After thirteen-year-old Agnes Fisher faints at school, her teacher, the young and idealistic Amy Slade, is shocked to discover photographs in the girl's desk. One is of Agnes in a lewd pose, captioned "What Mr. Newly Wed Really Wants." When Agnes does not show up at school the next day, her teacher takes the two photographs to the police. Then Detective Murdoch, furious at the sexual exploitation of such a young girl, sets out to find the photographer and put him behind bars. "The fifth novel in this remarkably unsentimental series . . . brings to life a violent but vital society of astonising contradictions." — New York Times  "Jennings has . . . a fine eye for telling details and good characters. . . . Jennings handles all the plotlines with aplomb, while never losing her grounding in Toronto history." — Globe and Mail "The portrayal of Victorian life in Toronto rings true. We feel the chill of the poorly heated rooms. . . . This is a well-written, tightly plotted mystery." — Quill & Quire MAUREEN JENNINGS was born in the UK and emigrated to Canada as a teenager. After a long career as a psychotherapist, she became an award-winning writer. She is the author of four series in the crime fiction genre—Christine Morris, Tom Tyler, Murdoch Mysteries, and Charlotte Frayne P.I.—as well as a book on creativity, one novella, and four plays. The Murdoch Mystery series has been adapted into the beloved television series Murdoch Mysteries shown in over 120 territories worldwide, and the Tom Tyler series served as the inspiration for the television series Bomb Girls . In 2011, Jennings was the recipient of the Grant Allen Award for her contribution to Canadian crime writing. She lives in Toronto with her husband and their dog, Murdoch. Chapter One Miss Amy Slade was seated at her desk, surveying her class. For the moment, the room was quiet, the only sound was of chalk moving on slate boards. By rights the children should have been writing in notebooks, but Miss Slade had taken spare slates from the lower standards and used them for rough work. “Then you ­don’t have to worry about perfection, which as we know ­doesn’t exist,” she told her pupils. She caught the eye of Emmanuel Hart and frowned at him. “How many times must I remind you, Emmanuel? The mind is like a muscle and must be exercised else it grow flabby and inert.” The boy bent his head immediately to the task of long division. He was a big boy, too old to still be in the fourth standard, but he had missed a lot of school and his reading and writing was barely at the level of the younger children. In a different classroom he would have been either the bully or the butt of ridicule. Not here. Miss Slade, without ever resorting to the cane, ran a tight, disciplined ship. She was strict about what she called the rules of order, which she’d established on the first day of the term. No talking when there was work to be done; only one voice at a time when there was a question-­and-­answer period; absolutely no tormenting of other children. Any infraction of these rules and the offending child, almost always one of the boys, was sent to the Desk of Thoughtfulness, which was right under her nose. Here he had to sit and reflect on his behaviour while all around him the class enjoyed the games and competitions that Miss Slade used to liven up her lessons. “Learning should be the most fun you ever have,” she told her pupils. And so she made it. On her desk was a large jar full of brightly coloured boiled sweets. The winner of the competition could choose one. But it was not just the succulent bribery of raspberry drops that won the children’s devotion, even though that helped a great deal. What they came to respect most was Miss Slade’s justice. She dispensed praise and occasional scoldings with an absolutely even hand whether it was to a hopeless case like Emmanuel Hart or to Mary, the clever, exquisitely dressed daughter of Councillor Blong. One or two of the girls, already too prissy to be saved, disliked and mistrusted her, but the others loved her. This was Miss Slade’s third year of teaching at Sackville Street School and her fourth placement. Although her pupils ­didn’t know it, her contract was precarious. She was far too radical a teacher for the board’s taste, and if she ­hadn’t consistently produced such excellent results, she would have been dismissed long ago. She waited a moment longer, enjoying the put, put sound of the chalk on the slates. Then she clapped her hands. "Excellent. There is nothing quite as fine as the silence of the intelligent mind at work. What is it that makes so much noise? Hands up if you know the answer.” Every arm shot up, hands waving like fronds. “Good. I would expect you to know the answer to that as I have said it innumerable times. Who ­hasn’t answered a question lately? Benjamin Fisher, you.” The skinny boy’s face lit up. “The most noise in the brain comes from the rattle of empty thoughts, Miss Slade.” “Ye