Page 84 of Evil at the Essex House
Tom arched his brows. “Kit?”
Christopher nodded. “He did say that.”
“Do you think the kidnappers opened the valise and found it short,” I asked, “and that’s why they killed Florence?”
Tom opened his mouth, but before he could say anything— “It makes sense,” Crispin said wretchedly. “Nobody does what was done to her without a whole lot of anger. Being stiffed the ransom might do it.”
Tom nodded. “When I have a chance, I’ll track down the bank and the money transfer and check the amount for myself. In the meantime, we’ll count it as a likely motive.”
He pushed to his feet. “And now I’d better get back to Southwark. With no electricity in the house, there wasn’t much we could do last night. Now we’ll start processing the crime scene and the body, and see what we can find.”
“How will you identify her?” I wanted to know, and winced when I heard the words that came out of my mouth. Nonetheless, I carried on. “With her face… like it is?”
Tom arched his brows. “Is there any reason to think she isn’t who we think she is?”
Of course there wasn’t. Not really. But… “We didn’t get a good look in the dark last night. I mostly saw the pink dress and assumed it was Flossie, since we expected it to be Flossie. And her mother hasn’t seen her in almost a year, and didn’t get a good look, either. I just thought…”
Tom sighed. “Do you just want an excuse to see the crime scene again? Or do you truly think there’s something else going on?”
“It’s not likely that something else is going on,” I admitted. “The theory about the ransom being less than the demand makes sense. I just thought it was…” I swallowed, “interesting that someone would take the trouble to obliterate her face like that.”
“And I won’t say that you’re wrong,” Tom agreed. “It’s just as well to make certain, I suppose.” He glanced at the clock ticking away on the mantel. “The body should be in the city morgue in three hours. Go there and look at it. I won’t have you interfering with my crime scene any more than you already have done.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Tom.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” His voice was grim. “I didn’t get a good look either, in the dark last night, but what I saw wasn’t pretty.”
No, it hadn’t been. And there was no part of me that wanted to see it again. But at the same time, the whole thing was niggling at me, and if going to view the body one more time would dispel that feeling of something being wrong—something other than the obvious—I was willing to put myself through it.
“I’ll see you out,” Christopher said and got to his feet. Tom nodded and did the same.
“Don’t forget to come by Scotland Yard and sign your statements.”
He nodded to the both of us before following Christopher towards the door.
“Am I free to go home after that, Gardiner?” Crispin called after him, and Tom turned to look at him, brows raised. “Before my father has an apoplexy and comes looking for me?”
“As long as you make yourself available for the inquest, should you be needed.”
Crispin nodded. “Of course. Anything for Scotland Yard.”
Tom huffed a breath and continued into the foyer. I shook my head at Crispin. “Are you simply constitutionally incapable of not being a prat, St George?”
He grinned. “I must be. Although I’ll accompany you to the morgue before I go. Wouldn’t want you to have to go through that without my bolstering presence.”
I scoffed, and he added, more seriously, “In some ways, I’ve been closer to Flossie than you have. It won’t hurt me to take another look, either.”
It probably would, actually, him having been closer to Flossie than me. It wouldn’t be pleasant for him to see her like that. But if he was willing, I wasn’t going to turn down the support, nor the extra set of eyes.
“I would appreciate it,” I said.
“Anything for you,” Crispin answered.
And so itwas that three hours later, we presented ourselves at the city morgue in Golden Lane. By then, we had taken the time to put ourselves together properly, as well as have a hearty breakfast, which we needed after our late night, but which I regretted as soon as I walked into the mortuary. The sickly sweet smell of death and decomposition mingled with the vinegary burnt-match scent of formaldehyde, and my stomach did a quick flip-flop and threatened to turn itself inside out.
“Steady on,” Christopher said, looking worried. I must have turned the color of old porridge, I suppose. Or a day old corpse, which seemed more appropriate for the occasion.
Crispin, meanwhile, put a steadying hand on my back. “There, there, old bean. Stiff upper lip.”
