“I know.”
Kendra didn’t dare say that, for a moment, when she’d looked down on the twisted, bloody figure under the torn green velvet cloak—a cloak that she herself had worn only a day ago—she had seen herself as well.
“Are you all right, Miss? Do you want me ter take you home?”
“No,” she said, and then, realizing that short answer could apply to both questions, she added, “No, I don’t want you to take me home. I want answers.”
Still, she had to take a moment to concentrate on her breathing—inhale and exhale—to stem the horror rising inside her.
She gave Sam a sidelong look. The Runner had proven himself remarkably efficient earlier, sending one of the many children standing nearby to Dr. Munroe’s for a carriage to haul the body back to his autopsy school. Another kid had been dispatched to the Duke’s. Then Sam had even begun to interview the gawkers who’d remained at the scene. After watching him for a moment, she’d put aside the shock and joined him.
The driver of the cart, a farmer who’s normally ruddy complexion had turned a sickly gray, had repeated over and over again that she’d simply flung herself out in front of him, and he hadn’t been able to stop his team from running her down. No one else had seen anything or anyone suspicious. One moment they were huddled together on the street corner, with the usual bit of impatient jostling, as everyone was eager to go about their errands, and the next they’d heard a cry and the madwoman had pitched herself onto the street. There’d been nothing to do but watch the poor lass be trampled to death by the horses and wheels of the farmer’s cart, God preserve her.
Now Kendra shook her head and met Sam’s worried gaze. “Why was she even there?” Not for a second did she believe it had been a coincidence.
“Do you think she followed you?”
“How? I was gone before she returned home.”
Sam rubbed the side of his nose in his habitual gesture. “Exactly why were you there, if you don’t mind me askin’? A footman summoned me and said I was ter meet you at the Crown at Piccadilly, but he didn’t explain why.”
“I got a note to meet someone who had information about Lady Dover’s death at the Crown Tavern.”
“I see. That’s why you’re dressed the way you are?”
“Yes.”
“You were takin’ a chance, Miss.”
Kendra leaned back against the cracked leather seat cushion, exhausted. “I knew it could be a trap. That’s why I didn’t go unarmed.” She pushed back the blanket in the wicker basket to reveal the pistols. “I can take care of myself, Mr. Kelly.”
“Aye, that you can.”
“I was wrong about the trap, though. I thought it would be in the Crown Tavern.” She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.
It was the only explanation. Whoever had sent her the note had been hiding in plain sight, blending in with the pedestrians along the congested sidewalk. Or maybe the assassin had been waiting for her in one of the many Tudor-style shops, taverns, or coffeehouses lining the street. But when she’d finally arrived, he hadn’t recognized her in the servant garb that she wore. Instead, he’d recognized the green velvet cloak.
“I didn’t consider someone lying in wait outside,” Kendra said.
“You are about the same height, and have the same hair color,” Sam agreed in a low voice, echoing her own thoughts.
“And it’s a cold day, so Miss Cooper probably had the hood pulled up, which would have concealed her face.” Kendra was pleased that her voice sounded calm, with none of the tremors that she felt rippling through her. “We both know what happened, Mr. Kelly. I should be the one dead.”
“You’re making someone anxious, Miss.”
“Apparently. Unfortunately, I don’t know who. Lord Weston? His son? Lord Dover?”
Her gaze drifted to the window. They passed buildings of stone, brick, and stucco. Kendra couldn’t help but think of modern London, with its extensive network of CCTV cameras on almost every corner. Civil rights advocates called London the most spiedupon city in the world. Kendra herself had always been torn between a citizen’s natural fear of having their privacy invaded, even eroded altogether, and her position in law enforcement, where she wanted to utilize every tool at her disposal to stop criminals.
Would I know the identity of Miss Cooper’s killer in 2015? Or would the camera have been turned off, or pointed in a different direction at the time the murderer had pushed the maid into the busy traffic? Those glitches happened more often than people realized.
“Why’d she have your cloak anyway, Miss?”
Kendra brought her gaze back to Sam. “I received a new cloak, so I . . . I gave her the old one.” Her throat tightened as she remembered the look of surprised pleasure on the other woman’s face the day before.
Sam nodded. “’Tis a common enough practice, Miss. An act of kindness.”
Kendra said nothing, but she knew when she met the Runner’s shadowed gaze that he was probably wondering the same thing that she was: How could one act of kindness have gone so horribly wrong?
31
Dr. Munroe’s anatomy school seemed oddly deserted to Kendra, until Sam reminded her that it was Sunday. While the surgeon wasn’t a particularly religious man himself, he was clever enough to realize that his standing in the community was fragile at best. He didn’t need to increase the neighborhood’s antipathy against his profession by chopping up dead bodies—some probably illegally obtained through resurrectionists—on the Sabbath.
Kendra found herself affected by the grim purpose of their visit and had to suppress a shiver as they made their way to the basement. Their footfalls rang out too loudly in the empty hallway. When they descended the shadowy stairs, the air that rose up to greet them was cold and dank, and carried with it the scent of the grave.
In the autopsy room, beneath the glowing lanterns, Dr. Munroe and his apprentice, Mr. Barts, were examining the nude, broken body of Eva Cooper. The shock of the sight made Kendra inhale sharply—a mistake, as here the air reeked of hot wax, burning oil, and decaying flesh. She had to swallow hard against the reflex to gag.
Munroe and Barts straightened at their entrance. The doctor’s gray eyes, behind his spectacles, immediately zeroed in on her.
“Miss Donovan,” Dr. Munroe said. “The boy told me that a woman would be accompanying Mr. Kelly. I suspected that it would be you—though I scarcely recognize you, dressed as you are.”
The killer certainly didn’t, she thought again.
The doctor hesitated, but when no one offered an explanation for her clothes, he made a gesture to the body on the table. “I assume you knew this poor woman. That is why you’re here, is it not?”
Kendra forced herself to look at the corpse. “Yes. She was my lady’s maid—Miss Cooper. Miss Eva Cooper.”