didn’t… “Goodbye,” she added as he strode to the door.
He paused and glanced back over his shoulder. “Griz?” A smile lurked in his eyes.
“Yes?”
“It was a fun afternoon.”
Chapter Ten
Dragan found himself grinning as he crossed the hall and left the house, her surprised gurgle of laughter echoing in his ears. He liked the way she laughed and the way her eyes danced behind her spectacles.
He wondered how many people wrote her off as merely eccentric. Fewer than she thought, he suspected. For though she might lack the dazzling beauty of the sister he had met yesterday, Grizelda had her own quieter yet deeper beauty, a fascinating vitality that came from her interest in people and her surroundings, a desire to always know more.
He liked her spirit, her sense of justice that urged her to pursue the killer of a maidservant, whom she must have been brought up to regard as far beneath her. There was guilt, of course, because she hadn’t made enough effort to assure Nancy’s wellbeing. And simple compassion, which was strong in her.
Even for him. Her unexpected embrace had caught at his breath. He wasn’t coxcomb enough to believe she had meant it in any way other than comfort, but it was sweet all the same. And if he had had the urge to sweep her up in his arms in return, well, that was his baser instinct as he was well aware how it would have been greeted. As betrayal.
There may have been a twinge of disappointment in that, but he also felt a surge of happiness that they were friends. He sensed a fellow spirit in her, which was a pleasure, an excitement, even. He hadn’t lied when he’d said she brought color to his life.
Tomorrow, after the inquest, of course, he might just take her friend Mrs. Worth up on her invitation to tea.
Not for the first time, he turned his mind to questions of coroners and their medical men and how much influence Dr. Cordell would prove to have with the latter.
***
Enough, as it turned out. Dragan spent part of Sunday evening in a cold mortuary, examining Nancy’s corpse.
“The weapon that was found at the scene,” Dragan said, “did not make this wound.”
“No,” agreed Dr. Smith, a middle-aged man with an impressive shock of white hair and an incongruously cheerful disposition. “God knows what it was doing there. Possibly completely unrelated to this girl’s death or left to lead the police in the wrong direction. Though, they don’t seem to have made much effort to trace it. Not relevant, I suppose.”
“What kind of weapon would you say did this?” Dragan asked. “Clearly not a sword or a bayonet.”
“Possibly a small kitchen knife or a pocketknife. The wound isn’t ragged or even very deep, but it was well-placed.”
“So, either very lucky or very deliberate?”
“Exactly.”
Dragan glanced at Dr. Smith. “Could she have done it herself, in your opinion?”
“She could. But I don’t think she could have held her own throat at the same time.”
Dragan was glad he didn’t have to bring up the bruises on her throat. “You think he tried to strangle her first and then gave up and stabbed her?”
“Possible. I’d say it’s more likely he held her by the throat, and when she reached up to dislodge his fingers, he stabbed her through the heart. Bastard.”
“As you say,” Dragan said bleakly. He forced his gaze back to the body. “I see no other injuries on her.”
“No, she seems otherwise a healthy young woman. I suppose she would be if she worked for the Duchess of Kelburn. God knows what she was doing in a place like Mudd Lane.” Dr. Smith eyed him curiously. “What’s your interest in this girl, Doctor?”
“Someone in the duchess’s household asked me to help find out what happened.”
“Sometimes,” Dr. Smith observed, covering the body back up, “one is better not knowing.”
“Perhaps. Thank you, sir,” he said politely. “I appreciate your time and insight.” He moved toward the door, then, on impulse, turned back. “Just as a matter of curiosity, has anyone—someone of power and influence—asked you to keep any of your findings to yourself?”
Dr. Smith looked affronted. “Of course not!”
***
Bizarrely enough, the inquest was held in a hostelry in Castle Street. According to Cordell, this was the normal custom unless the deceased person had died in a hospital or workhouse.
By the time Dragan arrived there, the jury had, apparently, already viewed the body. They seemed to be largely tradesmen and sat in a group, looking important, anxious, or