Pandora immediately liked Ethan Ransom, a good-looking young man with an air of quiet reserve and a sense of humor that was rarely permitted to surface. But there was an appealing hint of boyishness about him. It had something to do with the way he spoke, his middle-class accent carefully beveled and measured, like a serious schoolboy. Or perhaps it was the way his straight dark hair kept falling over his forehead.
“I’m from the secret service bureau,” Ransom explained, as he sat in the parlor with Pandora and Gabriel. “We’re part of the detective department, but we gather intelligence related to political matters and answer directly to the Home Office instead of the division superintendent.” He hesitated, considering his words. “I’m not here in an official capacity. In fact, I would prefer to keep this visit confidential. My superiors would be displeased, to put it mildly, if they knew I was here. However, the lack of interest in Lady St. Vincent’s attack, as well as Mrs. O’Cairre’s death, has been . . . remarkable. I can’t stand by and do nothing.”
“Mrs. O’Cairre’s death?” Pandora repeated, a sting of shock racing through her. “When did that happen? How?”
“A week ago.” Ransom glanced from her to Gabriel. “You weren’t told?”
Gabriel shook his head.
“Suicide, they claimed,” Ransom said, with a twist of his mouth. “The coroner sent for a physician to perform an autopsy, but somehow the body was interred before it could be done. Now the coroner refuses to order it to be disinterred. That means no inquest. The department wants the entire matter swept under the rug.” He surveyed them both cautiously before continuing. “At first I thought it was indifference or sheer incompetence, but now I believe it’s more sinister than that. Secret Service has deliberately overlooked and destroyed evidence, and their interrogation of Mrs. O’Cairre was a useless mummery. I went to the detectives who’d been assigned to the interrogation and told them about Lady St. Vincent’s visit to the printer’s works. I also made certain they knew about the man she saw in the warehouse. They never asked Mrs. O’Cairre even one question about him.”
“My wife was nearly murdered in front of the Haymarket, and they can’t be bothered?” Gabriel asked with incredulous fury. “By God, I’ll go to Scotland Yard and stir up a hornet’s nest.”
“You’re welcome to try, my lord. But they’ll only waste your time with jibber-jabber. They won’t act. There’s so much corruption throughout the department and the entire police district, it’s impossible to know who to trust.” Ransom paused. “I’ve been pursuing the investigation on my own.”
“How can I help?” Gabriel asked.
“Actually, it’s Lady St. Vincent’s help that I need. Before I explain, you should know there’s a stinger at the end of it.”
Gabriel stared at him for a long, pensive moment. “Go on.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, Ransom pulled out a small notebook with a few loose pages tucked inside. He extracted a slip of paper and showed it to Pandora. “Do you recognize this, my lady? It was in the bag of materials you brought from the printer’s office.”
“Yes, it’s the little scrap I found at the printer’s works. It looks like a sample of typographic lettering. It was the reason I followed Mrs. O’Cairre out to the warehouse. She’d dropped it, and I thought she might have need of it.”
“These aren’t typographic samples,” Ransom said. “It’s a cipher key. A combination of alphabet letters that are used to decipher coded messages.”
Pandora’s eyes widened with interest. “How exciting!”
That drew a quick smile from him. “Actually, in my world it’s rather mundane. Everyone uses cipher messages—police and criminals. The department employs two full-time cryptographic experts to help unravel all the materials we acquire.” He turned serious again. “Yesterday I came into possession of a coded telegram that couldn’t be deciphered with the latest cipher key from our central office. But I tried this key”—he gestured with the slip of paper—“and it worked.”
“What does it say?” Pandora asked.
“It was sent to a known leader of Caipíní an Bháis, the group of radicals Mrs. O’Cairre was connected with. It concerns a reception that will be held at the Guildhall tomorrow evening for the Prince of Wales.” Pausing, he carefully tucked the cipher key back into the notebook. “The telegram was sent by someone in the Home Office.”