“Ah of course, you want the lady’s name.”

“That wasn’t my question, Mr. Woodhead. I’m guessing the lady is Mrs. Kerner?”

“Dashed clever, Mrs. Shackleton. And I wanted to surprise you.”

“How best shall I communicate with you?”

He nodded towards Yeats. “You and Yeats will come up with a way, I’m sure. Good day, dear Mrs. Shackleton.”

He made his escape. He wanted me to take on the job, or he did not. He wanted me to succeed, or he wanted me to fail. I could not make up my mind about him.

Chapter Two

The chill in the cellar corridor of St Pancras Hospital seeped into my bones. Our footsteps made an unholy racket on the stone floor. DC Yeats needed no escort, having been here before.

“Are you sure you want to view the body, Mrs. Shackleton? I can tell you all you need to know.”

“I am not being ghoulish, Mr. Yeats. I owe it to the man, and to myself, to see him.”

Of course, the man in question might have considered being viewed by a strange woman one more indignity to add to the rest. “I would be paying my respects.”

With so little to go on from Commander Woodhead, my one-sided meeting with the deceased might help.

I can count on one hand the people I trust completely. Mr. Woodhead was not one of them. Men of his breeding and generation err on the side of protecting female sensibilities. I needed to be sure that I started with knowledge of the facts.

Yeats had telephoned in advance. The waiting mortuary attendant led us to a table by the wall. There was a dim light from the cellar window. A pale overhead gaslight cast a soft glow. With great gentleness, the attendant drew back the white sheet to the level of the shoulders, revealing the man’s marble features. The artist who had drawn the sketch of our unknown man had given him life and colour. There was no life or colour now.

At a nod from DC Yeats, the attendant folded back the covering sheet.

A scar on the abdomen marked the place where a bullet had left its mark.

Yeats drew my attention to the man’s hands. “There are no signs of his ever having done manual labour, but you’ll notice callouses on the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.”

“Yes.”

“And a trace of what might be ink.”

Perhaps this gentleman had held a pen, wrote many letters, drew up plans and schemes. I said nothing, being reluctant to discuss the man in his presence—even though he was beyond hearing.

His right elbow was slightly swollen, and also his knee. This was something or nothing. DC Yeats read my thoughts. “Not so much as an appendix removal, and no battle scars.”

Perhaps he had led a charmed life to the very end.

As I grew accustomed to the light, I altered my first impression of someone without colour. There was a suggestion of shading, of variation. He did not have those entirely pale legs that we English are blessed with.