“More likely the initials of the owner,” he replied. “The blade smith would have added the symbol of the guild, I would think, not a personal insignia.”
Lucy handed the gruesome object back to the constable. “Perhaps they are the initials of the murderer,” she said.
He shrugged. “If I could be so lucky. I will keep a lookout for a man named A. B., I suppose.” He consulted his pocket-watch. “Hank should be here shortly with the body.”
“Constable,” Lucy said, hesitating, “do you think—?”
“That Miss Belasysse may have had something to do with the man’s death? Lucy, I do not know. Given the state in which you found the woman, I think we cannot rule out that possibility.”
Lucy thought of the woman upstairs. Could she be responsible for such a hideous deed? It was hard not to remember the blood on her dress. The cuts on her hands that Dr. Larimer thought might have been self-inflicted. The fit that Miss Belasysse had fallen into when she saw the bloodstained dress.
“Not to mention the coins,” she murmured, half to herself.
“What?” the constable asked. “What coins?”
Quickly, Lucy explained about the coins that had been inexpertly sewn into the gown. Seeing him frown, she added, “But I can assure you, the woman’s fear is true. She does not sleep well, and her melancholy strikes me as quite a real and terrible burden.”
Duncan took a step closer. Lowering his voice, he stated the very thought she dared not speak. “That woman upstairs—Miss Belasysse—could be a murderess. You realize that, do you not?”
“She could be, I see that,” Lucy admitted. “However, she might be wholly unconnected with that man’s death.”
“That may be true. Still, you must be vigilant.”
“I will be,” she said, touched by his concern. “No need to worry about me.”
Duncan laughed. “Worry about you? Why ever would I do such a thing? I have seen you face down murderers before. I just meant that you should keep your ears open and mouth shut. She might tell you something important, which you can convey back to me.”
“Oh,” Lucy said, feeling a bit abashed. “I will do that.”
Then he grinned at her suddenly and touched her shoulder. “But do take care. We know nothing of this woman, or of what she might be capable.”
Hearing the physician’s heavy tread in the corridor, the constable stepped away from Lucy. “We will be bringing in the body now.”
Lucy nodded and went back up the stairs. But instead of returning to Miss Belasysse’s chamber, she lingered at the top of the stairs, just out of view. Crouching down, she could hear Hank and Duncan as they wheeled the corpse into another room whose door had been closed until then.
“Watch it!” she heard Duncan growl.
“Pardon, sir,” Hank replied.
Lucy moved quickly back down the steps and into the shadowy doorway of the drawing room so that she was not noticed. Mrs. Hotchkiss had been holding the door open. From her resigned expression, Lucy sensed that she had seen bodies carried in before. As she passed, Lucy heard her uttering a small prayer.
Softly, Lucy stole down the corridor until she stood by the half-open door of the room with the corpse. She wondered whether Dr. Larimer would cut open the body. Though he and Sheridan did not perform surgery—such carnage was the work of tooth-pullers and barber-surgeons—she knew that Dr. Larimer at least possessed a keen interest in understanding the humors and other forces that worked on a body. She did not know if Mr. Sheridan shared that same interest.
Without making a sound, Lucy slipped in after the men to hear their conversation. Both physicians, Hank, and Duncan were all standing around the body, which had been laid atop a long table that seemed to have been designed for such an examination.
From what she could see, the man had rather greasy black hair. He looked to be in his thirties or even forties. He was wearing a common whitish-gray shirt with a brown wool vest over it, a black cord keeping the vest closed. His brown pants were loose fitting and dirty, and his leather boots looked well-worn. All the clothes of a tradesman, but of what trade she could not determine. If he had had a coat it was gone now. Maybe someone had stolen it.
For a few minutes, no one noticed her. Hank was the first to see her, and she raised her finger to her lips so he would not say anything. With a quick grin, he just shook his head at her.
Catching the bellman’s motion, Mr. Sheridan turned around and, upon seeing her, frowned. “Miss Campion!” he exclaimed. “This is not for a young lady to see. Even one of your sort.”
She rolled her eyes at his insinuation. Biting her lip, she looked at Dr. Larimer, who chuckled.
“I should send you out,” he said. “But there might be something you can explain to Mr. Sheridan.”
Lucy looked at the ceiling, trying to keep from smirking, lest she truly anger Mr. Sheridan. There had been another time, during a different examination of a corpse, that she had pointed out something the physician’s assistant had missed. Indeed, he had never truly forgiven her for this bit of surprising knowledge.
Lucy sat quietly on a low bench while the men quietly conferred among themselves. Mr. Sheridan had uncapped a small jar of ink and picked up a long quill, preparing to take notes about what they discovered.
“Where was the body found?” she asked Duncan, who had come to stand beside her.
“About a half mile east of Holborn Bridge, where you encountered Miss Belasysse. Looked like someone had pushed a stack of bricks on top of him. Hank only found him after his third pass through that part of the debris.”
“Looks like his nose was broken,” Mr. Sheridan commented, studying the man’s face. “See how the bridge is uneven. That was a fracture.”
“Did the break occur recently?” Constable Duncan asked.
Dr. Larimer moved a lantern closer to the man’s face. “I do not think the break was recent. I see no bruising around his nose or on his cheekbones, or any other swelling.”
Nodding, Mr. Sheridan wrote something on the paper.
Dr. Larimer continued looking at the torso of the body. “He was definitely struck multiple times with a knife, including once in his left shoulder blade,” he said. “However, the wounds appear to have been rendered unevenly, for they are not all equally deep.” He looked up at Mr. Sheridan. “Remove his vest and shirt,” he said.
Carefully, Mr. Sheridan cut the man’s shirt open so that several long bloody gouges were revealed. Together the two physicians studied the wounds.
“The deepest blow, I believe the one that killed him, was struck here, under his heart,” Dr. Larimer said to the constable, who had come closer. He pointed to a deep gash on the man’s chest. “But I do not think that was the first blow. Note these other wounds,” he said, pointing to two other gashes. “I believe that he was struck from behind first. A downward movement of the knife, like so.” He made a swishing gesture with his hand.
“Is this the knife?” the constable asked, producing the knife he had found near the body.
Mr. Sheridan picked up a measuring stick and compared it to the broken end of the knife. “Possibly,” he said. “The measurement is very close, but we cannot say with certainty.”
“Ah, but I think we can,” Dr. Larimer replied. Very carefully he took up a pair of tongs and, opening one of the knife wounds with his fingers, managed to pull out a bit of broken blade. Wiping off the blood, he fit the knife and the broken part of the blade together. They fit together neatly.
He looked at the constable. “I suspect you have found your murder weapon,” he said.
“Can we discover anything about the person who knifed him?” Duncan asked. “Can you tell the height of this man’s attacker? Perhaps from the angle of the wound?”
“The man had to have been very tall,” Mr. Sheridan said. “Given the downward trajectory of the initial wound.”
Dr. Larimer clucked his teeth. “Not necessarily, my good man.” He raised his hand very high, gripping one of
his own instruments to demonstrate. “The blow could have been driven by fury or passion, not true strength. A woman could have delivered such a blow.” He looked at the other men. “Help me stand him up.”
Grimacing, Hank and the constable hauled the corpse to a standing position, so that the man’s feet were on the floor. He appeared to be about the constable’s height, maybe an inch shorter. “Body has begun to lose its rigor,” the physician said.
“Let us see if a woman could have done this. Lucy, come here,” the constable said. He handed her the knife. “Take this.”
Lucy held the knife in her fist, with the blade pointing up, and gingerly waved the knife around.
“No, no,” Dr. Larimer said. “The angle is all wrong. Turn the knife upside down, so that the blade is pointing down.”
Lucy did as she was told, repositioning the knife in her hands.
“Come closer, Lucy,” the constable commanded.
Trying not to breathe in the malodorous stench of the corpse, Lucy neared the dead man. Raising the knife as high as she could, she swung her arm down gently in an arc so that she very nearly touched the dead man’s shoulder blade with the knife’s jagged point. This is what it feels like to kill, she thought. A wave of nausea passed over her, and she dropped the knife.
“All right, Lucy, thank you,” Duncan said, looking at her with concern.
Dr. Larimer nodded. “Yes. That was helpful. If we assume that this man was standing when he was struck, his assailant had to have been a bit taller than Lucy, at least by a few inches. Otherwise the angle of the wound would not match.”
“So he was struck from behind. Then what?” the constable asked, picking up the knife from the floor.
The two physicians studied the man’s body. “He has wounds on his hands, and then the wounds here and there on his chest,” Dr. Larimer said.
Lucy tried to envision the scene. “He was struck from behind and turned around to face his attacker.”
“And his assailant continued to slash at him,” Duncan said. “That explains the cuts on his hands. He was trying to ward off the blows.”
“Two of the blows just glanced off his chest, as if he had managed to keep his assailant at bay,” Mr. Sheridan said, and Dr. Larimer grunted his agreement.
From her corner, Lucy commented, “He has mud on his knees. Perhaps he was kneeling when he was struck.”
“Lay the man back down, if you would,” the physician instructed the men. “It was the last deep blow to his chest, a straightforward downward blow, that killed him. That was the last blow, too, because at that point the knife even broke off in his chest.”
“So he fell backward and his assailant drove the knife in?” the constable asked. “A nasty business.”
For a moment they all regarded the corpse. “Thus, we are unable to rule out a woman from having committed this vicious attack,” the constable said, exchanging a quick glance with Lucy. “I need to speak to Miss Belasysse,” he continued. “I need her to tell us if she knows who this man is. Please bring her here, Lucy. Do not say why I have summoned her. I would like to observe her reaction.”
“Sir?” Lucy asked, turning to Dr. Larimer. “I have seen her thrown into a nervous fit over less.”
The physician nodded. “Yes, we shall have her take her restorative first. That will keep her convulsions at bay, but still keep her lucid enough to answer your questions.”
13
Her heart beating quickly, Lucy went upstairs and entered the chamber occupied by Miss Belasysse. The woman was tracing a long crack in the wall. She glanced at Lucy. “I thought you were planning to bring me a piece of pie or some cheese.”
“Miss Belasysse,” Lucy said, “Constable Duncan has returned, and he should like to speak with you.”
A muscle twitched in the woman’s cheek. “I do not think I should like to see him again. Send him away.” Though her tone was haughty, Lucy caught the slightest undercurrent of fear.
Lucy sighed. “I do not think he will go away, miss. He is here because he—” She hesitated. “There is something he should like to show you. Something about which he desires your opinion.”
Miss Belasysse swung her limbs over the edge of her bed and stood up, straightening her dress. “Very well, then,” she replied. “Take me to him.”
As they descended the stairs, Lucy wished she could warn the woman about what she was about to see. But Duncan had not given her leave to do so.
Miss Belasysse gripped her arm as they approached the room next to the physician’s study. The constable was standing there, as if guarding the door, a grim set to his jaw.
“Lucy,” she whispered, “I am frightened.”
“I will stay with you,” Lucy whispered back.
“Miss Belasysse,” Duncan said. “Thank you for speaking with me again. I will get to the point.”
The woman clenched her hand tighter around Lucy’s arm. “Yes?”
“I regret to say that a man has been found dead, near Holborn Bridge where Lucy found you.”
Miss Belasysse paled. “Dead?” she asked. “Who is h-he?” Then she began to sway. “Is it my brother?” She looked anxiously up at Lucy. “Is it Henry?”
“We do not know,” the constable said, with a great gentleness. “We thought you might know him.” He gestured to the door. “We have brought him here for examination.”
“I hardly think I should be called upon to perform such a disgraceful undertaking,” Miss Belasysse whispered, taking a step back.
“You must—!” the constable began, but fell silent when Lucy took the woman by both shoulders and looked into her eyes.
“Miss Belasysse,” Lucy said, “I know what the constable has asked you to do seems a terrible thing.”
The woman looked as if she were about to topple over. “I cannot go in there,” she whispered.
“I do understand. If it were my brother, Will, in there—” Here, Lucy looked upward and sent a silent prayer of thanks that it was not.
Miss Belasysse stared into Lucy’s eyes for a moment, and seemed reassured by what she saw there.
“I promise,” Lucy continued. “It will be so quick. You need only look at his face for the most fleeting of moments. Is that not so, Constable Duncan?”
Duncan nodded and opened the door. It was clear he would brook no more dissent from the woman. He handed them both posies to hold before their noses.
They walked in, the stench of death assaulting their nostrils. Miss Belasysse nearly sagged. “I cannot—” she began, but Lucy caught her by the arm.
“You can,” Lucy whispered, and half pulled the woman forward to the body lying on the table in the middle of the room. Thankfully the man’s body, even his face, was completely covered by a white sheet.
Dr. Larimer looked at Miss Belasysse kindly. “I regret that we must ask you to do this,” he said. “But I am afraid it is quite necessary. Are you ready, my dear?”
Miss Belasysse shrank back. “Can you not ask my uncle Harlan?”
“We sent word to your uncle, but we have not heard from him,” Duncan said easily. Lucy glanced at him, wondering at his lie.
“If you would,” Dr. Larimer said to Miss Belasysse. “It will just take one moment.”
Mr. Sheridan glanced at Miss Belasysse and then drew back the sheet, just enough that the man’s head and shoulders were exposed. There was no evidence of his knife wounds or any of the blood they had noted before on his clothes. The doctors had evidently cleaned the body to make the viewing less distressing for Miss Belasysse.
Miss Belasysse started to tremble. “It is not my brother. Praise the Lord. I do not know this man.” She turned away.
Lucy saw the constable exchange a glance with Mr. Sheridan. Of course, she realized then. Mr. Sheridan had already known that it was not Henry Belasysse, having known the man as a friend of the family. She did not think they would have compelled Miss Belasysse to look at the dead man otherwise.
“Please,” Lucy said, touching the wo
man’s arm. “Look more carefully this time. Are you certain that you do not recognize him?”
Miss Belasysse stood up and looked down at the man. “I tell you, I do not recognize this man.” The faintest look of revulsion crossed her features. “How did he die?”
“Stabbed,” Constable Duncan said, studying the woman’s face. “Once in his back. And several times on his chest. The fatal blow was through his heart.”
“How shocking,” Miss Belasysse said, her eyes widening. Lucy saw her glance down at her bandaged hands before she clasped them together. Duncan also noticed the gesture.
Miss Belasysse turned back to Dr. Larimer. “Please, I feel rather unwell. I should like to return to my chamber now.”
“Allow me,” Mr. Sheridan said, extending his arm to her, then leading her out of the room.
“A bad business, to be sure,” Dr. Larimer said to the constable. “What do you make of it?”
Duncan glanced at Lucy. “I do not believe her to be innocent in this man’s death,” he said. “There is something about her manner that suggests guilt.”
“But she denied knowing him,” Lucy said.
“Such denial means little, I should say,” the constable replied. “She most certainly would not be the first person to lie about a crime she committed. Moreover, even if in truth she does not recognize him, that certainly does not prove her innocence in this man’s death.”
Lucy frowned but did not say anything more.
“I think many would feel affronted by the idea that the daughter of a baron would have committed murder,” Dr. Larimer stated. Then he added, “I myself have come to believe that the murderer’s ilk defies categorization by wealth or standing.”
“What do you think, Lucy?” the constable asked. “Do you believe in your charge’s innocence? I know you saw her rub the cuts on her hands when we discussed this dead man’s knife wounds.”
“I do not know,” she admitted. “Could it be that the man attacked her, and she sought to defend herself?”
“By wresting the man’s knife from his hands?” Duncan asked. “Could that be so?”
A Death Along the River Fleet Page 13
