A gaunt mongrel pawed at something on the path—a dead smaller dog, he saw as the larger one slunk off. He sidestepped the lump of flesh and scrambled up the embankment, followed a derelict fence until he found an opening and slipped back onto the street.

He fumbled in his pocket for the box of lemon drops he’d doused with heroin syrup, took two, and chewed them. He needed calm in order to think, to act, to work. The cordial helped, but he’d emptied the last vial, and only a few lozenges remained. He needed to find a druggist.

He’d chosen this part of town because of its proximity to one of the poorer Irish neighborhoods. But even poor people needed a drugstore. He passed saloons and pawnshops, a knacker’s and countless stoops where old women sat and stared into the street, before he finally spotted a faded placard sporting a mortar and pestle.

Inside, a wizened man in a white coat stood on a stool, fiddling with a light fixture. “They promised me these bulbs would burn for a year,” he said, looking down accusingly at the newcomer. “This is the third one I’ve had to toss this month.” He stepped down from the stool, still scowling. “What would you like?”

He eyed the shelves behind a scuffed wooden counter. “Do you carry Sydenham’s syrup?”

“I do. Jadway’s, too—my daughter gives that to her little boy.” The druggist removed a small box, squinted at the label, and set it on the counter. “That’s Sydenham’s.”

“I’d like two, please. Twins,” he added. “And, well, as long as I’m here, I’d better buy three.”

“Twins! I would think so.” The druggist placed two more boxes beside the first. “Anything else?”

He picked up one of the bottles and pretended to read the label. “Yes, now that you mention it. Some lemon drops—I’ll take three of those, too, if you have them.”

The druggist reached under the counter and produced three tins. He set them down and gave the other man an inquisitive look, his gaze lingering on his chin. “Now, don’t you think that’s very odd? Not half an hour ago, a policeman was here, and he asked about those very things.”

His body went cold. Quickly he lowered his head and pulled out his wallet. “A policeman with twins?”

“No. He was—”

The druggist’s gaze flicked from the other man’s face to the items on the counter. “It was about those murders. The girls in the amusement park.” With a shrug, he drew out an account book, a pencil attached to it by a piece of filthy string. “But these aren’t the first infant remedies I’ve sold today. Mrs. Halloran’s kids got the colic. Not the only lemon drops, neither. Just not all to the same person. Anything else?”

“That’ll be all.”