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“What smells so heavenly?”
    Wesley was stirring something in a pot on the Aga. His ready grin lit his dark face. “I brought you some of Otto’s famous Russian stroganoff from the café. And Kit has the makings of a salad, I think.” Since they had met Wesley in the course of a murder investigation two years previously, he had worked part-time at Otto’s café in Elgin Crescent, just off Portobello Road. The youngest of five children, he still lived at home with his mother, Betty, while attending business college.
    Wes and Bryony had been friends when Gemma met them, but in the past few months their relationship seemed to have developed into something more intimate.
    â€œTea,” Bryony said, pulling mugs from the rack and lifting the steaming pot. “I could murder a bloke, me matey, for a good cuppa.” She flourished a mug at Toby, who giggled and danced away.
    Bryony added milk to the mugs and poured for herself and Gemma.
    â€œI want tea,” said Charlotte. She sat at the kitchen table, her legs swinging, drawing a pink blob that Gemma suspected was a cat. She coughed a little, but it wasn’t the hacking of last night. She looked better, too, her blue-green eyes bright, her café-au-lait skin almost rosy.
    Bryony poured her a mug of milk and added a splash of tea. “There you go, sweetie. Good for what ails you.” She picked up the remote for the kitchen television. “Let’s just see how cold it’s going to get tonight, if you don’t mind.”
    Glancing at the clock, Gemma saw that they’d just catch the end of the six o’clock news.
    â€œGemma.” It was Kit, his voice hesitant. “Look.” He pointed at the breaking-news banner scrolling across the television screen.
    Focusing on the screen, Gemma caught “Explosion” and “St. Pancras International.” She grabbed the remote from Bryony’s hand and turned up the sound. The perfectly groomed news presenter looked seriously into the camera as she said, “. . . an incident at St. Pancras International railway station has closed all traffic through the station at this time. There are reports of an unidentified explosion and injuries, but we have yet to ascertain the extent of the damage.” The camera cut to the Gothic front of the station and the St. Pancras Renaissance Hotel, eerily illuminated by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles.
    Only when Gemma felt the kitchen chair beneath her did she realize Bryony had guided her into it. The broadcast switched to the weather, but no one was paying attention.
    â€œAndy was playing,” whispered Gemma. “Andy and Poppy. Melody was going to the concert. And St. Pancras—that’s Duncan’s patch.”

  CHAPTER FOUR  
    Mary Shelley, the author of Frankenstein, used to rendezvous with Shelley next to her mother’s tomb to plan their elopement, Dickens recalls wandering through the churchyard, and Blake placed the site on his mystical map of London.
    â€”Matt Shaw, kentishtowner.co.uk,
“Why It Matters—Saving St. Pancras Old Church”
    Melody had never been so glad to see anyone. She almost gave in to the urge to hug Kincaid, although she was not a hugging person. But her relief lasted only until she had to tell him about Tam.
    â€œWhere is he?” Kincaid asked.
    She gestured towards the triage area. “Andy and Poppy are with him.”
    â€œI’ll be right back,” Kincaid said to DCI Callery and, pulling his respirator back on, headed towards the triage area.
    Callery glanced at Kincaid’s back, then gave Melody an assessing stare. “Who the hell are Andy and Poppy? And Tam when he’s at home?”
    Melody noticed that Callery’s eyes were the same silvery gray as his hair and his suit. She wondered if the clothing coordination was vanity or happenstance, then chided herself because she didn’t seem able to