“I don’t know.” Phipps spoke with care. “I would say that he has a very disordered mind—it’s like he’s writing a grocery list, describing the order in which these events occurred. He seems preoccupied with burying people alive. Not just people—”

He licked a finger and turned several pages. “Here he mentions walling up a cat. He sounds quite demented.”

“Who’s to say the boy didn’t write this?” demanded Hickey. “He claims to have discovered the Walewski girl’s body, but he may have killed her. The mother might be trying to protect him.”

He turned to Francis. “I’ll need her address—Cabell will want to question her. He’ll want the boy in custody, too, no doubt.”

Francis’s face darkened, but before he could reply, Dr. Phipps broke in.

“What about Mr. Smithson? He’s still being held at Robey Street, am I correct?” He waved his hand, indicating the sheet-covered body. “This proves his innocence.”

“One would think so,” said Hickey. “But what if we have two killers now, and not just one?”

Dr. Phipps winced. “God forbid.”

Hickey held out his hand, and Phipps returned the notebook. “Show Mr. Bacon what you found.”

The coroner stood and walked to the back of the room, motioning for Francis to join him. The girl’s underclothes had been neatly folded and set on a chair beside a black leather medical bag.

“I told the undertaker I’d oversee delivery of the body myself when we were finished.” Dr. Phipps gently pulled down the white sheet, as though unwilling to awaken a sleeping child. “I wanted to compare it with the Walewski girl.”

There lay Gilda Belascu, black hair fanned around her face. Her skin had the bluish pallor of skim milk. Her lips had a darker, purple tinge. Francis glanced at Dr. Phipps. “Did she—was she killed the same way as the other girl?”

“Yes. Or, well, in a similar manner. She was suffocated, probably by a hand or piece of cloth, but also there are signs of strangulation. The other girl didn’t put up a fight. Gilda Belascu did.”

“Why?” Francis frowned. “I mean, why wouldn’t the other girl have fought, too?”

“I’m not certain. For whatever reason, Maria Walewski doesn’t appear to have struggled. She was asphyxiated—smothered—and in both cases, the girls’ outer clothing was removed. Their dresses and pinafores. But Gilda—”

He picked up the girl’s pale hand, turning it so that Francis could see what looked like dirt under her ragged fingernails. “She scratched him. Quite badly, I imagine—this is blood.”