Satisfaction lodged beneath Daniel’s breastbone. If Owen was unsettled by a pig in a jar, he was going to be stunned by what came next.

They followed Dr. Rosebreen into the cold tiled room where Mr. Montgomery lay on a slatted wooden table. Mr. Foster, Rosebreen’s assistant, set a metal bucket on the concrete floor with a clank.

Daniel steeled himself as Rosebreen donned his indescribable apron and reached for the sheet. Moving to the side so as not to block Owen’s view, Daniel crossed his arms and braced his feet apart.

The room smelled of vinegar and lavender buds and death. The lavender buds were used as a natural disinfectant and to mask other smells, but the odors of death and decay still hovered.

“There is no need for a complete autopsy, as the cause of death is clear.” Rosebreen whisked back the sheet halfway to reveal the pale, unclothed torso of Mr. Montgomery.

Regret colored Daniel’s thoughts. He had known Mr. Montgomery. Had returned his treasured stolen painting to him, been rewarded by him, been scolded and doubted by him, and had taken the brunt of his loud displeasure. Daniel had witnessed his delight in his daughter, his fine house, and the artwork he collected with what bordered on obsession.

Now he lay here on this table, a corpse with no dignity, his life taken by a miscreant who remained at large.

A familiar burning began in Daniel’s gut. The desire to find justice for someone who could not seek it for himself. To level the scales once more.

“The marks on the body can be accounted for by the explosion. His hair and clothes were singed, and the small cuts were made by flying glass.” Dr. Rosebreen bent over the corpse, his eyeglasses perched dangerously near the tip of his nose.

Mr. Foster, at his rolling writing desk, dipped his quill in the inkwell and took dictation. He was nearly as wide as the desk was tall, and his moustache seemed to have grown bushier in the month since Daniel’s first meeting of the assistant.

“There was a fire after the blast,” Daniel offered.

“Yes, I can imagine. I’ve seen the victims of an industrial explosion before. I was called in to help when a group of malcontents torched a warehouse down at the docks. They intended to destroy imported fabric of the East India Company, a protest against putting English weavers out of work, but the fire spread to nearby naval stores, including a black powder magazine. The damage to bodies was much more severe than this. Some were never recovered.”

“When was that, doctor?” Daniel asked.

“Oh, you would have been a lad at the time. Aught three?” The doctor picked up a metal probe. “Time to go fishing for that bullet. I only hope I can get it without having to remove the top of the skull.”