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  “Almost done.” He smiled, even though his smiles weren’t worth half of the ones Taylor could muster. “A person was spotted outside your father’s room last night. They could have critical information about Mr. Shaw’s death and we’d like to locate them. Any idea who it could’ve been?”

  “Somebody like Elliot, you mean?” she asked. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any idea who it was.”

  “What about a mistress, Miss Shaw? Your father sent candy to saloon girls,” he replied. “I’ve seen a box myself.”

  “For all his sins, Detective, he was not a philanderer. He simply enjoyed sending gifts. To young ladies. To political supporters. Sometimes even to his enemies.” Rebecca Shaw turned aside and retreated behind her glass display case. She bent down to search among its contents. “Ambrose Shaw was a complicated man.”

  He couldn’t detect animosity in her demeanor; just a straightforward assessment of her father’s personality. More gracious and forgiving than Nick had ever been when it came to his own father.

  “One last question, Miss Shaw,” he said. “Where were you last night, between seven and eight?”

  “I closed my studio not long after seven and then went to my rooms above this shop, Detective,” she answered quickly. She straightened, a leather carte de visite cover in her hand. “My neighbor who lives in the flat across from mine can vouch that she spoke with me near my usual dinnertime. Around seven thirty, I suppose,” she added, without him even having to ask. “I have another question for you, Detective. How did my father die?”

  “Painlessly, miss, if you draw any comfort from that.”

  “That’s good.” She rolled her lips between her teeth. “That’s good.”

  “Who stands to gain the most from your father’s death, Miss Shaw?”

  Her eyes—a deep blue that bordered on green and were quite engrossing, if he wanted to spend time admiring them—considered him closely. “Who’d be the happiest? Or who’d be the richest?”

  “Your choice on how to answer.”

  “They are probably one and the same, Mr. Greaves,” she answered. “And I’d be a fool to name names when I have no more of an idea than you apparently do.”

  • • •

  “I need your help, Cassidy.”

  Caleb Griffin hung back in the gloom cast by the boardinghouse balcony overhead, his hat tugged low. Owen had never known Caleb to lurk in shadows, trying to not be noticed. Heck, he’d even taken to wearing a plain charcoal-colored vest instead of his red one that made him as noticeable as a robin hopping about in a tree. He still smelled of rose water, though, and the Sozodent he used on his teeth. Some things a fellow just couldn’t give up, Owen supposed.

  “My help?” asked Owen, recoiling in anticipation of a blow that might come in response to his question. Caleb usually issued orders and folks were just supposed to obey. Not ask questions.

  Caleb didn’t hit him, though.

  “Yes,” he said. “Your help.”

  “Oh . . . okay.”

  Shoot, Cassidy. Why’d you go and agree like you don’t have a lick of sense? Plus, why did a person like Caleb Griffin even need help from him? The idea bothered Owen. About as much as the notion that Caleb knew where he lived and had been able to send a message to his lodgings requesting this here meeting.

  “I mean . . . I mean . . .” stuttered Owen. “I mean I’ll see what I can do, Caleb. I’ve got a job at a confectioner’s store now, you see, and I can’t be missing work. I need the money.”

  Caleb scowled. He had a downright mean scowl. That much hadn’t changed, either. “Don’t be wasting my time, Cassidy. I can’t afford to be standing around jawing with you.”

  “Somebody after you, Caleb?”

  Shoot! What is wrong with me, asking a question like that?

  This time, Owen cringed and shut his eyes. Caleb barked a laugh. Which Owen hadn’t been expecting at all.

  He peeled open one eyelid. “What do you need me to do, Caleb?” He had to give the man a chance to explain; Owen owed Caleb his life, and he wasn’t going to go and be so ungrateful as to forget.

  “I need you to give a fellow a message for me. This is where you’ll find him.”

  Caleb dug a folded scrap of paper and a coin from his pocket, shoving the items at Owen, who grabbed them before they fell into the muck of the side street. As it was, the soles of his brogans—he’d only last week had new heels put on—were sticking to something he didn’t fancy identifying.

  He stared down at the coin, heavy and solid in his fist, before stowing it away. A silver dollar? A whole silver dollar?

  “There’ll be another one of those if you do what I’m asking right,” said Caleb.

  Owen’s fingers shook as he stuffed the coin into his brogan, safer there than inside one of his pockets. It was sorta alarming, if Caleb was paying him that kind of money.

  The note had an address on it. “What’s the message?”

  “Watch for a fellow with red hair.” Voices approached, drawing Caleb’s attention off Owen until the owners passed the end of the side street without bothering either of them. “His name is Platt. He works at that address. Tell him I want my money.”

  Who didn’t owe Caleb Griffin money? Even Mr. Davies had, and look at the trouble it had caused Mrs. Davies.

  Owen stuck the note into his brogan alongside the dollar coin. His foot was hot and damp, as sure a sign of his rattled nerves as the shaking of his fingers. “But, Caleb, like I already told you, I need to get to my job at the confectioner’s soon. Can’t I just leave your message at this fellow’s lodgings?”

  “He’s not there. I already checked,” he said. “Which means he’s still at his place of employment but could be leaving any minute.”

  “You sure I can’t just drop the message at his work place, then?” Was he whining, now? Did he sound like he was whining?

  “Are you gonna help or not, Cassidy?” asked Caleb, the tone of his voice implying Owen had better answer yes.

  Owen swallowed. “Um, okay. I expect you’ll want me to get a response from him, too.”

  “I knew I could count on you, Cassidy.”

  Tugging his coat collar tight against his jaw, Caleb bolted into the sunlight and sprinted up the road like a pack of wild dogs was snapping at his heels.

  • • •

  The Institute’s front door was unlocked—just as Rebecca Shaw had supposedly found it on her visit—and Nick stepped into the entry hall. “Hullo?”

  The parlor was empty, dust motes spinning on a narrow band of sunlight stealing through a chink in the closed shutters. Angry voices echoed down from the upstairs rooms, and pots clanged in the kitchen. He didn’t need to be shown to Ross’s office, though. He knew where it was.

  Nick knocked and entered the room. “Have a minute, Mr. Ross?”

  “Oh, it’s you again, Detective Greaves.” He’d been staring out the window, his back to the door. The view was very fine, looking out on the limestone-clad walls of a church across the way, one stained-glass window a jolt of vivid cobalt blue and crimson red among the expanse of creamy stone. “Has the coroner finally issued his report on Mr. Shaw’s suspicious death?”

  “I expect he’ll be finished with his examination sometime today.”

  “And then the newspapers will hear,” said Ross. He produced a handkerchief to mop across his forehead. The fellow sure did sweat a lot. “A reporter was here this morning, wanting to know why the police have been spotted coming and going. I’ll be ruined. No one will come to my Institute again. Ever. And my wife is distraught that one of your officers came to our door at daybreak this morning, asking her to vouch for my whereabouts last evening.”

  Mullahey, up and about early, aware that morning sleepiness sometimes encouraged folks to blurt out the most honest statements. “And what did she answer?”

  He flushed. “That I was at home, as I said, Mr. Greaves.”

  “Why don’t you take a seat, Mr. Ross. You don’t look well.”r />
  Ross happily dropped onto the chair behind his desk. “I’ve spoken with my daytime assistant about Mr. Shaw’s missing key, Mr. Greaves.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  “He intended to retrieve a new one from the locksmith today, to replace the one Mr. Shaw lost,” he said. “However, before he did, the fellow chose instead to quit. Not fifteen minutes ago. Once he’d heard . . . well . . .”

  That Mr. Shaw had died under suspicious circumstances, Nick supposed.

  “And now I’ve had to ask Mr. Platt to remain past his usual departure time, to help with the patients who’ve decided to cut short their stays.” He glanced at the ceiling, the direction of rooms soon to be vacated by angry—and loud—occupants. “They’ve all decided to leave after lunch. Actually, one of them left right after breakfast. I’ll be ruined.”

  Nick let Ross moan over his misfortune for a few seconds before moving on.

  “I’ve spoken with Miss Shaw about her visit here,” he said. “She tells me she never met with her father.”

  “I believe, sadly, that was the case,” replied Ross, confirming her story.

  “And Mr. Shaw definitely had no other visitors? Besides his wife and son.” Somebody who might’ve helped themselves to a key.

  “We limit visitors, Detective,” he said. “My patients require comfort and quiet.”

  “Certainly,” said Nick. “It’s come to my attention that several of your former patients had personal items stolen while they were inmates here. What can you tell me about that?”

  “I . . . I do recall a patient . . . umm . . . making that claim,” he stuttered.

  “More than one, according to my information.”

  “More than one? No, no. Just one.”

  “Okay, what about that one?” asked Nick, sure he sounded as impatient as he felt.

  “She was being treated for a nervous disposition, Detective,” he said. “Her husband assured me that she has flights of fancy, which is why I didn’t notify the police.”

  “Your patient mustn’t have agreed with her husband’s assessment that she was suffering from a flight of fancy, because she told her friends about the theft.”

  “Oh. That’s how you heard.”

  “I’ve also been told that a male patient had an engraved gold pen stolen,” said Nick.

  “Nonsense!” Ross’s face flushed a dangerous-looking shade of red. “No other thefts. Most certainly not. I don’t operate an institution occupied by thieves!”

  A rapid knock sounded on the doorframe and Mrs. Shaw barged into the office. “I’m glad to see you, Detective Greaves. I’d like to report a theft. My husband’s gold watch and fob chain are missing from the possessions he brought with him to this . . . this horrible place!”

  Chapter 8

  “Captain Eagan was looking for you, sir,” said Taylor, following Nick into the detectives’ office. He closed the door behind him. “Got wind we were investigating Mr. Shaw’s ‘natural death,’ as he put it, and wants to know what you’re up to.”

  “And what did you tell him?” asked Nick, tossing his hat onto the desk.

  “That Dr. Harris thinks it’s suspicious,” he replied. “The captain didn’t say anything after I told him that.”

  “Good.” He dropped onto the chair at his desk while Taylor took the one opposite. “Miss Shaw was at her gallery. She’s adamant that Delphia and Leonard Shaw are lying about Blanchard being the person who’d been following Ambrose Shaw.”

  “I looked through our records, sir,” said Taylor. “Mr. Shaw never named who he’d suspected of stalking him. I’m surprised he didn’t take the chance to accuse Mr. Blanchard, seeing how much they disliked each other.”

  So was he. “Miss Shaw also said she hadn’t been given a key. In fact, she didn’t even speak with her father when she visited the Institute, which Ross has backed up,” said Nick. “I checked her alibi for last night. Her neighbor confirms speaking with Miss Shaw around seven thirty.”

  Taylor jotted in his notebook. “So we can eliminate Miss Shaw?”

  “Maybe,” Nick replied. “Mrs. Shaw happened to show up while I was in Ross’s office. Her husband’s expensive gold watch and fob chain are missing from among his possessions, and they didn’t go with the body to Harris’s morgue. The fellow was only in a nightshirt last night.”

  “Another theft.” Taylor whistled. “We did get a report on one of those other incidents at the Institute, sir. Looks like there’s been a problem at the place for a while.”

  Except this time the thieving might’ve turned into murder.

  “Ross’s wife has vouched that he was safely at home by seven thirty.” Nick leaned back, the casters squealing. One day maybe he’d remember to take some oil to them and stop their cussed noise. “So he might be a thief but he’s not our killer.”

  Taylor peered at him. “Miss Mina can’t possibly be responsible either. Right?”

  Mina. Damn. “I think I will head over to the Cascarinos’, Taylor. See if she’s got Shaw’s watch.” Hopefully Celia Davies wouldn’t be there this time to stop him.

  “And a key?”

  Nick’s stomach soured. “And a key.”

  Just then, a shadow appeared on the other side of the office door’s glass. The man rapped on the door and opened it. “Greaves, Taylor,” said the coroner. “Might I interrupt?”

  Nick gestured for him to come in. “You’re finished with Shaw’s autopsy?”

  “Enough to give you some answers, I believe.”

  Taylor jumped up and offered Harris his chair.

  “First of all, Ambrose Shaw did die from heart failure. That much is clear,” said the coroner. He withdrew a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his coat and consulted it. “Furthermore, there was a quantity of alcohol in his stomach along with a small amount of his supper. One or two sheets in the wind, if you ask me.”

  “That much easier to knock out with chloroform,” said Nick.

  “It wouldn’t hurt.”

  “He was also robbed of an expensive gold watch and chain, Harris,” he said. “Perhaps his assailant wanted to render him senseless in order to have time to hunt around for the man’s valuables before finishing him off with a good dose of coal gas fumes.”

  Harris refolded his notes and stowed them away. “Sedating someone in order to steal from them really isn’t as simple as what’s reported in the papers, Greaves. Those sensational stories about innocent victims having an assailant sneak up behind them with a chloroform-soaked rag and rendering them instantly unconscious,” he replied. “It normally requires several minutes of administration to anesthetize a person, especially a man of his size.”

  “Shaw helped them out by not only being drunk but keeling over from heart failure.”

  “He didn’t perish immediately,” said Harris. “I found a faint contusion on the back of his right wrist where he struck it against something, or someone. In addition, I discovered a number of scratches on his cheeks, near his ears. I couldn’t find any skin beneath his fingernails, so the scratches were likely caused by his assailant.”

  “While holding the cloth against his face,” said Taylor. “That linen handkerchief.”

  “That’s my supposition, Mr. Taylor. He must’ve been too drunk to fight off the person,” said Harris. “Unfortunately, chloroform doesn’t leave a telltale smell in the blood or tissues of its victims, so I’m having to go with my instincts on the cause of his heart failure. The abrasions on his face. The slight chemical burns on the sensitive skin around his nose. The lack of stiffness that I’d associate with excess gas exposure. That handkerchief.”

  “Enough to convince an inquest jury he was murdered?” asked Nick.

  “Depends on the jury, Greaves,” he replied. “Finding the chloroform bottle in Mr. Shaw’s room would’ve been helpful, though.”

  “Why not just crack Mr. Shaw on the head and then turn on the gas to finish him off?” asked Taylor. “Rather than use chloroform.”
/>   “Because an obvious wound makes it hard to pretend his death had been an accident caused by a gas leak,” said Nick.

  “But the perpetrator stole his watch, sir,” protested Taylor. “Once we discovered it was gone, we’d have to conclude Mr. Shaw’s death was murder. Right? I mean the fellow didn’t throw his gold watch and fob chain out the window before succumbing to gas fumes.”

  “Unless the killer and the thief are two different people, Taylor.” But was one of them Mina Cascarino?

  Harris stood. “A fascinating Gordian knot I’ll leave to you two gentlemen to unpick. Do you need anything else, Greaves?”

  “When do you intend to call the inquest?” asked Nick. “I’d like time to investigate without the reporters howling that Shaw was killed.” The results of the jury’s findings would be in the papers as soon as they could slap ink on the presses.

  “I can’t hold off much longer. Tomorrow morning at the latest,” he said. “I have another inquest to conduct, so maybe I can claim I’m just being efficient in holding them at the same time. A suicide, the other one.” He shook his head. “When will folks stop killing themselves in this town?”

  As soon as they stop feeling desperate and lost, like Meg . . .

  “Thanks, Harris,” he said, embarrassed to hear his voice shake. Harris didn’t appear to notice, though.

  The coroner left, quietly shutting the door behind him.

  “It’s all pretty confusing to me, sir,” said Taylor, frowning over his bewilderment. “By the way, I had a chance to look into that burglary at Mr. Blanchard’s house. The report matches what he told us. Somebody broke in, rummaged around, tossing things everywhere, left without anything. One of the officers who investigated found a broken window, but that was all he discovered.”

  Nothing taken, but enough of a mess to make sure the occupants of the house knew that somebody had broken in . . .

  “What if it wasn’t actually an attempted burglary, Taylor?” asked Nick. “Blanchard said it scared his wife. Maybe that’s all the perpetrators intended.”