He blushed at the compliment, and Grace hesitated as she paid with the money she’d stolen from Thornhollow’s desk, the moment before her now if she chose to take it. “I . . .” Her voice broke as she deliberated, the tentative manner of a well-bred young lady conveyed all too easily in her tone.

“I hope you won’t think me too forward, Mr. Beaton,” she went on, her voice gaining strength. “I delayed much more than I meant to and have missed my train. I’m sure I can catch the next, but I’m wary of walking to the depot alone now that night has fallen. Would it inconvenience you greatly to accompany me? I’d feel so much more confident with a man of your size alongside me.”

It was easy to read the thoughts flickering behind his eyes, his own scale of indecision weighing the opportunity versus the risk. In the second before he accepted her proposal, his gaze raked her body and the freely offered sacrifice was too tempting to deny.

“Of course, Miss Baxter,” he said with a true smile. “If you’ll give me a moment I just need to lock up the back room.”

He returned with the barest scent of ether on him, and they stepped out into the darkness together.

THIRTY-THREE

“Grace, wake up. Grace.” Janey was shaking her roughly as she came into consciousness, rolling to face the nurse. “Thornhollow’s just now got back. The horses weren’t even unhitched before he got a message from town. There’s another body found, and the doctor’s wanting you.”

Grace dressed quickly and climbed into the carriage to find an exhausted Thornhollow facing her.

“I was looking forward to my bed, but that’s a comfort that will have to wait,” he said. “I’m sorry for my delay, Grace. Ned refused to take the horses out, and I didn’t want to upset him needlessly. Though if it’s another doll we go toward it’ll be on my conscience for not insisting we return sooner.”

“Don’t borrow trouble,” she said coolly as they rattled into town.

They traveled in silence to the park, where Davey and George waited, gas lamps raised. “Not a woman,” Thornhollow said as they approached, eyeing the form of the corpse. “There’s that relief, at least.”

Grace didn’t even nod, the practiced mask of insanity appearing the moment she exited the carriage.

“Well, if it ain’t our pleasure to see you again,” George said the moment they came into the light. “Oh, and you too, Doctor,” he added, tipping a wink.

“Yes, the joy of your company cannot be overstated,” Thornhollow said, removing his gloves to lean over the body in the snow.

Davey moved to stand next to Grace. “Are you warm enough? It’s been some bitter cold we’ve had here lately. I can stand it, though, if you need my coat.”

His sincerity was wasted, all her attention focused on Thornhollow. Her nerves steeled for what was to come, her vision tunneling to include only him and the blood congealing in the snow.

George stamped his feet, breath fogging in front of his face. “Seeings as we’ve got to stand here and freeze our balls off I’d appreciate you explaining how your voodoo is so much better than our regular police work.”

“Not voodoo, simply logic,” Thornhollow said. “And if you’re truly interested I have no objection to broadening your horizons.”

“And if I’m not, the good laugh might at least keep me warm,” George said.

“You can tell me yourself how amusing it is once I’m finished,” Thornhollow said, rising to pace around the victim. “Starting with the body facedown as it was found—we obviously have a male, rather large in stature, who was killed only hours previously. The body is cool and the blood is frozen, but I can tell you by the spray pattern and pooled blood that the carotid artery has been severed. Also, by the tracks all around the body—and I’m noting to myself here your inability to leave the crime scene unaltered—none seem to match the size of the victim’s shoe so we can assume that he was killed while the snow was still falling in enough earnest to fill his steps. Unfortunately, it also filled those of his killer.”

Thornhollow bent to the body again, bare fingers touching the man’s overcoat. “However, the body was still warm enough to melt most of the snow that fell on it. There’s moisture on him here, but no accumulated snow, which means he lay here not terribly long before the snow stopped.”

“Heat and snow and moisture,” George muttered. “You sound like the weather column in the papers.”

“Perhaps I do, but it’s all toward establishing a time of death, which I doubt you see mentioned in the forecasts,” Thornhollow said. “I’ll add that even though he fell forward his hat remains on. Before you roll him over I’ll postulate that we’ll see a single neck wound delivered from the front, deep enough to kill with one stroke, and no defensive marks on the hands.”

“How do you get all that from his hat still being on?” Davey asked.

“Physics,” Thornhollow said, approaching Davey. “Pretend I were to stab you, right now, quite unexpectedly, in the throat. What would you do?”

“I imagine I’d lie down and die,” Davey said. “Though I’d thank you for not doing it.”

“Yes, you would, but there are steps to get you there. First, your hands would instinctively go to your wound in a futile attempt to stop the blood from flowing instead of warding off your attacker. Instantly weak from blood loss, you’d sink to your knees, perhaps one at a time, slowly getting yourself to the point where you in fact, lie down and die.”

“With my hat still on,” Davey added.

“Yes, with your hat still on because you were taken by surprise. You didn’t grapple with your killer or have it knocked from your head in an attack from behind.”

“So . . . ,” Davey said, looking to the doctor for approval as he spoke each word. “He was walking with someone, a person he had no reason to think meant him harm.”

“It’s a possibility,” Thornhollow agreed.

“A possibility,” George echoed, hawking spit into the snow. “You don’t sound too confident.”

“Not the only option, but definitely a contender,” Thornhollow went on, ignoring the heckling. “Whoever killed this man did not jump him from the shadows. The killer stood face-to-face with him and drove a knife into his throat without him having any idea it was about to happen. So yes, I’d say a companion or an agreed-upon meeting are both excellent deductions.”

Davey stood a little straighter, ignoring the dark look from George as he rolled the body over. “All right, we’ll see, then. A single knife wound, coming up.”

George’s sarcasm died in his throat when the corpse was turned, a bloody gash at the base of the throat all that marred the bone-white skin.

“By God, that’s Beaton,” Davey said. “The man what’s got a shop up on Hudson. Oh, my ma won’t be too happy about this. She says his powders is all that helps her eczema.”

“It’s who now?” George asked, raising his lantern to the victim’s face.

Grace locked eyes with Thornhollow, her blank gaze betraying nothing while his face solidified into his own mask of impartiality, although his eyes blazed as bright as George’s lantern.

“It’s Beaton,” Davey said again. “You know the fellow. He makes up the medicines for the whores—” He stopped, face flushed. “I mean for the ladies that serve up at the tavern when they get . . . when they get a cold.”

“Don’t spare your language for Grace’s sake,” Thornhollow said. “She’s heard and seen worse things than you, I imagine.”

“Done them too, from what you’ve said,” George added.

“Yes,” Thornhollow agreed. “Yes, she has.”

Grace bit the inside of her cheek until blood flooded her mouth. Beaton’s face in the moonlight had not affected her, the dark spray against the untouched snow had not given her pause, and the hot, coppery scent of flowing blood had not brought her to gag. But one look from Thornhollow in the arc of the lamplight had clenched her stomach, her convictions weakening with the weight of his heavy glance that sank straight into her soul.