A new letter was forged in a shockingly short time, testifying that Dr. Barnabus Milligan and Mrs. Gemma Milligan, née Kincaid, had been killed in a tragic carriage accident caused by excessive speed on a lesser-traveled road leading away from London. But he’d done something far kinder even than that: he’d created a certificate of graduation from medical college for one Bernard Mitchell. In a quiet village at a distance from both London and the medical college in Scotland, Barnabus could work as a doctor.

“Bernard ain’t so different a name to Barnabus that people’d raise a fuss if they heard me calling you Baz.” Gemma had only just finished reading the documents Fletcher had brought by. “I’ll do my best to remember not to, but habit and what.”

“You could always invent a new pet name for me.”

“I can think of a few.” Her reply was as flirtatious as his suggestion had been.

Fletcher made a gagging sound deep in his throat.

“Take pity on him, love,” Barnabus said to Gemma. “Elizabeth’s not here, and that makes him grumpy.”

“Are you grumpy when I’m not with you?” she asked.

“Yes, he is,” Fletcher tossed back.

Gemma looked over the documents again. “I’m glad you’ll still be a doctor. That’ll answer a few worries.”

He and Gemma wouldn’t be destitute, and he wouldn’t have to give up a career he’d felt called to do. And he fully suspected that would alleviate some of the guilt he saw lingering in Gemma’s expression.

But it wouldn’t be enough to wash away the doubts she had. He needed her to know that being with her was what he wanted, not something required of him.

So he’d hatched a plan of his own, one Fletcher meant to help him implement.

Gemma hummed a few bars of “She Moved Through the Fair” as she fetched her detailed list of preparations for their upcoming escape.

The three of them sat at the table, and Gemma spread her papers out, going over each item one at a time.

“Has the hearse Kumar procured been altered with the false bottom?”

“It has,” Fletcher said.

Gemma marked that off. “And the coffins have been made?”

“Oi, and with the marks on the lid telling Stone and me where to pound in the coffin nails.”

From what Gemma had explained, that part was crucial, as her design ensured not all the nails pounded through the lid connected with the wood beneath.

“And the nails you’ve got are the short ones I told you to get?”

“We measured five times,” Fletcher said. “They’re what you sent us out for.”

Some of the nails would have to make contact with the frame, otherwise they risked the lids sliding off when they were carried into the hearse.

“And the notches carved on the inside?”