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crease in her forehead. “The rioters . . . oh yes. Of course. Them.”
    “I don’t want you to be concerned for your own safety,” said Celia. She hated to see Barbara upset like this. “I will not let anyone harm you. I promised your father on his deathbed I would take care of you, and I shall.”
    Barbara chewed her lower lip. “I wish I still had piano lessons with Em so I could talk to Mr. Palmer about what happened to Li Sha. I’m sure he’d have an explanation.”
    Why did she think that? Joseph Palmer and his family had met Li Sha at a charity event at the Chinese Mission earlier that year, but a casual acquaintance hardly meant Mr. Palmer would have insight into who had killed her.
    “But I’m not sure that Mr. Palmer is at home,” added Barbara, the crease in her forehead deepening.
    “Has he been away?”
    “I think so.”
    “Clearly, I don’t know Mr. Palmer’s plans,” said Celia. Barbara’s preoccupation with the man made Celia uneasy. She glanced up at Uncle Walford grinning down from his portrait. Barbara wanted a father. Was charming, handsome Joseph Palmer the substitute she’d settled upon?
    “Once I’ve finished with my patients today, I shall be heading out to visit the Langes,” said Celia. “I need to pick up some supplies, and I also wish to see how they have received the news about Li Sha. Mr. Lange was fond of her. Would you like to go with me?”
    Barbara’s expression darkened. “No. I’d rather not.”
    “Then perhaps you can visit my patient in Chinatown. I want to know how the wounds to her arm are doing. The constable should be making his rounds”—Celia checked the time on her watch—“in about two hours and should be able to accompany you. If you are uneasy about going alone, you can take Addie.”
    “All right,” Barbara muttered, chewing her lower lip again, as she did when she was agitated.
    Celia considered her. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Barbara?”
    “No.”
    Celia stepped back from the doorway. “I will have Addie bring you some tea, and a crumpet if you’d like. Some food will help you feel better.”
    “I’ll be fine,” Barbara answered. “I just wish . . . she didn’t have to die.”

CHAPTER 5
    Lange’s business was located a few blocks south of the police station along a stretch of Pine Street that was thick with stores. Nick scanned the pedestrians, a better class of folks than Li Sha would have interacted with in Chinatown.
    He reached the store, where a middle-aged woman had her nose pressed to the window glass.
    “Is Mr. Lange in today?” Nick asked her.
    She startled. “Why, yes. Seems they are.”
    “Then maybe you should go in.”
    “Oh no. No, no, no,” she said, retreating from the window. “I heard about that Chinese girl of theirs getting killed and I wouldn’t want to disturb them, you see. Though I’m not surprised, you know. Mighty strange goings-on, if you ask me. Mighty strange.”
    “How so?” Nick asked.
    The woman leaned forward as if she were dispensing a great secret. “Peculiar comings and goings at night, you know? Strange men. Must have had something to do with that girl, though, don’t you think? She was a prostitute once, wasn’t she?” Something behind Nick attracted her attention. “Why, look, there’s that nice man at the dry goods store. I think I’ll see how he’s doing. His rheumatism’s been bothering him. Good-bye.”
    She scurried up the road before Nick could ask her any more questions.
    Nick stepped inside the store, the bell overhead jingling. The air was heavy with a pungent mixture of unidentifiable scents. Each wall was lined with tins bearing the names of the compounds they contained—sassafras bark, cochineal, oxide bismuth, flaxseed, poppy leaves. Beneath the tins were rows of dark glass jars containing acids and oils, or patent medicines labeled with doctors’ names meant to assure a customer of their curative powers. But the Dr. Richardson of Dr.