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If it were up to me, Miss Moore would have found a safe place to hide until her name was cleared. Anything was better than her facing even a moment’s risk of getting caught by the police. But Hume wasn’t having it.

As I sat on the edge of the bed, contemplating if suicide was the next best option since my attempt at murder had failed, there was a knock at the door. It was Hume. He gave me one of his sharp, assessing looks as he walked in.

“Anything new?” he asked.

“Man, I’ve made an idiot of myself. A complete idiot.”

“Ah! But what I asked was, is there anything new?”

I recounted my encounter with Symonds. Hume kept smiling as if I was telling a joke. When I finished, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“You’ve burned your bridges, that’s for sure. You’ll never hang for the lady now. No one could put that murder story of yours back together again. You’ve really outdone yourself, Ferguson.”

I didn’t care about his sarcasm. My mind was occupied with other thoughts.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gone off to arrest her right now, all because of my stupid blundering.”

“I think not. She’s safe for tonight. The police don’t always move as fast as you think. They’ll know where to find her when they need to.”

“That’s the problem! Hume, couldn’t we convince her to go somewhere they wouldn’t find her?”

“I hope she’s not that foolish. Running away would be like admitting she’s guilty. She’d have all of England chasing her. It’s better to stay and face the music. The inquest is tomorrow. As a key witness, you can make everything clear and prove her innocence.”

The inquest! I hadn’t even thought of it, and it was set for tomorrow? The realization hit me hard. That’s what Symonds meant with his comments about my conduct in the witness box. In my current state, with my muddled mind and stammering tongue, an experienced lawyer could easily trip me up—maybe even make me say something that would implicate her.

I briefly considered fleeing to avoid the risk of saying anything that might harm her. But I remembered how she said she felt safe when I was around. And I had a hunch that, if things went south, I might still be able to help her. Unable to stay at home and think, I decided to be closer to her instead. After a hurried dinner, I took a cab to Brompton and spent hours loitering around Hailsham Road.

I paced back and forth past the house. A light was on in an upper room. I wondered if it was hers. I would have given anything for the courage to find out, but my nerves were shot. I was as afraid of being seen as if I had some nefarious purpose.

Whenever someone appeared in the street, I quickened my pace and almost bolted. Once, when someone raised a corner of a blind as if to peek outside, I actually took off running.

I felt a slight sense of relief; as far as I could tell, the house wasn’t being watched by the police. Miss Moore was free to come and go. I seemed to be the only one taking an obvious interest in her activities.

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Maybe it was due to the dreadful weather, which was bad even for London. A thick fog hung in the air, strangely unaffected by the biting east wind, accompanied by a filthy rain. Despite my overcoat, I wasn’t getting any drier as the night wore on. I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for until, around midnight, a hansom cab sped into the street. As it passed, I caught a glimpse of Miss Adair’s face. I dashed after it and reached the door of No. 22 just as she was about to step out into the mud and rain.

“Miss Adair!” I called out.

“Good gracious, Mr. Ferguson, is that you? What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?”

“I—I thought I’d check on how Miss Moore was doing.”

“Well, have you called on her?”

“No, I—I was waiting for you to come home from the theater and ask you.”

From her position in the cab, Miss Adair looked me over, noting my disheveled and soaked appearance.

“And how long have you been waiting for me to come home from the theater?”

“Oh, just—just a few minutes.”

“A good few minutes, I’d imagine. And where have you been waiting?”

“Oh, I—I’ve been hanging around.”

“In the mud, I’d say, judging by your appearance. You look like a mess. I hope you enjoyed your vigil. For your information, when I left home, Miss Moore was ill.”

“Ill! Not—really ill?”

“Really ill. This time there’s no doubt about it. She’s in bed. Dr. Hume says it’s a result of the breakdown from the overstrain she’s been under.”

“Hume! Has Hume been here?”

“Certainly. And another doctor.”

“But—what did Hume want?”

“My good sir! Dr. Hume is a doctor, and a very clever one.”

“Yes, but only for special cases. This doesn’t seem like his kind of thing.”

“I think you’re mistaken. I’d say everything is his kind of thing. Besides, he’s a very old and close friend of Miss Moore’s.”

“Oh—I—I didn’t realize they were quite that close.”

I could feel her eyes on me, scrutinizing. She knew she was torturing me.

“Oh dear, yes. Not that I think Bessie is particularly fond of Dr. Hume. In fact, I believe she can’t stand him. Though I don’t know why. He’s charming—and so clever. Don’t you like clever people?”

No, I didn’t. I never did and never would.

“Should I find out how Bessie is doing since I left, or would you rather not stay?”

“If—if you could let me know how she is, I’d appreciate it.”

Miss Adair let herself in with a latchkey and asked the maid who appeared in the hall.

“How is Miss Moore?”

“I don’t think she’s quite so well, miss. I sent for Dr. Nockolds, and I did think of sending for Dr. Hume,” the maid said.

“Hume!” I interjected. “I wouldn’t send for Hume. The other doctor is just as good, if not better.”

Miss Adair turned to me. “But, Mr. Ferguson, Dr. Hume is highly skilled.”

“Yes, but not in these types of cases. I’m sure the other doctor is better. And if you’d like, I can recommend someone; I know an excellent doctor.”

“And what did Dr. Nockolds say?” Miss Adair inquired.

“He thought she was progressing well, just a bit feverish. But he sent a nurse to stay with her tonight.”

“She’ll be fine with the nurse. Good night, Mr. Ferguson. Thank you for coming.”

She showed me to the door without giving me a chance to speak. I took the cab that had brought her from the theater. Hume indeed! Why hadn’t I trained to be a doctor? That night, I felt like the most miserable man in London.

The next day was worse. They held the inquest at a public house—the Bolt and Tun, a place no decent person would usually enter. The coroner, Dr. Reginald Evanson, was a small man with sandy hair who looked like he drank too much. I disliked him immediately, and I don’t think he liked me much either. His jury was a questionable group that matched him perfectly.

They started by viewing the body, then called witnesses. George Atkins spoke first. He and I had discovered the tragedy. He gave his account in a concise manner that I hoped to emulate when it was my turn.

When Atkins finished, they called my name.

“Large size in blokes, ain’t he?” one person whispered to another as I approached the table.

The other chuckled. I was so sensitive at that moment that I could have knocked their heads together. I was mentally prepared to make a strong impression, knowing that everything—happiness, honor, even life—might hinge on my words.