Shahdi Feroz was nodding. “Yes, whereas Miss Smith has needed to listen very carefully to East End accents, to pick up the vowel sounds and the rhythms of the speech. Very well done, Margo.”
A warm glow ignited in her middle and spread deliciously through her entire being. She smiled at the famous scholar, so proud of herself, she felt like she must be floating a couple of inches above the floor.
Dominica Nosette said abruptly, “Well, I intend to find out who our mystery doctor is! Anybody else game to give it a go?”
Guy Pendergast lunged for cameras and recorders.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Margo darted squarely in front of the exit to Spaldergate House’s main cellar. “I’m sorry,” she said firmly, “but there will be an official police investigation getting underway in Bucks Row a few minutes from now. And no one, not one member of this tour, is going to be anywhere near that spot when the police arrive. We have remote cameras and microphones in place and every second of this is being recorded.”
“Listen,” Guy Pendergast began, “you can’t just keep us locked up in this cellar!”
“I have no intention of locking anybody in this cellar!” Margo shot back, trying to sound reasonable as well as authoritative, when she felt neither. “But there’s no point in leaving Spaldergate for the East End right now. Maybrick has been positively identified. His companion has remained a mystery for nearly a hundred fifty years. We’ll certainly begin working to identify him. Carefully. Discreetly. Word of this murder is going to send shockwaves through Whitechapel. Especially the mutilations, when the workhouse paupers who clean the body tomorrow finally remove Mrs. Nichols’ clothing and discover them. It’s been less than a month, after all, since Martha Tabram was savagely slashed to death in the East End.”