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driver asked her.
    â€œMy apologies.” Celia climbed down and fumbled through her reticule for the fare. After she paid the driver, she noticed aman walking along the street toward downtown, intently scribbling in a notebook. He had to step quickly to avoid colliding with a clutch of young boys kneeling on the pavement, engrossed in a game of jacks. The lads jeered him as he passed, their cries not nearly as angry as the look on Jane Hutchinson’s face. She stood in the front doorway of the house, glaring at the man’s back. Grace had disappeared inside.
    Celia went through the gate and up the front steps. “Who was that?”
    â€œA journalist. From the
Elevator
.” Jane Hutchinson was younger than Celia, with a lively demeanor that had attracted Celia from the moment they’d met. Right now, however, she was far from lively, instead fretfully clinging to the ruffles of her peach-colored morning gown. “He was asking the most ridiculous questions about Frank’s work. I sent him away . . . after I gave him a piece of my mind for spreading gossip.”
    â€œWhat did he say?” Celia asked, though she knew the reason a journalist would have come here. It was only surprising how soon he’d arrived.
    â€œThat there’s a dead body at Martin and Company. Which is the ugliest gossip—”
    â€œIt is not gossip, Jane,” said Celia, taking her friend’s elbow. “Come inside. We need to talk.”
    *   *   *
    â€œM erciful heavens,” said Jane, crumpling the embroidered linen handkerchief she held in her lap. Celia had convinced her friend to sit in her parlor, rather than immediately rush off to find her husband. “It can’t be true.”
    â€œIt is true, Jane. I saw the body myself.”
    â€œWhat does Grace know?”
    â€œThat Owen Cassidy found a dead body. I did not admit to her where he found it, though,” said Celia. “I thought it best she hear the news from you or her father.”
    â€œPerhaps I shouldn’t say anything to her,” said Jane. “Grace is only fifteen. She’ll be upset.”
    In the hack, Grace had not appeared upset in the least by the prospect of a dead body in the basement of her father’s office building. “You must, Jane, before she hears the news from an acquaintance who might not be tactful.”
    â€œEspecially some of
our
acquaintances. They might relish the scandal a bit too much.”
    Despite their modest home on Stockton, the Hutchinsons were wealthy. Enviably wealthy. They would draw gossip to them like a lodestone attracted iron shavings.
    â€œSo what happens now?” Jane asked.
    Last night, the exceedingly busy Mr. Greaves had detailed to Celia what the next steps would be. He would request that a police officer guard the offices of Martin and Company; then the coroner would come with his jury to assess the cause of death, and the body would be taken away for further examination. Celia didn’t envy Dr. Harris the task ahead of him; the body would be quite putrid.
    â€œThe coroner will do an autopsy. The police will look for clues,” said Celia. “And they will question all the partners. Including Frank.”
    â€œBut what could Frank know about some stranger buried in the cellar of his office? It’s ridiculous to think he’ll have any information.”
    â€œWe must consider that the dead man might not be a stranger,” Celia pointed out. “Furthermore, Detective Greaves will be thorough. In fact, he might even come here to speak with you.”
    â€œHere?” Jane surveyed the contents of her parlor, as if trying to envision a policeman standing on her Brussels carpet or rummaging through the porcelain statuary and Chinese urns on display.
    â€œThere’s no need for them to come here.” Agitated, she stood and began pacing. “Grace and I don’t know anything about this event.