Garrett nodded, having heard from Pandora herself about how a loose plank had led to the discovery that bombs had been laid beneath the floor. Within a few minutes, the panicked crowd had rapidly fled the building. Fortunately, the explosive devices had been dismantled before they could be detonated. No arrests had been made in connection to the plot, but it had been blamed on a small group of radical Irish nationalists.
“One of the reception guests passed away that night,” Helen continued. “An undersecretary from the Home Office, Mr. Nash Prescott.”
Garrett nodded. “As I recall from the account in the Times, he had a weak heart. In the midst of all the alarm and confusion, he experienced a fatal cardiac seizure.”
“That’s the official story,” Helen said. “But Lord St. Vincent told Mr. Winterborne privately that Mr. Prescott had known about the bomb plot in advance. And it was none other than Mr. Ransom who found Mr. Prescott’s body, not far from the Guildhall grounds.” She paused. “After having given chase to him.”
“Ransom chased him from the reception?” Garrett looked at her sharply. “Believe me, no one in the middle of a cardiac event would be running anywhere.”
“Exactly.” Helen hesitated. “No one knows for certain what caused Mr. Prescott’s death. However, it’s possible that Mr. Ransom . . .” Her voice trailed away, the suspicion too terrible to be uttered out loud.
“Why would he do that?” Garrett asked after a long moment. “Do you think he may be on the side of the conspirators?”
“No one knows what side he’s on. But he’s not a man you should have anything to do with.” Helen gave her a worried, affectionate look. “My husband has a saying about risk taking: ‘God is good—but never dance in a small boat.’”
The cloud of gloom that Helen’s information had cast over Garrett was not helped the following day when her father waved the latest copy of the Police Gazette beneath her nose, asking pointedly, “What do you make of this, daughter?”
Frowning, Garrett took the newspaper from him, her gaze skimming rapidly over the page.
On Wednesday night, the King’s Cross Court holding jail was broken and entered by an unseen intruder, who proceeded to attack a cell of three prisoners. The victims are soldiers in Her Majesty’s 9th Regiment of Foot, confined on charges of assault against a lady whose person has not been publicly identified. The intruder escaped before he could be apprehended. All three soldiers will remain in custody without chance of bail until their future appearance at the assizes. Any person giving information to W. Cross, Chief Constable, leading to the apprehension of the unknown offender shall, on his conviction, receive ten pounds reward.
Struggling to conceal the signs of inner chaos, Garrett handed the paper back. Dear God, how could Ransom have attacked three men in custody?
“There’s no proof that Mr. Ransom did it,” she said crisply.
“Only Jenkyn’s men would be capable of going in and out of a heavily guarded court jail without being caught.”
Garrett brought herself to meet her father’s gaze with difficulty. After recent weight loss, the skin of his formerly full-cheeked face now hung slightly loose, and there were deep pockets under his eyes, and he looked so kind and tired that it made her throat tighten.
“Mr. Ransom can’t tolerate any manner of violence against women,” she said. “That’s no excuse, of course.”
“You made light of what happened that night,” her father said soberly. “You said those soldiers only insulted you, but it was worse than that, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Then those jackals deserved whatever Ransom did to them. He may be a cold-blooded cutthroat whose soul is bound for hell, but he has my thanks. I’d thrash the bastards myself, if I could.”
“I wouldn’t approve of you doing that any more than I would him,” Garrett informed him, folding her arms. “A vigilante is no better than a thug.”
“Is that what you’re going to tell him?”
A wry smile edged her lips. “Are you trying to trick me into some kind of admission, Papa? I have no intention of seeing Mr. Ransom again.”
Her father snorted and lifted the gazette to continue reading. His voice floated out from behind the rustling pages. “Just because you can look a man in the eyes when you lie doesn’t mean you’ve fooled him.”
The next few days were nothing but annoyance and drudgery. Garrett delivered the baby of a department manager’s wife, set a broken collarbone, and performed minor surgery to remove a benign tumor, and all of it felt perfunctory. Not even an interesting case of rheumatic effusions of the knee joints could cheer her up. For the first time in Garrett’s life, her enthusiasm for work, the thing that had always filled her with purpose and satisfaction, had inexplicably disappeared.
So far, she had managed to avoid dinner with the Ravenels, pleading exhaustion after having stayed up twenty-four hours with the patient in labor, but she knew another invitation would soon be forthcoming, and she would have to accept.
On Tuesday afternoon, as Garrett loaded her bag with supplies for her Tuesday visit to the workhouse, her partner at the clinic approached her.
Although Dr. William Havelock had made no secret of his objections when Winterborne had hired a female physician, he had soon become a mentor and a trusted friend. The middle-aged man, with his distinctive shock of white hair and large, leonine head, was everyone’s idea of what a doctor should look like. He was a man of remarkable skills and judgment, and Garrett had learned a great deal from him. To his credit, Havelock, despite his gruff manner, was a fair and open-minded man. After some initial resistance, he came to regard Garrett’s surgical training at the Sorbonne with interest rather than suspicion, and had soon adopted the antiseptic methods she had learned from Sir Joseph Lister. As a result, the patients at the Cork Street clinic experienced a substantially higher and faster rate of postoperative healing than average.
Garrett looked up as Dr. Havelock came to the doorway of the supply room with two small glass laboratory beakers containing pale gold liquid.
“I’ve brought you a restorative tonic,” he said, coming forward to hand her one of the beakers.
Lifting her brows, Garrett took the beaker and sniffed the contents cautiously. A reluctant smile crossed her lips. “Whiskey?”
“Dewar’s whiskey.” Regarding her with a shrewd but kindly gaze, he raised his beaker in a toast. “Happy Birthday.”
Garrett’s eyes turned round with amazement. Her father hadn’t remembered, and she’d never told the date to anyone. “How did you know?”
“The date was on your employment application. Since my wife keeps the files, she knows everyone’s birthday, and never forgets a one.”
They clinked glasses and drank. The whiskey was strong but very smooth, flavors of malt, honey, and cut hay lingering on Garrett’s tongue. Closing her eyes briefly, she felt the soft fire travel down her esophagus. “Excellent,” she pronounced, and smiled at him. “And much appreciated. Thank you, Dr. Havelock.”
“One more toast: Neque semper arcum tendit Apollo.”
They drank again.