Booker turned to run out the door, but Trinket caught his arm. "Booker, maybe we should think about this first."
"What is there to think about? We have confirmation that the man we're after is in that apartment building, and now we have his exact room number. Let's go before someone catches wind of this."
Again, he turned to bolt out the door, but she pulled him back once more. The frustration was clear in his eyes, but she persisted all the same. "So what, you're just going to go pound on his door and demand he tell you what he knows about the corpses? And what about the Mice? If you go running into the street like a maniac, they're going to know something is amiss and follow you, perhaps even hurt you."
Though his eyes wandered to the door, his shoulders sagged, and she finally let his arm go. "What do you suggest we do?" he asked.
She shrugged. "I'm not sure. I just don't think it would be wise to run into this head first."
Crossing his arms over his chest, Booker leaned against the door. "He's likely on alert after our last encounter with him. So we'll have to be stealthier than usual."
"Do you think he's seen our faces?"
"Possibly. And if he's involved in some sort of shady activity, he's probably already very observant of his surroundings."
"Meaning it will do us no good to stake out the building again."
They stood in silence until someone cleared their throat, and they both looked up to find Daphne still standing in the hallway. Trinket had nearly forgotten she was there. Daphne motioned to the parlour and then to the kitchen before raising a finger.
"I think she's suggesting we sit in the parlour and she'll bring us tea?" Trinket said slowly, not quite sure if her translation was correct.
Daphne nodded and made her way back to the kitchen. Trinket raised her eyebrows at Booker who heaved a sigh and spread out his arms. "Very well, let's sit down. Though we've been sitting all night."
Trinket settled onto the settee and expected Booker to sit in his armchair where he often did his thinking. But instead, he took the place beside her. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he tapped his lips with his tented fingers.
"Perhaps Gin would shadow him for us," he said.
"I suppose," Trinket said.
Daphne entered the room with a tray of tea and toast. Booker's eyes fell upon her and his brows went up. "Or Daphne."
She looked up at the sound of her name and cocked her head to the side.
"Daphne?" Trinket repeated.
"Yes. No one but Gin knows that she's associated with us. If she were to stalk this fellow, he'd be none-the-wiser."
"But she doesn't exactly blend in with those aquariums on her neck."
"We just ordered a cape for her. She'll be fine."
"That means we have to wait until the tailor is finished. Besides, maybe we should ask her before we assume she'll do this."
They both turned to her. She was watching their animated conversation with interest. Now with their attention on her, she straightened her back and folded her hands in front of her skirt.
"Would you be willing to help us?" Trinket asked.
A big smile spread over Daphne's face, and she nodded her consent. Booker beamed triumphantly, and Trinket tossed her hands up in defeat. Booker motioned for Daphne to sit in the armchair, and he leaned in excitedly.
"So what we want to find out is who this young man is," he said. "All we know for sure is that he has dirty fingernails and unusually white teeth. However, due to a very helpful informant, we now have an exact location."
He held up the note.
"What we need you to do is watch the apartment building and wait for him to come out. You then need to follow him and pick up whatever clues you can about his various haunts," he continued. He turned to Trinket. "If we can catch him away from home, we'll have the advantage."
"How is she going to get close enough to observe his nails and teeth?" Trinket said, still skeptical about this plan.
Biting his lower lip, Booker drummed his fingers against his leg as he glanced about the room. Then his eyes lit up, and he snapped his fingers. "Flower girl!"
"Flower girl?"
"She can pose as a flower girl outside of the apartment building. It's not an uncommon thing, and she would be able to get close enough to inspect his physical appearance. It's brilliant. And it will work, I'm sure of it."
Trinket still wanted to object, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw a frog sitting on the arm of the settee. She was exhausted, and she was certain her hallucinations would only get worse if she didn't get some rest soon.
"Fine," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Have her use my coat if you don't want to wait for the tailor. She can turn the collar up high or wear a scarf or something."
Booker grinned and gave her hand a squeeze. "Splendid. Come along, Miss Daphne. Let's get to work."
They disappeared upstairs, and Trinket turned her attention to the frog beside her. It stared at her with bulbous eyes, flicking its tongue out and licking them before giving a croak. Heaving a sigh, Trinket lifted herself to her feet and dragged her tired body upstairs, her mind filled with thoughts of her warm, soft bed.
~
"Blast it all," Booker mumbled.
Trinket paused her cleaning of the fireplace and sat up when she heard him enter the parlour with Daphne close behind. He plopped himself onto the settee and leaned his head back while Daphne hovered by the doorway.
"Still no luck?" Trinket asked.
"Nothing. If I wasn't already convinced this man was working with Benedict, I certainly would be now," he said. "He's very good at going unseen. Blast him!"
For the past three days, Daphne had been stationed on Primrose Street in front of the apartment building under the guise of selling flowers. And while plenty of people had come and gone, there had been no sign of the young man with the dirty fingernails. And since Booker could not sit still, he spent his days in the Clocktower, hoping to meet up with the girl with the scar to ferret out more information. He, too, had found no success.
"Why does this keep happening?" Booker moaned. "We get a great lead and then immediately hit another wall."
Putting aside her cleaning supplies, Trinket wiped her hands on her smock and approached the settee. "Maybe we need to learn how to climb the wall," she said.
He looked up at her with a doubtful expression. "Exactly how are we supposed to climb this wall?"
"We could start by examining the note again. Perhaps we missed something."
"I've gone over it a hundred times. The only bit I'm not certain of is that part about the dead being raised, but I assumed that was just to reassure us that he was connected with the corpses."
That line had been bothering her as well. Every other line held specific information, but that one was rather vague and unclear. She couldn't make the connection. At first, she thought it was to throw off anyone who might pilfer the note. But with the new wall they had hit, she was having second thoughts.
The bell began to ring, accompanied by frantic knocking. Daphne quickly opened the door, and Gin came running into the parlour, out of breath and rosy-cheeked.
"Booker," she panted. "Body. Another one. Clocktower."
Without the need for further explanation, Booker threw his coat back on and tapped his foot impatiently as Trinket exchanged her smock for the coat Daphne was still wearing. He grabbed hold of her arm before she could even pull it on all the way, and they made a mad dash for the Clocktower. She knew he was desperate to get there before the police shooed the rubbernecks away. Surely he thought this would be what would help them climb this latest wall.
A crowd had already gathered, and she could almost feel Booker's disappointment when he saw the blue uniforms pushing their way through. Nevertheless, he picked up his pace and slipped into the front, Trinket still on his arm.
"Back, Larkin," Jewkes spat before they could get a good look at the body lying by the alehouse doors.
Booker swore louder than he probably intended to, and Jewkes lifted his lip in a snarl. "Please, Jewkes," Booker pleaded. "I need to see this body."
"I'm not so convinced you haven't seen this body before. Like when you were torturing the poor woman on your operating table."
"Is it a crime to perform surgery?"
"You'd best shut your mouth before I drag you into the station again."
Trinket tried to glance around Jewkes to see if she could catch a glimpse of the body, but another officer got in the way. Craning her neck, she managed to spot a hand. There was nothing unusual about it other than that it was pale and decaying. There were too many people, and the police were already dispersing the crowd. She scrambled for some way to get closer. A woman nearby went green and swayed on her feet. The man beside her put out a hand to steady her.
Booker and Jewkes were still arguing, and Trinket knew the constable was seconds away from slugging Booker in the face. She had to act fast.
Placing the back of her hand against her forehead, she fluttered her eyelids rapidly. "I don't feel so well," she murmured, drawing both of the men's attention to herself.
Before they could say a word, she feigned a fainting spell. Her head hit the ground hard, causing her vision to blur momentarily. Booker and Jewkes were quick to rush to her side, but she couldn't let them move her just yet. With her head lolled to the side, she opened her eyes a crack.
There, only a few feet away from her, was the body. Knowing her time was limited, she took in every detail she could. The woman was middle-aged, pretty, even in death. Lithe, dark hair, plump lips that were rather pale at the moment. And then she saw it. In place of her nose was a pig's snout, stitched onto her ashen skin like a patch on a skirt.
"Trinket? Trinket, can you hear me?"
Booker. She closed her eyes quickly so as not to expose her ruse.
"Would someone get her somewhere safe?"
Jewkes.
"No!" Booker again. "Don't move her."
"She could be hurt. If we don't—"
"You may have authority over that dead body, Constable, but I am the one with medical training here. If you move her, she could sustain worse injuries than an egg on the head."
She could feel Booker's gentle hands on her throat, finding her pulse and checking for any broken bones. His thumb stroked her cheek, and his breath brushed against her skin as he whispered to her.
"Trinket? Trinket, can you hear me?"
He gently patted her cheek to rouse her, and she slowly opened her eyes. Her vision was still a tad blurry, but she gave him a smile, which triggered a relieved smile of his own.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She tried to nod, but the movement sent a sharp pain through her head. "I think so."
"Can you stand?"
"Only one way to find out."
Taking hold of his hands, she allowed him to pull her to her feet. Though the faint had been staged, the fall had been very real. Blood rushed from her head, and for a moment she thought she might really pass out. But Booker wrapped his arm around her waist and kept her standing.
"We'd best get you home," he said as he eased her forward.
"Are you all right, Miss?" Jewkes asked.
"Yes, I'll be fine," Trinket said. "Thank you, Constable."
The crowd parted for them as they passed. Whispers erupted from the onlookers as they watched them walk down the street. She could have sworn she caught the word "Clocktower" and the phrase "shared a room." Several times she heard "disgraceful" tossed about. But she ignored all of this. Her mind was on the dead woman and her horrible snout.
"Are you certain you're all right?" Booker asked. "It's not like you to faint."
"I fainted the first time we met."
"Yes, well, you had lost a considerable amount of blood. Since then, you've been very steady on your feet despite the number of dead bodies, flesh-eating insects, and severed limbs you've been exposed to. Are you ill? Was it a hallucination?"
"No, nothing like that. It was staged."
"Staged? But why—"
"I saw the body."
His eyes widened. "And?"
"This one had a pig's snout."
"Are you sure it wasn't her real nose? I've known some people born with such unfortunate features."
She shook her head and winced at the pain. "This was most certainly sewn-on. I could see the stitches. And . . ."
He waited, but when she didn't finish her thought, he leaned in closer. "And?"
She hesitated. There was something about the stitching. Something important. But she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Scouring her memory, she compared this corpse to the other bodies they had found. The stitching was all the same—like patches on a torn piece of clothing. Sewn-on but clearly out of place. And then Daphne popped into her head.
She snapped her attention to Booker, and he drew back in surprise. "I need to see Daphne," she said.
"Daphne?"
"I need to see her gills."