Is his clinic nearby? she asked.
No. He twirled and pointed behind him, which drew a confused stare from a fellow pedestrian. It’s on Church Street near the Ten Bells.
I should like to see it sometime, she said, more to herself than her companion.
Rough neighborhood, Keats remarked, tipping his hat to an older woman. Across the street, voices rose as a pair of drunken harridans battled each other with considerable shouting and hairpulling.
A crowd gathered, urging them to greater violence with calls of Give the old cow another! and That’s the ticket!
Jonathon walked on, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.
Are you keen to see it right now? he asked.
Cynda backtracked on the conversation. The clinic?
Yes. Mind you, it’ll be a bit dicey at night.
Her good sense told her no. She didn’t know this man, other than that he appeared to be a friend of the doctor’s. There was something odd about him; something that didn’t track.
No, that’s fine. I’ll go some other time.
Jonathon gave a quick nod of agreement. It’s probably best.
What with the killer loose… He pointed at the newspaper under her arm, the one that matched his. You’ll find a full report on the Chapman inquest in there, he said. It makes horrific reading.
It’s a pity fellows like Alastair come under so much scrutiny during times like such as this.
Cynda puzzled on that last comment. Perhaps she’d heard him incorrectly. Why Alastair?
He fits the profile.
How so?
He’s about the right height and weight, he lives in Whitechapel, is a solitary individual, and once told me that he’d assisted with surgeries in Baltimore. He keeps quite irregular hours and many of the clinic’s patients are dolly-mops.
Cynda’s confusion grew. Dolly…mops? That was a new one.
Oh, pardon—prostitutes. It does give one pause to think my friend might be this blood-crazed murderer, Keats replied dramatically.
Oh, not going there. How long have you known him? she asked, shifting directions.
Jonathon accepted the change with grace. A little over a year.
I became acquainted with him right after he returned from his medical training in America. I’ve always found him a rather gloomy chap, but good-hearted. Of course, losing one’s fiancée and posh position in Mayfair would put the glooms on anyone.
Posh position? she asked. Following the man’s train of thought was like chasing a demented butterfly. Still, underneath all the verbiage she sensed a more subtle thread. The patter seemed to have a purpose. Jonathon spent the next two blocks painting a woeful tale of a talented physician made to choose between his sacred calling and the good life, fiancée included.
I bet you’re an actor. So he treated the boy and chose the Whitechapel clinic instead of Mayfair, she summarized. That wasn’t a surprise, given what she knew of the doctor.
Indeed. The last I heard, his former fiancée was being courted by a duke. No doubt her father’s quite pleased.
No doubt, especially if the duke isn’t as grumpy as the doctor.
Jonathon beamed and winked mischievously. I say, you are fun. It came dangerously close to a come-on. As if to reinforce it, he added, I do hope to see more of you during your stay in London, Miss Jacynda. There are a number of sights I think you might enjoy, and I would love the opportunity to escort you. The Crystal Palace, for example. An absolute marvel. It even has an aquarium! There was a noticeable pause, and then, Many things may be said about me, but I am not grumpy.
That was a come-on. Cynda chuckled anyway. This guy was fun. Pity she wouldn’t be here that long.
You are everything but grumpy, Jonathon.
That seemed to please him. To circumvent any further courting, Cynda bought another evening paper, different from the one she’d purchased earlier. He took it and added it to the stack under his arm. The Victorians were good about detailing little incidents, usually in garrulous verbiage. Perhaps one of the articles might point her toward Chris.
As they walked, she acquired more papers.
I say, you do like to read, don’t you? Keats remarked, gallantly toting the substantial collection under an arm. It sounded like a compliment.
Why not ask him? He seems to know everything. I’m trying to find someone. He went missing in the East End a few days ago. I thought maybe the papers might have something.
I see. Where was he staying? Jonathon asked.
That was the problem; she had no idea. I’m not sure.
Oh, that makes it a bit harder. Was he conducting business in the City?
No, in the East End. He didn’t come home as planned. I’m worried about him.
Keats’ face lost some of the youthful boyishness. No doubt you should be, though there may be some innocent reason for his absence.
Let’s hope so.
I would be happy to make inquiries for you. I have…connections, you see.
I bet you do. His name is Christopher Stone. He’s twentyseven.
Her companion steered them under a gas lamp and unexpectedly handed her the pile of papers. Digging in his coat, he extracted a small notebook and a pencil.
Height, hair and eye color? he asked, suddenly all business.
Five-nine or so, light-brown hair and eyes. No moustache.
Identifying marks?
He has a four-inch scar here, she said, pointing below her right ear.
He scribbled more notes. His manner seemed out of place with the chattering magpie she’d endured since the restaurant.
I will see what I can do for you, he said, tucking away the notebook and pencil. He retrieved the papers.
I appreciate your help. Alastair had difficulty with the fact that Chris is my… she hunted for a better word, paramour.
Ah, he’s your lover, then. Well, Alastair’s reaction isn’t that surprising, really, Jonathon said as they arrived at the boarding house.
I don’t understand.
A man does not like competition, Miss Jacynda. It is obvious that Alastair is quite smitten with you. To learn you had a lover would not set well.
Oh, lord. She hadn’t even thought about that. I see, she sighed.
I agree with him. Where Alastair will become surly about the situation, I see it as a challenge, Jonathon replied, smiling widely.
Now I’ve got two of them going. This is ridiculous. To hide her dismay, she stretched out her hands to claim the newspapers. He took one, kissed it, then delivered the stack.
I have had a delightful time with you, Miss Jacynda. I shall make inquiries and try to find your…particular friend. He winked, obviously not the least bit troubled that she was experienced, as the Victorians would put it.
Thank you, Jonathon. It’s been an interesting evening for me as well.
He doffed his hat, sweeping it downward with a flourish. Once she’d cleared the front door, he set off at a brisk clip toward the corner.
Instead of retreating to her room, Cynda took residence in the front parlor, doffing her mantelet and hat. Much to Mildred’s consternation, she dropped the stack of papers on the rug and then sat on the floor, smoothing her skirts around her. As Mildred fussed off in search of tea and scones, Cynda opened the first paper, bending over to scrutinize the articles.
It was just a matter of finding a needle in Whitechapel.
Alastair loitered across from his apparent destination, composing himself. His aggravation at Keats had succumbed to frank apprehension. He wasn’t even sure he was at the right location. Alastair dug the engraved card out its envelope. Edged with royal blue, it was of significant weight and pedigree. To his annoyance, there was no street address listed. He’d just have to trust that Keats had given him the right information. That did not suit. All he had to work with resided in the center of the card.