“Apologies, sir.” Catherine shook her head. “I was only curious.”

She and Guy left the shop, stepping back outside, and Guy patted the pocket that held his father’s medicine. He said, “This whole thing gives me the shivers. Mr. Smith’s murderer could still be alive and well, for all we know. It could even be the same person.”

“It’s possible.”

Guy was quiet for a moment. “I can’t help but wonder,” he said, “if more dreadfulness is yet to happen, if we’ve only just stepped into the dark.” He brought a hand to his heart. “It’s like a shadow hanging over me, and I don’t much care for it.”

The city hospital was a two-story building of gray stone and brick near the university. The front gates opened into a courtyard, and a few carriages were stationed outside the carriage house. Catherine gazed up at the sash windows as they headed for the entrance. Once they were inside, the double doors swung shut behind them with an ominous thud.

“Which way to the morgue, do you think?” asked Guy.

There was no sign of where it might be located. Catherine started down a dimly lit hall, noting the rooms that lay beyond the doors. In most, there were rows of simple iron beds, doctors tending to patients. They ended up circling back, trying another hallway, before they happened upon the marked room for the mortuary.

Guy tried the door. It was locked.

He said, “Do you suppose we should just wait until someone comes along?”

Catherine peered through the glass set into the door. Whereas other rooms in the hospital held neatly made beds, the morgue contained only a row of metal tables, the bodies atop them covered in white sheets. The lamps burned brightly in their wall brackets, illuminating instruments on the counters, a washstand and basin.

“Catherine,” Guy whispered urgently. Then, sounding overly cheerful, he said, “Good day, sir.”

Catherine turned around in a hurry. A young man made his way toward them, his expression guarded. He looked to be about twenty or so, perhaps one of the attendants. He said, “Good day. Can I help you with something?”

“Yes,” said Catherine. “My late employer, Jonathan Ainsworth—is he here?”

“Ainsworth?” There was a flash of something in his expression, a spark to his gaze. “No, I’m afraid not, miss. The examiner already signed off on his report.”

“What was the cause of his death? Do you know it?”

The attendant came over to where they stood. “We detected arsenic in his stomach,” he said after a pause. He glanced past Catherine to the mortuary door. “It can be mistaken for apoplexy, or cholera. The quantity would’ve killed him quickly, similar to apoplexy.”

Catherine felt her insides twist. “Arsenic?”

“Do the police know?” Guy asked.

“They have the report, yes.”

Catherine’s heart hammered. She saw again the shattered teacup on the floor, the blank stare of Ainsworth’s gaze.

Neither she nor Guy spoke until they were back outside the hospital. Standing in the courtyard, Guy said, “It’s not the way Mr. Smith was murdered, if his dream was indeed a memory.”