"I heard his footsteps on the stairs about nine o'clock."

"An hour to reach the shop at ten," Ryan said to himself. "It's do-able for a man accustomed to walking a great deal."

"Did you hear him return?" Constable Becker asked me.

"No."

"Three o'clock!" Mrs. Warden called from the kitchen.

"That is true," Father said. "I returned at three o'clock."

"Plenty of time for you to have walked back from the shop," Ryan murmured to himself.

I no longer cared that I raised my voice. "Look at this man! He's sixty-nine! He's short! He's frail!"

"Thin," Father said. "But please, Emily, not frail. This month alone, and it's only the eleventh, I walked one hundred and fifty miles."

"Do you honestly believe my father has the strength to bludgeon three adults with a... what did you say was used?"

"A ship carpenter's mallet," Becker answered.

"It sounds heavy."

"A st.u.r.dy tool."

"Look at my father's arms."

They turned in Father's direction, and perhaps it was the effect of the laudanum, but he seemed smaller in the chair, his shoes barely touching the floor.

"What you describe would have been impossible for him," I emphasized.

"Alone," Ryan said. "But two people could have done it, one with the knowledge and one with the strength."

"You are making me impatient," I said. "The next thing, you'll suggest that I'm the one who helped Father kill all those people. Would you like to know where I was at ten o'clock last night?"

"Honestly, Miss De Quincey, I don't think-"

"In bed. But I'm afraid I don't have a witness."

Color rose to both men's beard-stubbled cheeks.

"A ship carpenter's mallet?" Father asked.

"Yes," Ryan answered. "You understand the significance?"

"The parallel was that exact?"

"More than can be imagined. The mallet had initials stamped into it by a nail. Would you care to guess what the initials are?"

"J. P.? It's not possible."

"But it is. The initials are indeed J. P., the same initials that were on the mallet used in the murders forty-three years ago, the same initials that you wrote about in your essay on how murder is such a wonderful art. Now I must insist"-Ryan stood-"that you come with us to Scotland Yard, where you can answer our questions in a more appropriate setting."

"No," Father said. "I won't come with you to Scotland Yard."

Ryan stepped closer. "You're mistaken. Believe me, sir, you will come with us to Scotland Yard. Whether under your own power or under duress, that is your choice."

"No," Father repeated. He drank the last of the laudanum in his cup. "Not Scotland Yard. I'm afraid there is only one place to discuss this."

"Oh? And where might that be?"

"Where the murders occurred."

6.

The Patron of Gravediggers.

DARKNESS MERGED WITH THE THICKENING FOG. On the street outside the shop, the lights of police lanterns no longer zigzagged urgently. The investigation had reached its limits-no more neighbors to question, no more places to search.

Nonetheless the street was chaotic. As Ryan and Becker climbed down from the police wagon, they a.s.sessed the troubling circ.u.mstance that confronted them. Although most of the daytime crowd was gone, having retreated from whatever terrors the new night concealed, those who remained were drunk and made enough noise for a crowd ten times larger. They carried clubs, swords, and rifles. There was nothing Ryan could do about their weapons. In the absence of gun laws, even children could own firearms.

"How long will you stay and keep us safe?" a neighbor demanded from a constable outside the shop.

"As long as we're investigating."

"But how long? Tomorrow night?"

"Possibly," the policeman replied.

"Possibly? What about next week? Will you be here then?"

"I'm not certain. A lot of streets aren't being patrolled while we're here. Soon we'll need to get back to our districts."

"My G.o.d, we'll all be murdered unless we find the killer ourselves!"

Amid the clamor, Ryan noticed that the Opium-Eater and his daughter had climbed down from the police wagon without a.s.sistance. Despite his considerable efforts to dissuade her, De Quincey's daughter had refused to be left behind while De Quincey had refused to go without her.

"I need to make certain that Father takes care of himself," she had said, and to prove it she'd insisted that De Quincey eat several biscuits as the wagon transported them. "The state of his stomach is such that he eats as little as possible. This is his first food since breakfast."

Ryan had never encountered a pair quite like them. At five feet ten inches, Ryan was taller than most people in 1854, a requirement for being a policeman. In contrast, De Quincey was shorter than the average height of five feet four inches, his thin frame making him seem even shorter, perhaps only five feet. Yet the Opium-Eater had a way of talking that was out of proportion to his size, making him fill the s.p.a.ce he occupied.

As for the daughter, she was the most strong-minded female Ryan had ever met. Her "bloomer" style of dress indicated her independent att.i.tude. While he reluctantly admitted that she was attractive, with pleasing features, blue eyes that matched her father's, and smooth, brown hair pulled back behind her head, he barely controlled his exasperation when he told her, "You see how inconvenient it was for you to have insisted on coming with us. Now you'll be forced to stand here in the cold with a constable to protect you from this rabble while we go inside."

"And why, please tell, would I wish to remain out here in the cold?"

"You surely can't come inside."

"Why not? I've seen death before, especially my mother's long, wasting illness."

Ryan gave Becker a look that suggested, Maybe you can deal with her.

But before Becker could say anything, the Opium-Eater opened the door and stepped into the shop. Trying to stay in control, Ryan entered, moving ahead of him. The next thing, Emily was inside, followed by Becker.

Although the bodies had been removed, the room continued to have a foul odor. Ryan glanced back at Emily, concerned that she might faint. But although she looked pale and held a handkerchief to her nose, she surprised him by seeming more curious than horrified.

Becker closed the door and stopped the cold fog from drifting in.

"Apart from the absence of the bodies, is everything as the murderer left it?" De Quincey asked.

Or as you and an accomplice possibly left it? Ryan wondered. "No."

"How is it different?" De Quincey continued.

"My purpose in agreeing to bring you here is to ask you questions, not the other way around," Ryan informed him.

"But how is it different?" De Quincey indicated an open door to the left of the counter. "I see considerable dried blood on the hallway floor. There are contours as if the blood pooled around bodies. Where were they taken?"

"After an artist made detailed sketches, the remains were removed to the bas.e.m.e.nt."

De Quincey nodded. In 1854 London, there weren't any funeral parlors. Corpses were kept at home until burial. Family members placed the body of a loved one on a bed, cleaned and dressed it, and made the corpse look as if it were sleeping. Sometimes a death mask was made, and with the advent of the daguerreotype process, photographs sometimes were taken. After that, friends were allowed to enter the bedroom and view the remains. The visitations might last five days until it became obvious that a coffin was required.

After a religious ceremony at the deceased's home, the coffin was transported via a horse-drawn hea.r.s.e to a cemetery, but London's rapid growth put a strain on burial capacity. Cemeteries designed for three thousand burials were forced to accommodate as many as eighty thousand, eventually piling ten, twelve, and even fifteen caskets on top of one another. As the bottom caskets disintegrated, cemetery workers helped the process by digging down and jumping on the remains to compact them so that additional caskets could be placed on top.

New cemeteries were located miles from the center of London, with the result that a horse-drawn funeral procession would take most of the day for the body to arrive at its resting place. But only a month earlier, in November, an innovation had occurred with the construction of the London Necropolis Railway Station. A funeral procession could now board a special train that transported mourners and the coffin to the recently created Brookwood cemetery, twenty-five miles away. After the interment, the train would then bring the mourners back to London, all in a previously impossible single day's round trip.

AN ABRUPT NOISE INTERRUPTED De Quincey's questions. It came from the rear of the building, not the creak of beams shrinking in the cold but of footsteps climbing stairs.

Becker stepped in front of Emily, his hand over the truncheon on his belt.

A shadow lengthened in the corridor, reaching the top of the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs.

Becker heard Emily inhale with apprehension.

At once a figure approached them, stepping around the dried blood on the hallway floor.

Becker recognized the man he'd discovered pounding on the door the previous night in an effort to deliver a blanket to his sick niece. This was also the man who'd led the mob's a.s.sault on the stranger who the mob had believed was the killer.

The burly man frowned toward the group before him. His hair was unkempt. Dried tears streaked the grime on his beard-stubbled cheeks.

Seeing strangers, he tensed until he focused on Becker's uniform. "I'm Jonathan's brother."

"This is Detective Inspector Ryan," Becker said.

The brother nodded. "I saw you earlier."

"In the fracas. Yes."

"The constable outside said it was all right for me to come in."

"It is," Ryan agreed.

"Did the best I could for 'em. Poor Jonathan. Never should've come here from Manchester. None of us should've. I set up trestles and planks in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Put 'em on the planks. Tried to make 'em look natural, I did, but G.o.d help 'em..." The man's voice wavered. "After what the b.u.g.g.e.r did to 'em... excuse me, miss... how can I possibly make 'em look natural? The undertaker wants sixteen pounds for 'em for the funeral. Says I need white coffins for the two children. The baby..." Fresh tears welled from his eyes. "Even the baby costs for a funeral. And where will I find sixteen pounds? Ruined I am. The b.u.g.g.e.r destroyed Jonathan and his family, and now I'm ruined too."

Snot mixed with his tears. He shook his head in despair.

Emily surprised Becker by saying, "I'm sorry."

She further surprised Becker-and Ryan and especially the grieving man-by crossing the room and touching the man's arm. The only person who didn't look surprised was De Quincey.

"My heart goes out to you," she said.

The man blinked, unaccustomed to kind words. "Thank you, miss."

"Mr....?"

"Hayworth."

"Mr. Hayworth, when did you sleep last?"

"A few hours here and there. Hasn't been time. Truth is, my mind won't allow me."

"And when did you eat last? I can smell that you've been drinking alcohol."

"Apologies, miss. With the shock of everything, I..."

"No need to apologize. But when did you eat last?"

"Maybe this morning."

"Do you live around here?"

"Five minutes."

"Do you have a family?"

The man wiped at his face. "My missus and a little boy."

"Detective Inspector Ryan will arrange for someone to escort you home."

Ryan blinked.

"Mr. Hayworth, I'm giving you strict orders to let your family know that you're all right," Emily continued.