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“Jasper?”

He stood farther down in the corridor, in the open doorway to another hospital room. Jasper turned and then, with a look of concern, strode toward her.

“Leo? Why are you here?”

“Aunt Flora fell down the—” Blood smeared on Jasper’s cuffs and on his collar silenced her. “My God, what has happened?”

He peered at his cuffs, as if only seeing the stains just now. “I’ll tell you in a moment but finish what you were saying. Flora fell?”

“She has a broken femur, but she’ll heal,” she replied impatiently. “Whose blood is that?”

“Not mine,” he assured her, which put her at ease. A little, at least. “I found Marianna, the maid. She’d been stabbed and left for dead, but she’s still alive. Barely.”

Jasper explained how Dita had recognized the woman in the sketch in the Morning Chronicle as a former employee of Mr. Castelan’s agency, and when Jasper and Warnock visited Mr. Castelan, they’d learned her name—Mary Keating.

In addition to that, Sebastian Lawlor’s real name was Samuel Edwards, a former private detective for Mr. Castelan. They’d obtained addresses for both Mary and Samuel, visiting the nearer location first—Samuel’s—before crossing town to Mary’s. When they arrived, they found Mary had been severely wounded.

“The attack happened within minutes of our arrival,” Jasper told Leo.

Misgiving soured her stomach. “Right after you were at the agency, asking about her?”

“I know. It is too much of a coincidence.”

“Who at Mr. Castelan’s knew you were going there?” Leo asked.

“Castelan, of course, and his clerk, Hutchins, who pulled their files.” Jasper crossed his arms as if trying to rein in his agitation. “And Silas Palmer was listening in.”

“Detective Palmer? But why would he try to silence Mary?”

Jasper stated what should have immediately been obvious to her: “If he is Mr. Gray, he would have every reason to try.”

Leo pictured Silas Palmer in her mind but couldn’t reconcile him with the illustration of the doctor that Mr. Gibbons had sketched. Then again, Henry Gray had a full beard and mustache. A pair of spectacles, and a head of shoulder-length hair that fell across his forehead. All of which could easily be applied as a disguise.

“But he doesn’t possess Mr. Gray’s nose,” she said, recalling Detective Palmer’s rather handsome aquiline nose. In contrast, Mr. Gray’s was bulbous.

“I’ve sent Warnock, PC Drake, and PC Mills to Castelan’s agency to question the men there,” Jasper said. “I want to know everyone’s movements after Warnock and I left.”

Leo wished to know as well, but in truth, at a busy office like Mr. Castelan’s, it wouldn’t be odd to have men coming and going at all times. Someone leaving the office right after Jasper and Warnock had wouldn’t necessarily point to guilt.

“What is Mary’s condition?” she asked.

“She was stabbed twice, once in the abdomen and again in the chest,” he answered, moving back to the open door. Leo followed. Inside the hospital room, a woman lay in bed, her eyes closed, her coloring significantly pale. “The doctor isn’t sure if she will pull through. But if she wakes, she will be able to name her attacker.”

It was something her attacker would not be pleased to learn. As if reading her mind, Jasper said, “I’m staying until Price arrives with a few more constables to guard her door.”

In the bed, Mary’s stillness was broken by the flex of her hand and the flutter of her eyelashes. Leo stepped forward into the room. “She might be waking.”

Jasper went swiftly to the woman’s bedside. “Miss Keating?” His kept his voice low and gentle.

Mary’s eyelids opened, though barely, and then shuttered again. She moaned and rolled her head on the pillow.

“Miss Keating, you are safe now,” Leo said, hoping the woman was conscious enough to comprehend. “You’re at St. Thomas’s, and your wounds have been tended to.”

Mary’s pale, parched lips parted, and an unintelligible rasp emerged. Jasper lowered himself to one knee next to the bed and leaned forward. “I’m Inspector Reid of Scotland Yard, Miss Keating. I found you in your rooms, wounded. Can you tell me who attacked you?”

Her eyes were still shut, but her brow tensed, and her lips moved again. It took another few moments until sound scraped up her throat. “P…Pa,” she said hoarsely.

Pa?