“What?”

“Close the front door. And be a dear and wipe the outer handle for me first? I don’t want to leave any prints behind.”

“But—”

“No arguments with me right now,” said Iris, and Gwen saw the knife in her hand, then heard a soft snicking sound reverberating through the space as she flipped it open.

“Iris?”

“Gwen. Door. Now!” said Iris, sweeping her torch in every direction, then striding through the debris. “And thank you for not screaming.”

“I’m not screaming? I thought I was screaming,” said Gwen as she moved numbly to the front door. “Why am I not screaming?”

She took her handkerchief out and wiped the outer handle, then shut the door. Then she realised she had her bare hand on the inner handle. She let it go like a hot poker, then wiped it over and over again.

She turned back to face the darkness. Iris was off to the left somewhere, her torch beaming its rays across the space, momentarily illuminating small portions of the interior—piles of rubble, old coal hoppers lying on their sides, a wheelbarrow split in jagged halves. There was a sudden flapping noise, and a group of rooks took flight through the hole in the corner, making rasping squawks as they were roused from their nests.

What was the collective noun for rooks? thought Gwen. Parliament? No, that was owls. A clamour. That was it. Too appropriate. A clamour of rooks fleeing Iris, a clamour fleeing the glamour and the glimmer of Iris, who was off to the left in the darkness with a knife in one hand, a torch in the other, seeking a killer.

Who, for all they knew, was to the right instead. Moving towards Gwen.

Gwen swung her torch in that direction, rewarding herself with a fleeting glimpse of the dead man, still staring up at the roof. Past him, the room was empty. There was another set of wide doors in that direction. Must be for loading whatever it once was from ships to hoppers, or hoppers to ships. So much she didn’t know about what went on in warehouses, far from her Kensington life.

So much she didn’t know about anything anymore.

Iris prowled through the expanse of the warehouse, flashing the torch down at the floor every other step to make sure she wasn’t about to plunge through a hole into the Thames or whatever rat-infested sewer lay underneath.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she sang softly, her knife held before her, reflecting the torchlight.

She saw no one. Satisfied that the killer had fled, she picked her way back to where Gwen held her post, waving her torch around wildly.

“He’s gone,” reported Iris, taking a pair of black leather gloves from her bag and pulling them on. “Whoever he was, he chose not to hang around. Now, keep an ear out for anyone coming, and do me a favour and shine your torch at this poor chap.”

“All right,” said Gwen, complying. “But why—my God, Iris! You’re—you’re touching him! It! Him!”