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good sort, and honest to a fault. And there’s not a soul on God’s green earth who knows more about guns. If he says that slug was from Mrs. Kimball’s Remington, it was from Mrs. Kimball’s Remington.”
    “That’s good enough for me,” Nell said. “But as for Baldwin and Skinner, my guess is they orchestrated the whole thing together, in exchange for God knows how much money. Someone—or several someones—don’t want this case investigated.”
    “It’s not impossible,” Cook conceded with a sigh as he rooted around in the box, “but I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions. Could just be the inquest was slapdash ‘cause that’s how most of ‘em are around here. Could be this case wouldn’t have been properly investigated even if no one got paid off ‘cause there’s not a single detective on the Boston Police Force who really knows his way around a murder, and that includes yours truly.”
    Nell gaped at him, astounded that a police detective—especially one whom she respected so thoroughly—would confess to any measure of professional incompetence.
    He reached into the box and lifted out a smart little blue bandeau hat trimmed with feathers, bows, silk orchids, and a dotted veil. “I bought something like this for Mrs. Cook for her birthday last year, but she said it was too fancy. Made me take it back and get a plainer one. I told her pretty ladies should wear pretty bonnets. She said it wasn’t so much pretty as flashy.”
    “It sounds as if she’s afflicted with good taste.” Five years ago, when Nell had first started working for the Hewitts, she’d been both thrilled and disappointed by the wardrobe of custom-made frocks that Viola had provided her with, at her own expense—thrilled because until then Nell had worn nothing but threadbare cast-offs, disappointed because the dresses were so plain. Over the years, she’d come to appreciate their sleek elegance, but it had been an acquired appreciation.
    “I do my best, Miss Sweeney,” said Cook as he nestled the hat back in the carton, “I surely do. But the truth is us detectives all earned this job on account of how well we deal with thefts. When I was young, you heard about maybe one homicide a year in Boston, sometimes none. I came on the force in January of eighteen-sixty. You know how many people have been murdered in this city since then?”
    Nell thought about it, but she couldn’t’ begin to guess.
    “Seventy.” He pushed the lid back onto the carton and turned to face her, hands on hips. “Seventy homicides in the past nine years.”
    “My God!”
    “Seventy-one counting Mrs. Kimball. When somebody gets killed in this city, it better be plain as day who done it, or it’s probably gonna go unsolved. Investigating homicides is a complicated business, and there’s nobody I know of who’s got any real experience in it. What we do—what most big city cops do—is we offer rewards to the citizenry for providing information or turning in the guilty parties.”
    “Does that work?”
    “Not often enough to suit me. I’ve been trying to convince Chief Kurtz that we need to get out there and dig and scratch, not just rely on snitches, most of whom are no better than the slamtrash they’re ratting on. We need to figure out how to catch these murderin’ scum, and then we need to hang ‘em by the neck and let the good Lord worry about what to do with ‘em after that.”
    “Do you think the Chief will take your advice?” she asked.
    “Nah, the rest of ‘em keep tellin’ him I’m daft. Skinner, especially. He just thinks all we need to do is offer bigger rewards. Lazy muttonhead just doesn’t want to have to do his job.” Cook gestured her toward his office. “Looks like we’re all done here.”
    Nell hesitated, eyeing the two cartons on the floor. “Those contain the clothes Mrs. Kimball and Miss Gannon were wearing when they died?”
    “And whatever other personal effects they had on ‘em.” The detective crossed