Page 49 of Method of Revenge
“To think something so innocuous as wallpaper had the power to kill innocent children,” he said, peering at the bare walls. Here and there, slivers of green paper had been left behind.
“And yet Mr. Henderson claims no responsibility for the danger using these pigments presents,” Leo replied.
“He isn’t the only wallpaper manufacturer who uses toxic pigments. Not that I’m forgiving him for turning a blind eye to the problem.”
If dead children weren’t enough to make him want to change his business practices, nothing would entice him.
“Miss Geary might have felt sympathy for the Nelsons and remained in contact,” he suggested as Leo pulled open dresser drawers. Folded clothing was still within them, topped by sachets of lavender. Jasper picked one up. The scent had gone stale.
“There aren’t any framed photographs downstairs,” Leo murmured. “I imagine Mrs. Nelson took them with her when she and her husband left two days ago.”
She likely had. But a loving mother might have kept a cherished photograph somewhere more private. His own mother had kept a framed daguerreotype of him on her bedside table. After her death, when he’d gone to live with his uncle Robert and aunt Myra, his aunt had taken the frame and put it with those of her own children. He’d been shuffled to the back, obscured by other frames. No longer important.
Jasper left the nursery and returned to the room he thought most likely to be Mr. and Mrs. Nelson’s. The bed was made, some clothing hung on a rack, and while a vanity dresser had been cleared of a brush and comb, it still held some other things like scent bottles, a few pieces of inexpensive jewelry, and small pots of cosmetics. On the bedside table, there wasn’t a framed photograph, but a book and a folded lace kerchief. He picked up the book as Leo entered the room behind him.
“Have you found something?”
“No, I thought perhaps...” He went quiet as he opened to the saved page. The book’s marker wasn’t a silk ribbon or a more common pronged, enamel-topped spear. It was a photograph, mounted on a photographer’s card. Two children, one fair-haired and one dark, sat on a carpet surrounded by bolster pillows and toys. They were positioned in front of a painted backdrop depicting a countryside vista. They appeared close in age. Possibly fraternal twins.
Leo came to his side, her arm brushing against his. “It’s them. The children from the death portrait.”
He retrieved that photo from his waistcoat pocket where he’d been carrying it and compared the two. There was no question; they were indeed the same children.
“The only person who could have given this death photograph to Gabriela Carter was Mrs. Nelson,” Jasper said.
“So, she was the woman in the hooded cloak at Striker’s?” Leo asked, shaking her head. “But why give Gabriela something that she must have so treasured? By the state of their living conditions, the Nelsons couldn’t have afforded numerous copies of this photograph. Perhaps one or two. To give it to Gabriela…it was an important gesture.”
“And not necessarily a threat,” Jasper said, recalling that the poisoned drink had already been delivered by a man twenty or so minutes earlier.
They both fell silent. Jasper presumed Leo was doing as he was—attempting to form a plausible reason for Mrs. Nelson’s actions. In the drop of quiet, Jasper became aware of a scent. Honeysuckle, he thought it might be. Light and floral, he breathed it in. It was coming from Leo. He couldn’t recall her wearing the scent before. Or maybe he just hadn’t stood close enough to her before to notice.
“We should go,” he said, and at her distracted nod, they started for the door.
A clanging downstairs stilled him. He shot out a hand, barring her from advancing another step. Another rattling sound—of metal or glass—came, and Jasper held a finger to his lips. Someone was in the Nelsons’ kitchen.
“The scrappy boy from outside?” Leo whispered.
Jasper didn’t think so. He told her to stay where she was but knew from experience that she would do no such thing. He stepped lightly from the room, hoping the floorboards didn’tcreak. Leo did the same, following him to the top of the stairs. The noises from the kitchen persisted. As Jasper reached the bottom step, a man exited the dining room directly across the narrow hall. Tall, muscled, and impressively broad in the chest and shoulders, the man jolted in surprise. His dark eyes flared.
With the photographs in one hand, Jasper reached for his warrant card in his breast pocket with the other. “Inspector Reid from Scot?—”
The man barreled forward and slammed his meaty arms into Jasper, knocking him against the wall and into the coat stand. The sharp blow of a fist cracked across his jaw, and Leo screamed. The strike whipped Jasper’s head back, stunning him and spinning his vision for a few crucial seconds.
“Jasper!”
Black darts shot across his vision, blotting out his surroundings. Another strike didn’t come, and Jasper suspected the man had fled. Leo gripped his elbow and tried to steady him to his feet. He’d been pummeled at Oliver Hayes’s boxing club before but never with a wallop like that. He shook his head, clearing the black specks, and leaped for the open front door. By the time Jasper reached the front walk, the muscled man’s dark blue sack coat was disappearing around a corner. He started to give chase but knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up. He also wouldn’t leave Leo in the house on her own.
“Damn it!” he swore, regret burning through him. He should’ve been prepared for the man to attack.
“That were the mister!”
The scrappy boy from earlier stood up from where he’d been sitting on another front step two doors down. He pointed after the man, who was now long gone.
“That was Mr. Nelson?” At the boy’s nod, Jasper despised himself even more. He felt like an idiot as he turned back to the open door of the abandoned house. He’d been lucky Mr. Nelsonhad only come at him. Allowing Leo to join him inside the house had been exactly what he’d known it would be: an irresponsible mistake.
She wasn’t paying him any attention as he walked back toward her, the pain in his jaw setting in, the muscles around his mouth stiffening. She held a woman’s cloak in one hand and in other, the photographs Jasper had dropped. Her lips parted as she looked between the items she held. The cloak, he noticed, was black and hooded, with blue embroidery along the edges.
“Is that the cloak you saw at Striker’s Wharf?” he asked, wincing at the blooming tenderness in his chin.
