She pursed her cracked lips. “What’s the message, then?”

It did not take long to finalize the transaction. As I prepared to go, Dorothy stopped me with a grimy hand on my arm.

“They’re dead, ain’t they? The girls who don’t come out?”

I placed my hand over hers for a moment. “They are. And we are trying to stop it.”

She nodded grimly as I took to the pavement again.

•   •   •

Evan stood on the corner, alternately watching for me and looking up King Street, where, presumably, Gib and Reed were traveling.

“They are not too far ahead,” he said in welcome. “My guess is we are heading for either St. Andrew’s or Bunhill Fields burial ground.”

St. Andrew’s was closer, but both cemeteries were quite a way by foot if he was right. We started walking. I caught sight of our quarry up ahead, parting the foot traffic on the pavement with the cart. To think, all those people passing by, not knowing what was hidden beneath that wooden tray.

“What did you do back there?” Evan asked.

I told him the message I had sent to Julia via Dorothy: summon Mr. Kent and wait for us to return with evidence. “I know you do not trust Mr. Kent, but I believe he will help us.”

“It is a good plan.” For a second, Evan’s palm lightly touched my back. I wanted to take his hand—feel the solid warmth of his decency and honor—but of course I could not.

We followed Gib and Reed along High Holborn, the sky shifting into the lighter blue-gray of impending dawn. We passed the green expanse of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, then veered slightly right, along Skinner Street rather than left onto Snow Hill, which meant we were not, in fact, headed for St. Andrew’s or for Bunhill Fields.

Where, then, were we going?

It was not long before St. Sepulchre’s Church and the Old Bailey came into view, the somber gray courthouse looming over the street. Streaks of dawn pink brightened the cloudy gray sky, and the air was smoky with the smell of freshly lit hearths amid the faint foulness of the nearby meat market. London was awakening.

“What are they doing this far east?” Evan said. He craned to one side to see past the couple in front, trying to keep Gib and Reed in sight. Even with the cart and the weight of its grisly cargo, they had kept up a quick pace for the whole journey and had drawn away from us. “Wait, they are turning, into Giltspur Street.”

“What is up there?” I asked.

Evan frowned. “Smithfield meat market? You don’t think they are going to take her there, do you?”

I grimaced. I would not put anything past Gib and Reed.