I had to pry the woman's hand from her husband's and lift her to the pavement. The drover watched me, pity in his eyes. "Poor sods. 'Ow'd they get all the way to 'Anover Square?"

The same question had occurred to me.

The door of the house burst open, and a thin woman in maid's garb dashed out. "Madam? What has happened?"

"Help me with her," I said.

The maid's eyes flicked from the woman to the old man in the cart, and her already white face paled. "God above. Where did you find them?"

"Hanover Square," I said.

The dismay in her eyes told me that my words did not surprise her, that she'd been expecting something like this. The gray-haired woman turned instantly from me and flung her arms about the maid's waist, as though sensing she'd found someone stronger to pass her burden to.

"Did Mr. Horne shoot him?" the maid asked.

The question surprised me, but the drover interrupted before I could ask what she meant.

"What about 'im, guv?" The drover jerked his thumb at the wagon. The maid turned away without waiting for me to answer and led the clinging old woman into the house.

"Can you lift him?" I asked the drover.

"Aye, I've carried 'eavier loads than 'im, man and boy."

The house opened right onto the street. I followed the drover, who carried the old man through the open door into the dim hall of a small, but respectable house. The faded wallpaper was clean and uncreased, and competent, if unimaginative, landscape paintings dotted it. At the end of the narrow hall, a staircase rose to the upper floors. The banisters were free of dust, the runner straight and clean. The sconces on the landing held unlit candles, half-burned.