Page 53 of Courier of Death
“Other than a monogrammed suitcase, you have no evidence Geraldine Stewart was behind the Lloyd bombing. No motive, either,” he said. The gloves were coming off, and he was ready for it.
“She’s a radical suffragist, and Lord Babbage was due to be here that day—an appointment Miss Spencer, with her many contacts here, could have easily gleaned and shared with her fellow political shrew. Not to mention that the suitcase belonged to the woman. She admitted to it,” Tomlin said. “I don’t need anything else.”
Jasper disregarded the absurd insinuation against Leo. The man was reaching.
“The Stewarts say they had a break-in a month ago. You didn’t consider that the suitcase could have been taken then to set Geraldine Stewart up as the culprit?”
Tomlin’s flat stare hardened. “The Stewarts never made a report because it didn’t happen. They’re lying.” He then cocked his head. “What is it you’re doing, Reid? Are you falling short with your own investigation, so you’ve decided you need to desperately leap into mine?”
“The two cases are linked,” Jasper replied, aware they were drawing attention from around the department room. “It warrants a deeper look. Both Foster and Lloyd were connected to the Angels; Foster was connected to Porter Stewart; and Mrs. Stewart informed me that her sister-in-law, Emma Bates, may be related to Clive Paget of the Spitalfields Angels.”
Tomlin crossed his arms and came forward. “When did you question my suspect?”
“Yesterday.” He rubbed his jaw. “And then the Angels paid my home a visit last night to warn me off their scent.”
The other inspector’s pasty coloring reddened. “I’m going to bet Miss Spencer’s had a hand in your meddling.”
Jasper kept his mouth shut. He wouldn’t confirm or deny it. Though it bothered him that Tomlin had so easily suspected as much.
“You’d be better off putting that harridan in her place instead of indulging her,” Tomlin said.
Behind him, Constable Wiley grunted his agreement. “The previous Inspector Reid made a fuss over her too. Now she thinks she belongs here.”
“She got a taste of reality the other night, didn’t she?” Tomlin said, forming a malevolent grin. “A holding room upstairs is theonly place inside this building that woman belongs. A few hours locked up will have put her right, I expect.”
Jasper inhaled evenly, careful not to overstretch his broken ribs. He clenched both hands into fists, then relaxed them again. He would not rise to Tomlin’s bait, or Wiley’s, no matter how profound his desire to knock them both flat.
“Did you find any other connection between PC Lloyd and Geraldine Stewart?” he asked instead. “How did she get him to transport the bomb?”
“That isn’t your concern, Detective Inspector,” Tomlin barked.
“So, you haven’t found another connection besides the valise.”
Tomlin came toe-to-toe with Jasper, using his beefy frame and height to bear down on him. The intimidation tactic might have worked on others, but Jasper wasn’t afraid of this man. He was a geyser of hot air and speculation and showed a complete deficiency of comprehensive investigative police work. He wasn’t resting on his laurels; he was floating through the air on them.
“Lloyd’s lady friend, Miss Brooks, is one of Mrs. Stewart’s radical followers,” the Special Irish Branch inspector said, chewing off each word. “As is Leonora Spencer.Thereis my connection, Reid. Now, stay out of my case. And I don’t care how pretty she is or how much you want to get up those skirts of hers; you keep that snooping woman out of it too. I won’t tell you again.”
A vision of cracking his knuckles into the bridge of Tomlin’s nose was so vivid, for a half second, Jasper thought he’d done it. His pulse slammed hard in his neck, his blood rising at the lewd suggestion. The whole department watched, waiting for a fight. Even the clanging of the bricklayers had fallen off as they looked on with interest. Just barely holding his temper incheck, he allowed reason to win out over temptation. He was already a battered mess; one strike from the Special Irish Branch inspector would likely leave Jasper unconscious on the floor.
“My investigation is crossing with yours, Tomlin. There is no doubt about it, and I’ll follow wherever it leads.” He started back for his desk, where Lewis was pulling on his coat. He tossed Jasper his. It seemed the detective sergeant understood that they needed to pay a call on Porter Stewart right away.
“And as for Miss Spencer,” Jasper said, taking stock of the seething inspector over his shoulder. “Speak of her in that manner again, and I promise this department will get the bloody fight they want to see.”
Chapter Eighteen
No new bodies arrived at the morgue for the remainder of the afternoon, and for that, Leo was grateful. Had she needed to, she would have emerged from the crypt to distract Mr. Quinn while her uncle worked. However, the postmortem room remained quiet above her, allowing her the time to gather her courage and open the old steamer trunk. As she’d expected, the padded interior walls were covered in green crushed velvet, although they were mostly obscured by the mountain of items Claude had decided to keep from the rooms of her family’s home.
Leo’s hands shook as she went through it all, pulling out ledgers, papers, books, trinkets, hoops of half-finished embroidery, a moth-eaten wedding gown, delicate lacework, and, heartbreakingly, baby swaddling and clothing. Even little leather booties, mildewed from storage.
A box of photographs distracted her from her search for a short while. Claude and Flora kept a few framed photographs of her lost family in the front sitting room, and Leo had one of the five of them together in her bedroom. She knew her parents’ faces because of those images. Jacob’s and Agnes’s too.They were all frozen in time, their expressions always the same. Finding more photographs, with her family in different clothing, in different poses felt…otherworldly. Like an unexpected gift, and yet, one that pained her.
Leo had been given the feminine form of her father’s name, and she did resemble him. More so than she did her mother, Andromeda. She’d inherited his sable brown hair, rather than her mother’s lighter blonde; his straight and serious nose, rather than her mother’s sweet button nose; and his intense eyes, instead of Andromeda’s warm, inviting gaze. It was no wonder Aunt Flora looked upon Leo with such wariness; in her addled state of mind, she likely saw Leonard Spencer instead of her niece.
Inside a large, cherrywood jewelry box, Leo found what she’d been looking for. Among some modest brooches, paste rings, and necklaces, a stack of letters had been bound with yellow ribbon. They were in their original envelopes, and a cursory look showed they were from Flora.
At last.
Though it was only one side of the conversation, Leo eagerly read them by the light of the paraffin lamp, while she sat on the crate. Most of the letters were mundane, asking after the children, the weather, any news from London, and relaying events happening where she and Claude were living. Their location changed over the course of the letters, from Turkey to Cyprus to Greece, and finally, to the small island of Crete. Only in these later letters did Flora broach anything interesting regarding Leo’s father.
