blatherskite. Not a common term, yet I’d heard it before. I remembered standing with Montgomery in Lucy’s garden the night of the masquerade, eavesdropping on the King’s Club members overhead. One of them had used that word.
I peered keenly at Newcastle. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Like the missing flower, it proved nothing. We had seen the roster of King’s Club members, seen the photograph, and Newcastle wasn’t in it.
“Your theory, Miss Moreau?” he prompted kindly.