I caught sight of the two men as they took the Giltspur Street corner, wheeling the cart wide, then disappearing from sight. Evan increased his pace, forcing me to skip a step to keep up. A woman humped out a huge basket of washing from a laundry, blocking our way. We skirted around her and her load and finally turned the corner.

I shoved my sleeve up against my nose: the dung and rancid fat smell of the meat market was already overpowering. The street ahead was busy—cattle driven by yipping farmers, delivery wagons, dogs fighting over scraps, hackneys stopping for passengers, barrel men carrying their goods, and the infirm lining up outside the main gate of Bart’s Hospital—but I could not see Gib and Reed amid the chaos.

I stood on my toes, searching the traffic again. They were gone. “We have lost them,” I said over the clamor of hooves and voices.

“No, they must be down one of the lanes.”

We started to jog along the path, drawing some censorious glances from those coming the other way. First, Green Dragon Yard: a blind alley with no one in it. Next, Bull Court: empty too. Finally, Windmill Court, which curved away from the road, no clear view of the whole. I followed Evan down it at a run, our hurtling panic startling a yelp from a woman stepping from her residence. Another blind alley and no sign of Gib and Reed.

Panting, I followed Evan back to Giltspur Street. “The other side of the road?” I suggested, bending with my hands on my knees to help me draw breath.

Evan stared hard at the only other option across the way: Cock Lane. He shook his head. “They would have taken Snow Hill. It is quicker.”

I straightened to see a small group of men ahead, dressed in black and wearing Clericus hats, entering a gate. Doctors. Where were they going?

Ah, of course.

“Up there. That is where they are.” I pointed to the gray stone pillars and iron gate. “It is a side entrance to Bart’s.”

If there was one place in London where one could hide a dead body, it would be St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.

18