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energetic and practical and free thinking, while the brotherhood of coroners at the Yard suffered from
many of the same limitations as the officers. They seemed to find only what they expected to find. In
public Trevor was constantly encouraging them to consider things from a different angle. In private
he considered them antiquated, arrogant, and slow.
And that was on a good day.
The final two chairs at the table were occupied by women: their hostess, socialite Geraldine
Bainbridge and Emma Kelly, who was Geraldine’s paid companion and sister to the Ripper’s last
known victim. Emma’s original position on the team was as a translator, since her father had been a
schoolteacher and Emma was fluent in three languages. But as fate would have it, she had also
proven fluent in the language of crime scenes. The girl was about the same age as Tom and Davy and
hardly looked like anyone’s notion of a detective. Petite and pale, with red hair and blue eyes which
confirmed the Irish roots her surname implied, Emma had illustrated her worth beyond question
during their week in Paris. Her standing in the group was rising, although probably not quickly
enough to suit her.
Finally, Geraldine. Trevor supposed it was stretching the truth to consider the elderly heiress
part of the team at all, but Geraldine had managed to somehow insinuate herself into the heart of the
action. Part of it was that they met at Geraldine’s house, so her presence at this table each Tuesday
was a given. They could scarcely shoo her from her own parlor when the games began.
And then there was also the fact that Geraldine had, in her own words, “great piles of money”
and she never hesitated to offer financial support to organizations which interested her, no matter how
far-fetched or unsuitably liberal her social set might deem these causes to be. Luckily for Trevor, her
present interest appeared to be the elevation of the forensics unit in the eyes of Scotland Yard. It was
likewise beyond dispute that Geraldine’s vast social network and instinctive ear for gossip had
proven valuable in the past and likely would again. Gerry seemed to know everyone in London and
half the souls on the continent as well, and detection, Trevor was beginning to understand, was often
as dependent upon whom one knew as it was on what one knew. Besides, beneath Gerry’s garishly
colored gowns and feather-plumed hats, existed the cunning of a jackal and the heart of a lion.
Although she had left her seventieth birthday behind her some years back and her waistline announced
her fondness for pastries and creams, Gerry was in many ways the most formidable of them all.
They were a bizarre group in every measurable way, as Trevor was quick to concede. Around
this table sat male and female, young and old, Jew and Catholic, aristocrat and working class,
professional detective and amateur sleuth. But he would not have traded their collective talents for