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summoned by the Suffolk County Coroner to inquire into the death of Mrs. Virginia Kimball, after hearing such testimony as has been submitted to us, find that said Virginia Kimball came to her death about four o’clock on the afternoon of Tuesday, June 1, 1869, from the effect of a gunshot wound to the chest at her home on Mt. Vernon Street, Boston.
     
    “The jury does further find that said gunshot wound was inflicted at the hands of Fiona Gannon, a maid. It is our conclusion that Mrs. Kimball arrived home to find Miss Gannon in her bedroom, engaged in an act of theft. Upon being challenged by Mrs. Kimball, Miss Gannon took Mrs. Kimball’s .31 caliber Remington pocket pistol from beneath the pillow where she knew it to be kept, shot her employer once in the chest, and thinking her dead, set the gun down and continued about her business. Having not yet expired, Mrs. Kimball gained possession of the weapon and fired twice at Miss Gannon, the first shot lodging in the window frame, the second striking Miss Gannon in the left temple, thus killing her instantly.”
     
    Cornelius Bingham, Phineas Ladd, Edward Ackerman, Philip Sheridan, Davis Cavanaugh, Silas Mead and Lawrence Burke
     
    Nell skimmed the coroner’s testimony a second time. “Autopsies weren’t performed?”
    Cook, reading over her shoulder, said, “It’s the decision of whichever coroner’s been assigned to that particular case. He can choose to call in a surgeon, or he can just examine the body—or bodies—himself, and render his own opinion. Even if he does order an autopsy, he might not agree with the findings—it’s his prerogative.”
    “But aren’t the coroners all laymen?”
    “That they are.”
    “A surgeon might have found something significant.”
    “Well...” Cook took the transcript from her and leafed through it. “Perhaps in some cases. Much as I hate to agree with a lout like Skinner, I’d have to say it’s fairly clear them two died from tradin’ bullets. And the testimony of the witnesses seems to support that.”
    “Only because they were questioned on so few points. I would have tried to find out who Mrs. Kimball’s friends and associates were, other than Mr. Thurston and Mr. Pratt. Did she have lovers, enemies...? She hadn’t acted in years, and her diamonds were imitation, so presumably she sold the originals. Did she owe someone money? Did she have expensive habits? Opium, perhaps, or cards? Was she secretly destitute?”
     “I hardly think that’s likely,” Cook said as he returned the transcript to the folder, “given that she’d gone shopping for hats and what-not the very afternoon she died.”
    “Destitution never kept a female from buying hats,” Nell said. “Not that kind of female.” Pointing to the crossed-out bit from Maximilian Thurston’s testimony—
Mrs. Kimball was visited the day before the murder by
—Nell asked, “Why do you suppose this was stricken?”
    “Couldn’t really say, seein’ as how I wasn’t there.” Cook lifted the top off the
V. Kimball
box, peered inside, and withdrew a lady’s ivory kid glove, which he sniffed. “Mrs. Kimball fired that gun, all right.”
    Nell approached him and took the glove, the palm of which was bloodstained. She sniffed, inhaling, along with leather and blood, the smoky tang of burnt gunpowder. Even in the watery moonlight, she could detect a faint, grayish smudge on the back of the glove, emanating from between the thumb and index finger. She handed the glove back to Cook, who returned it to the box.
    “That doesn’t prove anything,” she said. “If you ask me, that transcript is evidence of an appallingly slapdash inquest. I wouldn’t be surprised if the coroner—what’s his name, Baldwin?—if he’d been bribed to steer the jury toward the conclusion they reached. They’re probably all in on the take—Baldwin, Detective Skinner, that firearms expert—”
    “Sam Watts?” Cook shook his head resolutely. “I know Sam. He’s a