Guy Nolan stopped in front of the Chronicle. He peered up at the windows, and Catherine pulled her own window shut, grinning as she made her way down to meet him.

He crossed the street in all swiftness when he saw her.

“Did you speak with Mr. Boyd?”

“Yes. He’s expecting me back tomorrow to start work.”

Guy smiled, but the next instant, his expression turned worried. “That’s good,” he said. “I mean, isn’t it? If he’s not a murderer, that is.”

“If he’s not a murderer,” Catherine echoed. She nodded to the paper he carried. “Why’ve you brought that?”

His smile returned, his eyes lighting up behind his spectacles. “I wanted to show you.” He flipped the newspaper to the advertisements. “I purchased it a couple of weeks ago, before”—he made a sweeping gesture with one hand—“all this happened.”

Catherine studied the page.

In a small section was an advertisement for the watchmaker’s shop:

H. Nolan & Son

WATCH REPAIR

Exact and ready attention will be paid to all kinds of Watches and Clocks. Shop at 20 Oak Street.

Guy said, “Isn’t it fine? What brilliant timing. This is just what we need.”

Catherine looked up at him. “It’s lovely. Well printed and concise.”

“Yes, I thought so.” Guy’s cheeks flushed pink. He tucked the newspaper into his coat, offering her his arm as they started away from the print shop. “So, pray tell, what did you find out? Does anyone know the cause of Mr. Ainsworth’s death?”

“Apparently he was bleeding on the inside.”

Guy gave a shudder. “That sounds unpleasant,” he remarked.

“Perhaps there’s some poison capable of doing that. I really do think we ought to go to the morgue, Guy.”

“We can go there,” he said, “but I’m not certain we’ll get any answers.”

They first paid a visit to the chemist’s shop.

Guy doffed his hat, opening the door. Inside, wall-to-wall shelves were laden with glass jars and bottles. An elderly lady was making a purchase at the counter. While they waited, Catherine asked, “What do you need in here?”

“My father’s medicine. It helps him sleep.”

Catherine looked about at the medicines: small, neat labels on the vials, bottles with cork stoppers, cloth-covered jars. They crowded the countertop as well as the shelves, glass catching the light of the lamps. Dust drifted in the air, but the counter was quite clear of it, the dark wood polished. The man standing behind it was gray-haired, his forehead lined with deep wrinkles. As the lady left the shop, the man glanced to Guy. He turned back to the shelves, fetching a vial and setting it on the counter without Guy needing to ask for it. The glass clicked against the varnished wood.

“Thank you, Mr. Brooke,” said Guy, taking coins from his pocket.

“Sir,” Catherine started, “this may seem an odd question, but could any medicines here bring about apoplexy?”

Brooke’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed, an odd question. Why are you concerned about such a thing?”