Page 23 of Corpse in the Canal

“Just a few minutes ago, madam.”

Mentally, Constance pulled back her shoulders and prepared to meet the distraught parents. She already looked forward to fleeing the house.

But to her dismay, their hostess would not hear of their seeking lodgings in town.

Mrs. Harvey’s eyes were red and filmy from a recent storm of weeping. But she welcomed her guests eagerly, almost with relief, as though seizing on habit and the outward show of good manners in order to get through this day and all the days to come.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Harvey,” Constance said. “The last thing you need at such a time is strangers in your house. Solomon and I will find lodgings in Channing, although of course we remain at your service—”

“Oh, no, no,” Mrs. Harvey said at once, all but jumping to her feet. “We would not hear of your staying anywhere else, would we, Richard? Certainly not one of those low inns in the town. You will be much more comfortable here. Dinner will be at seven. Allow me to show you to your rooms…”

She was so pathetically glad to have something to do, to let habit take over, that Constance did not have the heart to argue. Clearly, neither did Solomon, for he was silent, trailing after them to the floor above and along a long, carpeted passage.

“This is our guest room,” Mrs. Harvey said, rounding a corner and throwing wide the first door on the left. “Or rooms, really. The connecting door there is to a dressing room, but there is a comfortable bed made up there, too, so please just make yourselves comfortable. The nearest water closet is just across the hall, but you should have warm water in both rooms too. Just ring if you need anything at all. Oh, and don’t worry about mourning clothes, Mrs. Grey. We quite understand you will not have foreseen this eventuality. Join us in the drawing room when you are ready…”

She seemed to run out of steam. Her words trailed off and her smile slipped. She lingered a moment longer, as though seeking a reason to stay. Then she merely nodded and whisked herself out of the room.

Constance sank down on the bed, exchanging a rueful glance with Solomon.

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” he said. “We can question the servants more easily if we stay.”

“For whatever good that will do us.”

“They’re certainly less likely to speak ill of him now he’s dead than if he were merely missing.”

“It’s nearly seven already.” Constance rose and went to the wardrobe, where her clothes had been hung or neatly folded on shelves. “Yours must be in the dressing room,” she murmured, seizing on the dark-blue evening dress. Worn with a shawl and no jewelry, it would be severe enough for respect, if not for mourning.

The evening was going to be excruciating. And incalculably worse for the bereaved parents.

*

David, his folded easel under his arm, was on his way back from the riverside, where he had been painting ships emerging from the mist, when a girl loomed out of the fog and touched his arm.

Taken by surprise, he jerked away at once, belatedly assessing the danger, not only from the woman but from any of her allies who might have been creeping up from behind or on his other side.

But he was on a well-lit street, and the girl stood under the pale glow of a streetlamp. She looked familiar, even before she pushed back the hood of her thin cloak. It was the prostitute he and Solomon had spoken to last night. Ellie May.

His skin prickled. “How did you find me?”

“I asked around. You’re a pretty rare bird, even if there are two of you.”

She thought he was Solomon. Then she had something to say about Solomon’s new case.

She lifted her chin. “Got a couple of pennies? I got a name for the man you was asking about.”

David dug in his pocket and pulled out a few pennies. “Well?”

“Henry Hope,” she said, though she didn’t pronounce either H.

Was she making it up for the easy money? “Why didn’t you tell us that last night?”

“’Cause he was following you down the alley. Think I got a death wish?”

The hairs on the back of David’s neck prickled uncomfortably. He changed position, hefting the easel and turning so that he could see anyone approaching them. “He was the one following us? Who is he? Why are you frightened of him?”

“Anyone who’s got any sense is frightened of him. Even the peelers give him a wide berth, ’cause they can’t catch him neither.”

“And he’s a friend of Mr. Harvey?”