The following morning Lestrade found himself at the residence belonging, according to Harris's colleague, to Matthew and Theresa Gardener. The man claimed to have seen the silver comb that had previously belonged to the late Alice Gardener here several years ago, and had confirmed that it was, in fact, a family heirloom.

Lestrade knocked on the door and waited, wondering how they would take the news, and whether either parent had heard from their daughter since she had left home.

An older woman bearing a striking resemblance to the murdered woman answered the door. "May I help you?"

"Mrs. Gardener?" he asked, then added. "I'm Inspector Lestrade with Scotland Yard. I'm looking for the parents of Alice Gardener."

The woman frowned, but did not let him in. "What did she do?" she demanded.

"You knew her?" he asked, careful to keep his expression blank and his tone mild. "Forgive me, but were you related to her?"

"Her mother. What happened? Is she in trouble?"

"She's been murdered." Lestrade could think of no better way than to simply say it. He doubted that a nice way to tell someone that their daughter was dead existed.

Mrs. Gardener breathed in sharply. "Murdered?" she asked, drawing herself to her full height as she stared at the man. "How? When?"

"Two nights ago," Lestrade told her. "We're still looking for the person responsible." He paused. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, if I may. Your husband as well."

"You think I killed my daughter?" Lestrade shook his head.

"I'd like to ask you some questions about your daughter. Maybe something you know will help us find her killer."

Mrs. Gardener pursed her lips. "I doubt it. We haven't spoken in eight years. Not since she insisted on seeing that gentleman-" the sneer on her lips said clearly what she thought of the man "-against our wishes."

"You and Mr. Gardener objected to her choice of companions?"

"He was up to no good, that one. After one thing, and one thing only." Lestrade felt his cheeks warm.

"Do you remember his name?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even. The woman shook her head.

"David something-or-other. She always called him Dear David. I don't know if she ever mentioned his last name."

"Would your husband know?" Lestrade asked.

"I doubt it. He had even less patience for the man than I did."

"And your husband, he hasn't heard from your daughter since she left either?" Lestrade had not conducted a great many interviews standing on the front step, but at least she was talking to him. Too many people had shut the door in his face when they found out he was a policeman on this case alone.

"No. He told her when she left not to come back." Mrs. Gardener admitted. "But she was headstrong, and certain she was in love, and so she left."

"Did she ever try? To come back?" Lestrade asked. "Maybe she saw the error of her ways and tried to make things right?"

The woman shook her head again. "We never heard from her after that night. She even had the audacity to take my silver comb with her-it was an old family heirloom. She probably sold it a long time ago. I doubt she knew what it was actually worth."

"She stole a comb from you when she left?" Lestrade asked, not caring if the question made Mrs. Gardener wonder about his intelligence. He could read and write, but had had very little formal education, and Lestrade had no doubt that it often showed, even when he did not mean it to. If people chose to think less of him for it, and certainly it had happened more times than Lestrade could count, that was their choice. If he used it to his advantage now and again, Lestrade felt it was only fair.

"Not just a comb. A silver comb. An old family heirloom. My mother gave it to me when I came of age, just as her mother gave it to her. It was passed on to Alice on her eighteenth birthday, before all this nonsense."

Lestrade did not ask how it was stealing if the comb had been given to the girl. There was a reason he and his sister had arrived in London all those years ago with little more than the clothes on their backs.

Mrs. Gardener sighed. "I would have loved to have been able to give it to Mary. Such a sweet child. Never causes any trouble. Always happy. Always cheerful."

"Mary? Alice's sister?" Lestrade ventured. The woman nodded in reply.

"She'll be eighteen in just a few months. I wish I could have passed it on to her." She shook her head sadly. "Probably long gone. Probably pawned for not even a quarter of its worth." Another sigh.

Conflicted, Lestrade wondered if he ought to say anything. Instead he asked, "Mary wouldn't know anything about this David she was seeing, would she? Or if she was seeing anyone else?"

"I don't think so," Mrs. Gardener replied. "They were never close, even less so after she started seeing him."

"Would it be possible to speak with her?" Lestrade asked.

"She's away at school during the week. When she comes home, however, I can ask her if she knows the boy's name. If she does, we'll be sure to let you know."

Lestrade nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Gardener," he said. He would have to be content with that. For now, at least. Switching tactics, he asked, "If neither you nor your husband kept in contact with her, you wouldn't know of any other relationships she might have been in after she moved out, would you?"

"Absolutely not. I never spoke to her after the day she said she was leaving. Never saw her again." The woman hesitated. "I hoped that she came to her senses, that she found a nice young man, got married, and settled down, but clearly that was not the case."

"From what I understand she never married, however, there is another matter I need to speak to you about."

"Oh?" The woman fixed him with a sharp glance, her expression hardening. "And what matter is that?"

"It seems Miss Gardener left two children behind, a boy and a girl." Lestrade told her. "I've been hoping to find family willing to take them in, and you and your husband are the only ones I've found."

Mrs. Gardener scowled. "Absolutely not. I'll not have that ungrateful girl's offspring in my house, not knowing who fathered them-" She took a deep breath and continued in a calmer, much colder tone of voice. "When Alice left, she knew the consequences of her actions, Mr. Lestrade. I've been as helpful as I can so far, all things considered, and knowing you have a job to do, but when she left she ceased to be family, and I won't take in any so-called children of hers, birthed out of a lifestyle she should have known better than to indulge in."

Lestrade was unfortunately not as surprised as he could have been. He had to try anyway. "They're children, Mrs. Gardener, surely you can't blame them for their mother's actions?"

"Inviting them in would only be inviting trouble," the woman insisted. "Now I'm going to have to ask you to leave, and not to bother us again. Good day, Mr. Lestrade."

With that, she stepped back and closed the door in his face.

For a long moment Lestrade simply stood there. Pulling himself together, he turned and stepped down toward the street, trying to figure out what to do next.

He had no idea what to do about the children, and no idea where to look next for the person that had killed Alice Gardener.

Smith looked up as a knock sounded at his office door.

"Lestrade, come in." He smiled at the other inspector. Fully aware that Lestrade would most likely remain standing unless told otherwise, he waved the man to an empty chair. "Have a seat."

Lestrade obeyed. "I found Miss Gardener's parents," he said, not quite meeting the other man's eyes. Smith wondered what it was this time that made him so reluctant, but the tightness in the man's shoulders and around his mouth made it clear that the meeting had not gone the way he had hoped.

"They won't take the children." Smith guessed, and Lestrade's shoulders dropped.

"No," he agreed. Smith sighed.

"I can't say I'm surprised," the man admitted. "If the woman was raising two children on her own, it was probably because she had to. If her parents had been interested in being involved, they would have been. Even if they didn't know, it was probably because she didn't think it was worth trying. Sometimes people are like that," he pointed out, perhaps unnecessarily.

"I know," Lestrade replied. The bitterness in his voice caught the other man by surprise-usually Lestrade was much better at hiding his emotions. Smith chose not to comment on the matter.

"Well, the offer still stands. We're more than willing, so my wife says, to look after them until you find someone who can take them. Maybe their father?"

"If they have the same father." Lestrade pointed out. "If he'll even claim them as his. And if he isn't the one who killed her in the first place."

Smith sighed. "Either way, we'll watch them until you figure something else out."

"Thank you," Lestrade said. There was a weariness in his tone that worried the other man, but Smith knew better than to ask. Lestrade would not thank him for prying into his personal affairs.

"Not at all," Smith countered, offering the man a grin. "Let me know if there's anything else I can do to help, even if it's just to offer a sympathetic ear. You may be a full inspector, but you still haven't been at the job very long. If you need advice-" Smith broke off and winced. "Actually, I might not be the best person to go to for advice, all things considered. But I'm still happy to listen anyway, if you need to talk through the case."

"I'll keep that in mind," Lestrade said, standing. "I honestly don't know what to do about the children."

"You know what your options are." Smith pointed out. "Short of a miracle, or the grandparents changing their minds, which would probably be a miracle in and of itself, unless I'm greatly mistaken, there's only a few possibilities." Lestrade met his gaze resentfully, and the older inspector shrugged. "Not that there's any rush. And who knows, maybe they'll change their minds after all."

It was unlikely, and both men knew it. Lestrade excused himself after that, and Smith went back to searching his desk for a report he was absolutely certain he had turned in two weeks ago, but that the superintendent insisted had never been filed.

Lestrade wondered, as he sat down at his own desk, if it were worth trying to figure out how many taxi drivers were willing to drive a passenger to Ratcliffe Highway, especially in the evening, and then come back for them the next morning. If the money were good enough, a cab driver might be more likely, but that sort of thing would most certainly be remembered. Whether a man might be willing to make the same trip more than once...

Lestrade scowled at nothing in particular before pushing himself up from his chair. He could try talking to a few taxi drivers, he supposed. Someone might know something, assuming they were willing to talk to a policeman, and assuming they were willing to risk losing a potential customer by talking to him instead of looking for their next fare.

At the very least, maybe he could get some idea of what it would take to convince a cab driver to make the trip to Ratcliffe Highway only to return the following morning.

It was little enough to work with, he admitted to himself as he grabbed his coat, but it was all he had. He would have to make do.

He left his office and turned down the hall, away from the other inspectors' offices. He ignored Crane as he passed the man at his desk, stepping through the doors of Scotland Yard itself and out into the streets of London.

It took him very little time to locate a cab that was not in use; the driver had gotten down from his seat and was whispering conspiratorially with his horse as the two took in the city around him. Lestrade approached man and horse, nodding to the driver.

"Good afternoon, Inspector." The driver grinned at Lestrade while the man was still considering the greeting. "Noticed you tend to walk when you're able, but perhaps you might be needing a ride this time?"

When Lestrade did not immediately answer, the cab driver chuckled. "We met not too long ago, sir, when a gentleman ran out in front of my horse." The man sobered. "Nasty business, that, and Ness here was badly shook up, but I remember you, and so does she. Always remember a kindness, we do, Inspector." The smile returned, if a little more subdued than before. "Now what can we be doing for you today?"

"Just a few questions, if you can spare the time." Clearly more than a bit uncomfortable with the way things were going so far, the inspector still managed to pull himself together. The cabbie-Arthur was his name-nodded agreeably.

"I think I can spare a few minutes, Inspector," he offered. "What sort of questions?"

Inspector Lestrade reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small notebook and pencil. "I know most drivers don't care to work the east end," he said without quite answering Arthur's question. "Especially after certain hours. How hard would it be to find someone to take a fare down near Ratcliffe Highway, at or around nightfall?"

Arthur whistled through his teeth. "I wouldn't do it myself, Inspector," he admitted. "Not for all the gold in the city. But there's a few. Mostly the sort you'd think twice before trying to skip out on a fare, and there's more than a couple drivers with horses so mean that no one could get near them without bleeding for their trouble. Todd Jefferson, he's got him a horse so mean even he can't tend to him without getting nipped. Ol' Todd, he'll take you just about anywhere you wanna go, so long as you've got money. He doesn't care where it is, long as he gets paid. George is like that, too, though his horse isn't near as nasty-looks all docile and calm, and usually is, unless she decides you mean trouble for her master."

"Todd Jefferson and George-" The inspector paused, but did not look up from his writing.

"Sutherland."

"George Sutherland," the other man repeats. "Anyone else come to mind?"

"Gregory Patterson," Arthur offered. "Maybe Charlie O'Keefe."

"Anyone else?" Inspector Lestrade asked, finally looking up from the notebook. Arthur shook his head. "Any idea where to find them?"

"None of them would thank me for giving a policeman their home address," Arthur said frankly. The little inspector did not so much as bat an eye at what amounted, more or less, to an insult to the man's profession.

The unspoken acknowledgment of the truth in the words reassured the cab driver that he was not making a mistake in offering the man before him information. "Todd and George can usually be found near Fleet Street this time of day, Gregory near Borough Market. Charlie tends to stay near Hyde Park."

"Thank you," Inspector Lestrade closed his notebook with an almost audible snap and returned it to his jacket pocket. "I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me."

Lestrade decided to start with Fleet Street, where two of the men he wanted to talk to were most likely to be found. If neither worked out, he would try the market on Southwark Street before heading over to Hyde Park.

Jefferson was no help at all. Once he realized that Lestrade was more interested in talk than in getting a ride somewhere, he clammed up. Urging his horse onward, presumably to look for actual paying customers, the man left Lestrade standing by the side of the road, notebook and pencil in hand and absolutely nothing useful in the way of conversation.

Sutherland was not much better. As soon as Lestrade introduced himself, the cab driver gave him a thorough looking over and insisted that not only had never taken a fare down Ratcliffe Highway in his life, he hadn't been anywhere near the East End for at least three weeks.

Lestrade took a moment, as he was once again left standing in the street with nothing, to consider whether the driver actually knew something, or had simply decided that if a policeman were asking questions about any part of London, he wanted no part of whatever trouble said policeman might very possibly be getting him into.

For now, he would let it go, though he fixed the man's face-and his horse-in his mind, in case the other two names on his list also proved to be less than helpful, and he needed to find Sutherland again.

Lestrade turned his attention to the next name on his list, Gregory Patterson, and began to make his way to the market.

Patterson did not seem to care that Lestrade was a policeman, or that he was more interested in talk than in getting a cab. He also did not seem worried that the questions Lestrade was asking suggested that some sort of crime had taken place, even if Lestrade himself had said nothing to indicate what sort of crime he was looking into.

Patterson grinned at Lestrade, scratched his head, and slapped his horse with more fondness than force. "Sure, we go down that way, when someone asks it. No need to worry, not with Mistress Mary here. Folks foolish enough to cross her once generally ain't foolish enough to do so a second time, and word gets around, when looking for trouble with her is liable to cost one a finger or two."

Patterson chuckled and patted the mare once more. Mistress Mary, as Lestrade had to assume was the animal's name, flickered her eyes back toward her master, but otherwise did not seem to mind either him or the young policeman with him. To all appearance she was indeed a calm, gentle creature, though Lestrade had enough experience with horses himself that something in the way she held herself gave him pause, just as something in the way her eyes flickered back to him as her master turned away from her made him wary.

"Charge a bit more, though, for the inconvenience, if you understand my meaning, Inspector. Can't have people thinking it's a stroll through the park, heading down that way. Even with Mistress Mary here, a man's got to watch his step. And near sundown, like you're asking, cost even more. The Missus doesn't like it when I'm late for dinner. 'Better be worth it, she always says, 'or you can go out and sleep with that wretched animal you're so fond of.' She and Mistress Mary have never really gotten on, but even Ellie'll admit that a man has to make a living."

"What if someone asked you to come back in the morning?" Lestrade asked.

"Have to make it worth the trouble, especially if we're talking early enough to have him back in his own neighborhood before people start to talk. Have to pay ahead of time, too. Wouldn't risk going through all that trouble just to find it was some sort of joke, or he'd gotten robbed-or murdered-while there. You understand, of course, Inspector."

Lestrade continued writing, not daring to look up as he asked, "And have you done this? Taken a fare down in the evening, dropped someone off, and came back for them in the morning?"

He felt Patterson's eyes on him and looked up, meeting the other man's suddenly solemn gaze evenly.

"Looking for someone specific, Inspector?" There was no way to tell what the cab driver was thinking, or how he felt about the possibility. No way to tell whether or not he would help Lestrade, if it turned out he was, in fact, looking for someone.

"I am," he agreed. "I don't know who it is, specifically, but it's a man known to take a cab to Ratcliffe Highway, stay all night, and then leave the next morning, also by cab. He may know something, or have seen something, that could help with a case I'm working."

Patterson eyed him strangely. "A case? On Ratcliffe Highway."

Lestrade nodded, but did not intend to elaborate unless he absolutely had to. Patterson let out a low whistle and shook his head.

"And this person you're looking for, he does this often?"

"From what I've heard. More than once. Might have been becoming a habit." Lestrade did not like to speculate, but it had been clear enough, when talking to the poor girl's landlady, that the man had stopped by more than once. It had been equally clear that the woman had expected it to continue, had Alice Gardener not been murdered.

"Might talk to Charlie," Patterson muttered, then, more clearly, "Charlie O'Keefe. He was talking about stumbling into a bit of luck. A 'regular' fare, he said, that paid good money, even if he was a bit daft."

"Charlie O'Keefe," Lestrade repeated. "And I can find him around Hyde Park?"

"Thereabouts, most afternoons." Patterson agreed. "Getting a bit late in the day to find him there today, though. He's up before dawn, most days, and home in time to help with dinner-he and the missus take care of her aging father. He tries to make it home in time to take a turn with the old man, for all the good it does him."

"Tomorrow then," Lestrade said with a stab of reluctance. "Thank you, you've been very helpful."

"Good luck, Inspector," the man said. His expression said plainly that he felt Lestrade would certainly need it.