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The doorway topped a narrow set of stairs. The cool, dank air of a cellar enveloped Jasper as he descended, with Muncie following. The cellar glowed with lamplight, illuminating crates, shelves of food, barrels of ale, a slab of beef slung on a hook, and two men—only one of whom was alive.

Andrew Carter stood over the body of a man, lying on a wooden table. Jasper took cautious steps forward and met with the unmistakable rotten stench of the Thames.

“You didn’t do too good a job finding my nephew,” Andrew said, glaring daggers at him. The cellar air turned even more foul now.

“I take it this is Cillian,” Jasper replied.

“Pulled from the river this afternoon,” Andrew confirmed. “He was brought to the deadhouse near the Tower. A man there recognized him and sent word to me.”

Jasper’s skin crawled at the sight of Cillian’s bloated corpse. By the state of him, he’d gone into the water days ago. But he hadn’t drowned. His throat gaped wide where it had been slit. Though the freezing water temperature of the Thames had preserved him somewhat, the gash was black and raw.

Andrew bared his teeth in fury. “Pierce did this.”

“No,” Jasper countered. “Based on the state of the body, Cillian was murdered days, possibly a week, ago. Pierce had no idea who his wife was seeing until yesterday morning.”

“What happened yesterday morning?”

“I spoke to him. It was the first he’d heard that Cillian was his wife’s lover. I’m certain of it.”

Andrew walked along the opposite side of the table, his eyes pinned on his nephew while his jaw shifted side to side. “Even if I were to believe you, Sean is going to go after Desmond’s head. Cillian was his only son. Unless you can tell me who killed his boy, Sean is sure to break the peace we’ve got with the Angels and start a goddamned war. That’s something the East Rips don’t need.”

Jasper shrugged. “I don’t know anything more than you do.”

Andrew sneered at him. “You know that Miss Spencer was here with a copper tonight. It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

As Jasper had predicted, Silas Palmer still must have had the look of a police officer about him.

“She’s working with a private detective agency. Desmond Pierce hired them to find his wife, Tabitha.”

A predatory shine lit his cousin’s eyes. “She’s missing too, is she?”

“For about a week,” Jasper said. “And while I initially wondered if she had harmed Cillian before running, I no longer think that is the case. Women hardly ever have the strength necessary to carve a blade that deeply into a man’s throat.”

With a rock sinking through him, Jasper was beginning to fear Tabitha had been killed as well. That her body would be the next to be pulled from the river.

“I’ll determine that when I find her.” Andrew chuffed a laugh. “I’d ask you to do it, but I’m beginning to think you’re not a very good detective. Or maybe you just didn’t have the right incentive to get the job done.”

Jasper knew what Andrew was trying to do. Threats were all he had as leverage. If only Jasper had something to threaten him with.

“You’d best leave, Jamey. My brothers are on their way here, and they won’t be in gracious moods.”

Meeting up with his older cousins and seeing whether they recognized him, as Andrew had, wasn’t something Jasper wanted to test out. Andrew gestured toward the other end of the cellar, where a set of steps led up to a closed hatch.

Jasper looked at Cillian’s body one last time, and then Muncie, still standing guard, returned his Webley. As Jasper climbed into the alley behind the Golden Harp, he wondered why Andrew hadn’t just killed him in the cellar, adding another body to the tally. Jasper had failed at this first favor, after all. Cillian was dead, and he hadn’t even been the one to find the body. Why protect him now from the other Carter brothers?

There was something to it. And it might be the leverage Jasper was seeking.

Chapter Fifteen

Frost glittered on roofs and windows as sunlight broke through milky clouds. Leo buried her hands in the pockets of her cloak as she walked swiftly along the Strand toward Spring Street. As it was Sunday, the morgue would be closed to the public, but Leo still had work to do. Being out during the workday a few times that week meant that there were reports to catch up on. Besides, she popped into the morgue every Sunday to feed and water Tibia.

She’d remained agitated all night after Jasper left. Not knowing what had happened at the Golden Harp—if he’d spoken to Andrew or if he’d been seen by other Carter family members—gnawed at her. She’d done nothing wrong; how was she to have known the pub was owned by Andrew Carter? Nonetheless, she felt an infuriating pinch of guilt. It stole her hunger that morning when she and Claude met in the kitchen, and though she toasted some bread for him, she couldn’t stomach more than a few bites herself.

“I heard raised voices last evening when the inspector was here,” her uncle remarked with some caution. He didn’t want to pry, Leo could tell, but his concern was evident. “Is all well now?”

The answering prick of tears had surprised her. Aggravated her too. Though she had once been accustomed to verbal sparring with Jasper, last evening’s dispute had bothered her more than it ever would have in the past.

“Not entirely,” she’d answered her uncle. He’d only patted her hand and assured her that things would be repaired. To give it time.