My heart twisted. Surely they weren’t trading rumors too.
Seats had been saved for the family of the victim in the front row, but I couldn’t bear to sit that close to the closed casket. Montgomery sat with me in the last row, where the preacher’s voice was nothing but a hum, and curious faces kept twisting to look back at me, pretending they were adjusting their fine winter hats.
Those stolen looks ate away at me until I could no longer bear it. After half an hour, I mumbled something to Montgomery and made my way to a side door, twisting it open to a cloistered courtyard where I gulped fresh air. I stumbled into the snow in my fine Sunday shoes, weaving between the headstones of the church’s graveyard.
No faces here, no whispering. But there was a freshly dug plot.
My feet led me to it on their own, knees slumping in the dirt at the foot of his grave. Plain, unlike most of the others. A testament to his simple life.
Victor von Stein, the headstone read, 1841—1896. Beloved father and friend.
I supposed Elizabeth had come up with that phrasing, though if she was referring to me or the professor’s son who had died long ago, I wasn’t sure. The gaping hole awaited the casket. I dug my fingers into the freezing soil, wishing I could hold the professor’s wrinkled old hands instead.
I’m sorry, Professor, I thought.
“My condolences, miss,” a voice said behind me.
I whirled, thinking I had been alone. A spindle-thin man wearing a canvas work jacket and a few days’ unshaven beard leaned on a shovel, nodding toward the gravesite. “You must be family,” he said. “You’d be surprised how often family comes out ’ere, needing a moment o’ peace. Reckon he was a great man. Never seen a crowd like this.” He removed his cap in a stiff gesture.
“He was,” I whispered. “Will you be the one to bury him?”
He nodded, the cap pressed to his chest, wisps of graying hair dancing in the wind.
I opened my purse and fished out a few coins. “Thank you, then,” I said, holding out the coins.
He took them almost reluctantly. “Won’t be nothing. The empty ones are easy.”
“Empty ones?”
“Empty caskets, I mean. Cremated ones. Don’t weigh an ounce, really.” He paused. “Didn’t you know, miss?”
Cremated? It made no sense that the professor’s body had been burned. As next of kin, Elizabeth would have been the one to make that request, and though she had modern beliefs, there was no reason for her to have done something so blasphemous.
“Who gave that order?” I asked.
He scratched his ear. “Came straight from the police.”
The police? There was something very odd about this situation. Cremations were only done in rare cases, such as if the body had been plagued with disease. The professor’s death had been violent, but his body was still intact and certainly not diseased. Why on earth would the police have ordered him cremated?
I mumbled my thanks to the gravedigger, who tipped his hat before shuffling through the snow.
The Beast’s words returned to me: I didn’t kill him. Believe me or not, it’s the truth.
It was true that the professor’s murder went against the Beast’s twisted desire to protect me. And thinking back, where had the Wolf of Whitechapel’s telltale flower been? A strange tingle began at the back of my spine.
If the Beast hadn’t done it, who had?
“Juliet,” Montgomery called.
I turned, watching him crossing the courtyard toward me. Behind him Balthazar stood in the cloister with a constable in a police uniform. I dug my fingers into the earth to steady myself.
“Are you feeling well?” Montgomery asked. “You’ve been out here half an hour. The service is over.”
I nodded, thoughts on the empty grave site.
Montgomery’s voice dropped. “Inspector Newcastle wishes to speak with you. I tried to put him off—said you’ve been feeling unwell, and today of all days, right after the funeral . . . But he says he can’t wait any longer for your statement. He’s already stretched the law as much as he can.”
I wet my parched lips. Scotland Yard was the last place I wanted to be right now. And yet, as the tickle grew up my spine, I realized Inspector Newcastle would have details of the professor’s murder. He’d have the autopsy reports, investigation reports. He might be able to tell me why the professor had been cremated, and why no flower had been left by the murderer.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll go.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said. He led me past the professor’s freshly dug grave, toward the waiting constable.
THIRTY-FOUR
STEPPING THROUGH THE FRONT doors of Scotland Yard with the constable at one side reminded me of the last time I was here, months ago, handcuffed and sick and seething with anger at Dr. Hastings and a society that would let him accuse me when he was to blame.
“This way, miss,” the constable said, motioning to a staircase. “I’m to take you to the inspector’s office. The gentleman will have to wait here, I’m afraid.”
Montgomery touched my back. “Will you be all right?”
“This is a police station. If I’m not safe here, god help us.” I motioned him to the bench lining the chilly entryway hall. “I’m sure it won’t take long; he only needs my statement.” I didn’t say how I wanted to feel out Newcastle cautiously, perhaps discover some new information about the professor’s murder.
The staircase of Scotland Yard was made of marble that might once have been grand, but years of dragging feet had worn it through. The constable led me up three stories, where the freshly polished floor contrasted with the rest of the worn-out, perfunctory building. These must be the officers’ offices, high above the riffraff.