Coming their direction was the policeman Parkington. Gemma had met him at the CALL charitable effort, but she’d kept her distance, kept turned a bit away from him. She didn’t think he’d connected her to her family, but he’d likely manage to if given too close a look.

She held back, moving closer to the iron fencing outside the row house they were walking past. This area of London, not quite all the way to Marylebone, was home to nibs and swells and people of rank and importance. Parkington’d likely haul her off simply for clashing with the local flavor. She tucked herself at the corner of the building and pretended to be buttoning her coat.

“Something the matter?” Móirín asked.

“It’s that blasted copper.” Gemma titched her chin in the man’s direction.

Móirín recognized him quickly. “Parkington. Shame such a handsome man chose to be a Peeler.”

Gemma could smile at that. “You think he’s dimber, do you?”

“Even the biggest troublemakers can be fine to look at.”

Stone was, at that moment, talking with the “troublemaker.” He seemed to be on as good terms with the man as Baz was.

“Why is it you don’t care for blue-bottles?” Gemma asked.

“’Tisn’t so much that I don’t care for them but more that they don’t overly care for me. Or wouldn’t if they knew a few things I make pains to keep to m’self.”

Gemma nodded, understanding the predicament in an instant. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted something odd on the walls of the building. Something dark in the shadows. Something hard to make out.

“Do you see that odd smudge just there?” She motioned to it as Stone reappeared at her side. He was tall and might manage a better look.

“Oi. Someone’s written something on the wall.” He touched it with his finger, then inspected the residue. “Looks to be ash.”

Her heart dropped to her feet. “Can you make out what it is?”

“Nothing that makes sense: two vertical lines and a letter K.”

Bung your eye. “In what order?” Gemma attempted to swallow her rising panic.

“The K is in the middle.”

She rubbed her hand over her mouth, her heart pounding.

“You know this mark?” Móirín asked.

“The Kincaids sign their work. Three vertical lines for the three brothers. The one made into a K indicates which of them led the effort.”

“Which brother’s mark is in the middle?” Móirín asked.

“My uncle Silas.” She couldn’t stop the shudder that rushed over her. “Are there any lines under the K?”

“None,” Stone said.

“Then it weren’t someone in the family working on his orders. Silas, his own self, was here on a job.”

Stone looked around. “There’s no cemetery here.”