Mr. George Collier, the Deputy Coroner for the South-Eastern Division of Middlesex, resumed his inquiry at the Working Lads’ Institute, Whitechapel-road, respecting the death of the woman who was found dead at George-yard-buildings, on the early morning of Tuesday, the 7th of this month with no less than 39 wounds on various parts of her body. The body has been identified as that of MARTHA TABRAM, aged 39 or 40 years …
And then the paper, and the story of the dead woman, turned to ash. “Thirty-nine stab wounds,” Evelina murmured to herself, then dropped the crumbling paper onto the pile of debris. It was a horrible image, but her thoughts slid away quickly. After a bomb and a gun and those manacles that seemed to have a life of their own, she couldn’t absorb anything that wasn’t relevant to her immediate problems. She still had to decide how far she dared to push her uncle for information on Mycroft’s activities. And Jones had mentioned Baskerville. She’d heard the name before, but couldn’t remember where.
Then she saw a scattering of envelopes and bent to scoop them up. A few were singed, but most were merely sooty. These must have been the letters Holmes had referred to. She turned them over, reading the addresses. Most were to Holmes, and a few to Dr. Watson—even if he wasn’t currently residing at Baker Street. Two of them were for her—one from the Ladies’ College of London, where she had plans to apply, despite what her grandmother thought proper. She admired the elegant crest on the envelope, and even the feel ofthe thick bond paper filled her with eagerness. College was everything she wanted, and she hoped Holmes could convince Grandmamma to let her attend.
The other letter was small and square, the envelope a pale pink sealed with green wax. With a tingle of pleasure, she recognized the graceful handwriting of her closest friend, the Honorable Miss Imogen Roth. Then Evelina frowned. After the debacle last April, Evelina had been sent away from Hilliard House, the Roth’s London address, and Imogen had been forbidden to write.
About four months ago, Imogen’s father, Lord Bancroft, had been part of a forgery scheme that had robbed Jasper Keating, the steam baron known as the Gold King, of a fortune in antique artifacts. Holmes had uncovered the elaborate crime with Evelina’s help. Sadly, while Keating had been pleased and the scandal had been kept out of the papers, the affair had still made her very unpopular with Lord B—so much so that she’d left London until things cooled down.
And I never heard from Tobias again
. Evelina had done her best not to think about Imogen’s older brother since—not that she had succeeded. That hadn’t been the sort of scene one got over in a few short months.
Now here she was, with the square pink envelope in her hand. She almost preferred bombs and shadow governments to this bit of feminine paper that would surely slip past her defenses, no matter what news it held. Friendship, she’d learned, was a perilous vulnerability—all the more potent when that love held deep and strong. Imogen was the school friend with whom she had shared everything from skinned knees and sums to their first real ball. On top of that, Evelina had been practically part of the Roth family for her entire adolescence. She longed to be welcomed back into that fold. For far too long, it had been the only family she’d known—and she’d lost it all last April. It had been like being orphaned all over again—and being a grown woman was no protection from that kind of pain.
So why was Imogen allowed to write her now?
Something new has happened
. A little nervously, Evelina broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
My dearest E
,
I have a thousand things to tell you, but let me begin with the obvious. I’ve heard you’re coming to London! I had it from the Duchess of Westlake, who had it from your grandmother, so I know it’s true. And I hope your uncle will think
And then the paper, and the story of the dead woman, turned to ash. “Thirty-nine stab wounds,” Evelina murmured to herself, then dropped the crumbling paper onto the pile of debris. It was a horrible image, but her thoughts slid away quickly. After a bomb and a gun and those manacles that seemed to have a life of their own, she couldn’t absorb anything that wasn’t relevant to her immediate problems. She still had to decide how far she dared to push her uncle for information on Mycroft’s activities. And Jones had mentioned Baskerville. She’d heard the name before, but couldn’t remember where.
Then she saw a scattering of envelopes and bent to scoop them up. A few were singed, but most were merely sooty. These must have been the letters Holmes had referred to. She turned them over, reading the addresses. Most were to Holmes, and a few to Dr. Watson—even if he wasn’t currently residing at Baker Street. Two of them were for her—one from the Ladies’ College of London, where she had plans to apply, despite what her grandmother thought proper. She admired the elegant crest on the envelope, and even the feel ofthe thick bond paper filled her with eagerness. College was everything she wanted, and she hoped Holmes could convince Grandmamma to let her attend.
The other letter was small and square, the envelope a pale pink sealed with green wax. With a tingle of pleasure, she recognized the graceful handwriting of her closest friend, the Honorable Miss Imogen Roth. Then Evelina frowned. After the debacle last April, Evelina had been sent away from Hilliard House, the Roth’s London address, and Imogen had been forbidden to write.
About four months ago, Imogen’s father, Lord Bancroft, had been part of a forgery scheme that had robbed Jasper Keating, the steam baron known as the Gold King, of a fortune in antique artifacts. Holmes had uncovered the elaborate crime with Evelina’s help. Sadly, while Keating had been pleased and the scandal had been kept out of the papers, the affair had still made her very unpopular with Lord B—so much so that she’d left London until things cooled down.
And I never heard from Tobias again
. Evelina had done her best not to think about Imogen’s older brother since—not that she had succeeded. That hadn’t been the sort of scene one got over in a few short months.
Now here she was, with the square pink envelope in her hand. She almost preferred bombs and shadow governments to this bit of feminine paper that would surely slip past her defenses, no matter what news it held. Friendship, she’d learned, was a perilous vulnerability—all the more potent when that love held deep and strong. Imogen was the school friend with whom she had shared everything from skinned knees and sums to their first real ball. On top of that, Evelina had been practically part of the Roth family for her entire adolescence. She longed to be welcomed back into that fold. For far too long, it had been the only family she’d known—and she’d lost it all last April. It had been like being orphaned all over again—and being a grown woman was no protection from that kind of pain.
So why was Imogen allowed to write her now?
Something new has happened
. A little nervously, Evelina broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
My dearest E
,
I have a thousand things to tell you, but let me begin with the obvious. I’ve heard you’re coming to London! I had it from the Duchess of Westlake, who had it from your grandmother, so I know it’s true. And I hope your uncle will think
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