“I can hardly bring home the comestibles I need by hiding in my kitchen. Nor will I give up my days out with Grace.”

“True, but you can send someone for ingredients or take along a burly footman to protect you when you go to the market. Likewise you can remain at the Millburns the entirety of your day and half out. It’s cold these days. I’m certain it’s cozy.”

I gave him a disparaging look. “The simple solution is to tell Inspector McGregor what a bad man Mr. Naismith is, and have him arrested.”

“I have told him. McGregor is eager to go after him, but it is not easy. There must be evidence that he ordered Nurse Betts to be killed, not simply a thug’s word.” Daniel gave me a quiet nod. “But McGregor is thorough. He will push for the harshest conviction for her killers. Naismith will receive the message that he is not untouchable.”

“Good.” I was not bloodthirsty by nature, but Nurse Betts had been innocent, a good woman.

We lapsed into silence as the coach made its slow way through the City and out to Whitechapel and then Shadwell. Bells were chiming the hour when we arrived at All Saints, sweet and clear, out of place in the darkness of the slums.

The first thing we heard upon knocking at the vicarage door was Mr. Fielding’s housekeeper, Mrs. Hodder, shouting. The door was wrenched open, but instead of the housekeeper, the tall young man, the oldest of the children rescued from the bawdy house, glared out at us.

“Yeah? What you want?” His belligerence subsided when he realized who we were. “Oh. You again.”

“Devil take it.” Mr. Fielding’s growl sounded behind him. The boy rolled his eyes but moved off, and Mr. Fielding appeared in his place. “Ah. It’s you,” he echoed the lad. “You’d better come in.”

Mr. Fielding was in shirtsleeves, and his collar hung by one button on the back of his neck. “Go after that little wretch Michael,” he called to the retreating youth. “He’s nearly up the chimney again.”

The young man made an exasperated noise and dived into the dining room.

Mr. Fielding led us into a sitting room, now littered with piles of clothes, blankets, and pillows. He moved a stack of blankets from a chair and waved me to it.

“I’m going through the poor boxes to salvage clothing for the tykes. And extra bedding. I have rooms enough for them, yes, but not sheets.” Mr. Fielding’s hair was mussed, his look distracted. “I cannot imagine why men long for fatherhood. They have to be mad.”

“They have wives and servants to look after the children,” I informed him, “and so aren’t bothered by them. I quite admire you for taking them in.”