He saw Birdie squeeze Allene’s arm, and Allene calmed herself before striding forward. Dawlish opened the door, mouth still hanging open.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop catching flies, Dawlish,” Allene said. “Take us to the city morgue, and don’t you dare tell Father or . . . or . . . I’ll tell him you’ve nicked a bottle of his best brandy.”
“But I haven’t, miss!”
“Exactly.” She let Birdie slide into the backseat first before hissing at Jasper. “You’re going to be the death of me, Jasper Jones!”
“I certainly hope not.” He winked at her.
They crowded into the backseat, with Jasper squeezed between the two girls. Heaven. He reached his arms around their shoulders, and like a well-timed vaudeville act, the girls slapped his hands in synchrony. Rather hard too.
“Ow. I deserved that.”
“Yes, you did,” Allene chided, though he caught a drift of a smile on her lips. They quieted down as they departed Brooklyn, watching people headed home, listening to the trolley jangling its call on the street corners. As the sunlight weakened over the city skyline, they passed over the Brooklyn Bridge. Jasper whistled.
“Well, this is dandy. Been a while since I traveled in style.” He regretted the words almost as soon as they had passed his lips; Allene gave him a pitying look, and Birdie turned toward her window. He wasn’t begging for charity, after all. He ought not to let his inner thoughts out too briskly from now on. There was something about being in the midst of Birdie and Allene—he couldn’t help but be himself. He’d attempted to wear a sheen of downtown worldliness, but it felt strange. With them, he was simply Jasper after all. And that wasn’t good enough, not even for him.
The motorcar drew up to the gates of Bellevue Hospital. An ambulance rolled just ahead of them through the entrance, relieving itself of a stretcher burdened with an old, wheezing man. As they parked on the curb, Dawlish exited to let them out.
“Miss, Mr. Cutter is to dine with the Sandersons in one hour’s time. I cannot be late.”
“But I need you, Dawlish.” Allene’s voice sounded petulant, and it worked marvelously. Dawlish began to perspire. He pulled at his starched collar.
Jasper stepped forward. “We’ll get you home, Allene. Let your driver go. We don’t want your father wondering what’s going on.”
“He’s right,” Birdie agreed. “And we’re wasting time.”
With that, Dawlish was released, and the three of them entered the hospital campus, with Jasper speaking to the guard. They passed the ambulance and main buildings and hurried northward toward the daunting pathology building, with its large arches and iron railings.
The girls gripped each other’s hands as Jasper led them inside. He watched them with something akin to merriment as their wide eyes wandered over the coffered ceilings and wood paneling. Their nostrils flared from the irritating scent of fixative and cleaning chemicals. Allene seemed more curious, but Birdie drew closer to her friend, as if fearing that the very walls might bite. Jasper led them down the stairs to the large double doors of the morgue. He tried the copper-handled door; it was locked.
“What are we going to do?” Birdie whispered. Footsteps sounded behind them, and she twirled around with a sharp inhale. A middle-aged man in a white coat, scuffed shoes, and a scowl approached them. When he saw the party, he grimaced, revealing a few missing teeth.
“It’s about time. What’re yeh bringing womenfolk down here for? We don’t do the tours for the public after hours.”
“Barston.” Jasper took a step closer and raised his eyebrows. “Thank you for not asking questions. You promise to . . . clean up our mess?”
“Like we discussed. O’course.”
“And the undertaker?”
“He’ll get fifty percent and make ’er lovely as a bride. Promise.”
Jasper stepped forward and handed him something from his palm. Barston counted the bills and stared hard at Jasper.
“Wot? This won’t do.”
“This is what we agreed on.”
“Not if I’m to split it fifty-fifty like.” Barston took out a ring of iron keys, jiggled them, and began to walk away. Jasper felt his insides smoldering with rage and shame. Barston had just walked off with this month’s rent. And now he had no rent, no body, and no plan.
“Wait!” Allene yelled out. She grabbed at the deflated satchel that Birdie carried and clawed inside it. She withdrew her hand and held out a ten-dollar bill. “This is all I have. If you don’t take it, then we’ll leave and we won’t be back.”
Mr. Barston’s eyes glittered at the sight of the money, and he walked back and snatched the crisp bill without a word, stuffing it into his pocket and picking out a key from the ring. The door was soon opened, and he tipped his head to Jasper.
“Lab’ll be open too, but I’m locking the whole lot in four hours. A’right?”
“Outstanding. Thank you, Barston.”
Jasper held the door open as Birdie and Allene entered, and he locked the doors behind him. The two girls wandered around the bureau where the bodies were stored for claiming or autopsy. Sometimes both, sometimes neither. They were careful not to touch the cold tables that held three bodies covered in sheets. Birdie walked over to a table by one of many sinks and began flipping through a large tome next to a stack of neat ledgers. Immediately, she put her hand to her mouth. Jasper quickly went to her side and shut the book.
“It’s a book of the unknowns,” he explained. “They photograph them and document everything before they’re taken to the potter’s field on Hart Island.” He put his hand on hers and withdrew it from the book and found that her hand was shaking. The photos were full of indecencies and horrors—disfigured corpses, decapitations, battered babies that stared at oblivion, and some that quietly slipped out of this world without anyone caring one jot—soulless bodies that no decent person ought to lay eyes upon. Birdie would not soon unsee the pages of that book, and for that, Jasper regretted not having sheltered her in time.
And yet here all three of them were, and on his accord. He couldn’t shelter her from Florence, not if they were going to get some answers. He turned Birdie away and walked her toward Allene. “We should get to work and do this.”
“Do what exactly?” Allene’s shoes made a crisp noise on the polished floor as she met him. “What did you mean by bringing us here?”
“Well, we think that Florence was poisoned. But we don’t know for sure. And the medical examiner—Dr. Norris—won’t have his people touch her because she’s not slated for an autopsy. But we can find the truth.”
“By desecrating her body? Jasper, are you out of your wits?” Birdie whispered.
“Why are you whispering? It’s just us. The dead don’t care,” Jasper said.
Allene strode forward and pinched him on the ear.
“Ow.”