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“Christ, I don’t want to think about what might have happened had the poor woman not woken up before Miss Spencer’s uncle commenced the embalming process,” Oliver said, his complexion taking on a greenish hue.

“We don’t believe this was Lawlor’s first confidence trick,” Jasper said.

“We?” Oliver echoed, raising a brow.

Of course, he would have picked up on that one word. “Miss Spencer and I,” Jasper clarified, though his dour tone advised Oliver against pressing the subject. “Can you think of anyone from your set who experienced something similar? Perhaps within the last few years?”

Oliver swirled the dark ruby port in his glass, a look of concentration pulling at the corners of his mouth. It was the expression he wore when playing cards with a losing hand.

“I’m sorry, no,” he said after a moment. But then he brightened. “However, I can think of someone who might have a better idea than me.”

Jasper knew to whom he referred. His cousin Constance typed the society pages for the Times. She’d been employed there for about two years, much to the discontent of her parents. If a newly married heiress had died of a mysterious wasting disease, Constance would likely recall the announcement.

“I can pay her a call and hope she speaks to me,” Jasper said. The last time he’d seen her had been over the summer, when her younger brother went missing. Thirteen-year-old George Hayes had been kidnapped by his birth mother, after he had been stolen from her as a baby. Leo had managed to track him down, which led to his safe return to his adoptive family.

“Don’t worry. She’s over you,” Oliver replied. “In fact, she has a new beau.”

“Does she? I’m glad.” The sentiment was sincere. Jasper felt no envy that Constance had found another man; he’d ended his courtship with her for the undeniable reason that he did not love her. He could not. Because he was already in love with Leo, even if he had not yet admitted it to himself.

“She’s calling on my mother tomorrow at Hayes Manor. If it would be helpful, I’ll put the question to Constance then,” Oliver offered.

It would free up Jasper to attend to other aspects of his investigations—including the unofficial one he’d taken on to appease Andrew Carter. So, he thanked Oliver, threw back the remainder of his whisky, and rose from his chair.

“Getting back in the ring?” his friend asked, smirking.

He shook his head. “Going home while I still have all my teeth.”

Jasper collected his coat and hat at the front of the club and started home on foot, the scent of cigar smoke lingering on him. He arrived home too late to find Mrs. Zhao still awake. Attempting to bathe in the room off the kitchen would have stirred her from her sleep, so he washed up quickly and fell into bed, his mind still churning.

He rose at dawn, and when he joined his housekeeper in the kitchen, the bruising on his knuckles drew her attention.

“Police work or that boxing club again?” she asked, her meaning unequivocally clear: Men pummeling each other for sport was barbaric.

“Whichever you would rather it be,” he answered. It earned him a string of muttering in her native Cantonese.

He ate the sausage and soft-boiled eggs she’d prepared, then left the house earlier than usual. From Charing Cross Station, he took the railway to Liverpool Street. When he emerged, the morning fog was lifting. Jasper hired a cab and directed the driver to Newton Close.

The previous morning, Andrew had provided the information he possessed on Cillian’s mistress, Tabitha Pierce, and her husband, Desmond. The couple lived in a common lodging house, like many others did in the East End. Desmond held a job at a casino in Stepney, and when he wasn’t working, he often loitered with other Angels at the Black Parrot, a public house owned by Barry Reubens, a cousin to Desmond.

With the pact for amity between the two gangs in place, no East Rip—not even Sean Carter—could approach Tabitha or Desmond on Angels’ territory now to ask questions about Cillian. Jasper doing so would still draw attention, and it could be dangerous, but Andrew didn’t much care about that.

The cab traveled through narrow, crowded streets filled with shopfronts for butchers, shoemakers, silk weavers, taverns, and garment makers. Costermongers had set up their carts; children in thin clothing and pitiable footwear were collecting horse droppings and bits of dropped coal from the streets to burn at home or in rubbish bins for heat; and too many bedraggled men and women were lounging in alleyways as though it was where they’d spent the night.

The cabbie stopped at the corner of Newton Close. Doss-houses lined the short and narrow dead-end street, with people’s laundry strung crisscross overhead. At the far end, children kicked a ball amongst themselves and against a crumbling brick wall that sealed off the close.

Jasper paid the cabbie and asked him to wait, then started toward the address Andrew had given him. A man emerged from one doss-house, caught sight of Jasper, and stopped to stare. He likely knew Jasper was a copper: He had the unmistakable look of a policeman, his father had once told him. Somehow, Gregory had added, Jasper’s promotion from a uniformed constable to a plainclothes detective sergeant had only made him appear more like a policeman. It was in his bearing, and that was something Jasper could not disguise.

He’d tucked his Webley in a holster under his coat, though he would rather not find himself cornered in this dead-end street.

With the man in the doorway continuing to stare, Jasper found the building he wanted and dipped inside its dank entry hall. Taking the stairs to the next floor, he considered how he would approach the Pierces. Prancing around the reason for his visit would only waste time. Besides, Jasper preferred to employ straightforward questions. How people reacted to them was often telling.

He found the door he wanted and, taking a bracing breath, brought down his fist. No sound came from within the rooms. Jasper knocked again. It was early still. If Desmond had returned home late after his shift at the casino, he might still be abed. Tabitha, Jasper hoped, would answer the door, and he could pose his questions about Cillian Carter to her.

But when the door did open an inch, that hope scattered. A man with dark eyes stared out at Jasper. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, with his shaggy black hair, a patchy beard, and clothes in need of a thorough washing. Three deep gouges scored his neck, peeking out above his stained collar.

“Desmond Pierce?”

The man’s glare sharpened. “What do you want?”