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berating the policemen for disturbing the sick with their steps. The reek of disinfectant flooded every corridor.
    On the third floor, two sets of wooden doors with frosted glass portholes opened into the operating theaters. Inside, Langton saw a short corridor leading to a ward with a handful of white-shrouded beds, each with a nurse attending. On the left, an office of dark wooden file cabinets, bureaus, bottles behind locked glass. An empty birdcage hung from a hook in the corner.
    Langton saw the woman’s hands first, in the light thrown by a lamp of green glass: small and delicate, they moved through the lozenge of bright light on the desk, turning pages, making small entries in the massive ledger. Then Langton took in the dark blue dress, the apron and cap of starched white cotton. When she looked up from her seat, half hidden in shadow, the woman’s eyes shone like stars. “Can I help you?”
    Langton stepped into the office and introduced himself and McBride. “Professor Caldwell Chivers asked to see us.”
    “He did?” The woman set the pen down, rose from her seat, and brushed an errant wisp of escaping black hair back behind her ear. “He’s just finished an operation and I hate to disturb him. He’s had perhaps four or five hours’ rest in the past twenty-four.”
    Langton wondered if the woman had managed any more sleep than that herself; fatigue obviously pulled at her body. “I think it’s important. Miss…”
    “Wright. Sister Wright.” She shook Langton’s hand and nodded to McBride. “I take it this is important?”
    “It’s part of a murder investigation.”
    “Ah, the faceless man that was brought in…”
    “Exactly.”
    “Then please follow me, gentlemen.”
    She led them back the way they had come, along desertedcorridors and through an unmarked door. The room beyond could have come straight from a gentlemen’s club: leather armchairs, wooden paneling, newspapers and periodicals strewn over cluttered tables. The smell of cigar smoke.
    An elderly man lay slumped in one of the vast armchairs with his long legs stretched out toward the fire. His posture, his crumpled white shirt and unbuttoned waistcoat, all implied drowsiness, if not sleep, but the man looked up as Sister Wright approached.
    “Professor, Inspector Langton here said you’d arranged to see him.”
    “Of course, my dear. Thank you.” Professor Caldwell Chivers stood up, smoothed his crumpled clothes, and ran a hand through sparse white hair. “Forgive my appearance, Inspector. We’ve had quite a day, haven’t we, Sister?”
    Sister Wright smiled but said nothing.
    “Thank you for seeing us,” Langton said. “I gather you’ve discovered something?”
    Caldwell Chivers buttoned his waistcoat and reached for his jacket. “Perhaps we should take a look at our mutual friend together.”
    Sister Wright followed them after brushing dust from the Professor’s shoulders. “You know you should rest, Professor.”
    “I’ll have plenty of time for rest when I retire,” Caldwell Chivers said, smiling.
    “Then at least let me order you something from the kitchens.”
    “My dear, I promise that I will leave for home as soon as our business with the good inspector here is over.”
    Langton glanced at the sister as she looked to heaven and shook her head. She and the Professor had obviously worked together for quite some time: Their bond was apparent, almost like that of an affectionate, exasperated married couple. Inside Langton, a twinge of regret, almost of jealousy.
    A brief walk brought them to a cold room near the Infirmary’s theaters. The Professor switched on banks of electric lights thatflooded the chamber. The faceless man lay on a long zinc table with upturned edges and drains leading to a floor sluice.
    The Professor selected a slender knife from the surgical steel instruments arrayed in wall cabinets and approached the body. “Your Doctor Fry was quite accurate in his prognosis: We have here a