Sarah had a far-away look to her eyes that suggested to Nan that she was hunting for a spirit to go with the body. Nan, however, had fish of her own to fry. She was examining the stained, water-soaked dress the corpse wore.
“Who’d murder a girl on her wedding day, I’d like to know—” Lestrade choked out from behind his handkerchief.
“It’s not a wedding dress,” Nan corrected him. “Or . . . well, there is no telling if she was wearing it as a wedding dress, but it wasn’t originally one. It was a lawn-party tea gown. An expensive one, before it was sold on to a ragman too.”
The handkerchief came away from Lestrade’s face for a moment, before he clapped it back. “Sherlock me, then, miss.”
“The lace is of very high quality, but worn. See where the edges of the flounces have started to fray?” she told him, pointing out the places on the first flounce showing the wear; in fact, there was probably a good quarter inch of the bottom of the lace that was worn away. She pinched a bit of the fabric carefully in her thumb and forefinger, and turned part of the skirt up to show the underside. “Now look here—this is a very fine hem along the bottom, the stitches are almost invisible. But look at this seam. It’s much clumsier, and no one who could afford this lace and this quality of dress would ever have seams that were not frenched—never mind that term, ask your wife about it, she’ll explain it. This is a gown that was worn by a wealthy lady, discarded, sold on, discarded again, sold on again, and remade by a much less skilled seamstress into a smaller size. And possibly turned as well, although that’s not as likely with light gauze like this.”
Watson had bent to examine the corpse’s hands, and stood up with a grunt. “This was a working girl; someone in service or employed in scrubbing floors until very recently. I’ll lay my life on it that there are the beginnings of housemaid’s knee under that dress. She didn’t have an easy life.”
“All the more reason to marry young—” Lestrade began.
“True, although Inspector, most poor married women still work.” Sarah had come back out of her trance. “She might have been a good religious girl at First Communion?”
“Too old for that,” Lestrade replied, obviously feeling on certain ground with that statement.
“Can we cut the boots off, Lestrade?” John asked. “I want to get a look at her feet.”
Lestrade motioned to the morgue assistant, who went about the gruesome task with care and delicacy to make sure he didn’t take off parts of the foot with the boot. He did so by first cutting the laces, then cutting the seams of the boot, so that he could peel the boot off the swollen flesh. The girls stepped back several paces as John moved in.
“This girl’s never worn shoes in her life,” he declared. “In life her soles were harder than leather.”
Sarah and Nan exchanged a look. Nan spoke up. “She’d never be able to afford anything like what she’s wearing,” Nan said flatly. “She was one of the poorest of the poor. She may have been in service, but it was somewhere that no one would care she was dressed in rags and shoeless. She was more likely to have been employed as a scrubwoman somewhere. So how and why she’s dressed in this gown is as much a mystery as where her head went.”
Silence reigned in the morgue. It was Lestrade that broke it. “Is there anything else you need from this poor wench?” he said. “Because if not, I’d as soon get out of here.”
John shook his head. “She’s been in the water too long. I’d like to know the stomach contents when the coroner completes the autopsy, but that’s all. Not even Holmes would get more from her than we have at the moment.”
“Another look at her clothing would be helpful,” Nan added, as Lestrade headed for the door with a haste that suggested his stomach was likely to rebel if he remained much longer. “Off her, of course. It needn’t be cleaned, but dry would be good.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be able to Sherlock me up anything about what part of London she’s from with bits of dirt or the like?” he asked wistfully.
Nan shook her head as the morgue door closed behind them, thankfully closing the stench behind them. “She’s been in the water too long, I think.”
“I’m sorry, Lestrade, but none of us have the depth of knowledge that Holmes had of soils,” Watson said apologetically. “I wish we did, for your sake.”
The Police Inspector had stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket, and Nan was moved to sympathy by the distressed expression he wore. “I know he and I didn’t always get along . . . but damme, he was a genius, and . . .” Lestrade’s face crumpled a little and Sarah patted his arm.
Lestrade took a deep breath, and got control of himself. “I miss him. And not just for what he could do.”
“We all do,” Sarah said, simply. “We’ll just have to carry on.”
They took their leave of the Inspector, after extracting a promise that they could see the deceased’s clothing once it was removed and dry. “And try to cut it off cleanly, at places where there are no seams,” Nan cautioned. “I’d like to figure out, if I can, just how many times it was sold on and remade. If we can get an idea of that maybe we can trace it through used-clothes dealers.” She didn’t have any hope there would still be a dressmaker’s label in it. The first owner would have had such things cut off before she handed it down to her personal maid, who was usually the recipient of such garments.
John put them into a hansom, sending them home on their own; he intended to check the records of where the girl had been pulled out of the Thames, hoping he might have an idea of where she had gone in. “And what’s become of the head, I’d like to know,” he was muttering as the cab pulled away.
“Wouldn’t we all,” Nan observed, biting her lip. “Whoever did this—why kill an unknown, impoverished girl in this way? None of this makes any sense.”
“Well, remember the Battersea case. We never knew the why until we uncovered the how. Stop trying to think of the why,” Sarah replied sensibly. “Sherlock never bothers about the motive in a case like this, this early. Remember that.”
“That’s true,” Nan admitted. “We need to concentrate on evidence. But I wish we had some way of contacting him.”
“Right now, I think no one wishes that more than John Watson,” replied Sarah. “Poor John. I hope his Water Elementals can give him some help.”
4
The tiny room smelled strongly of rotten fish and sewage, which was not surprising, Spencer supposed, considering that the wharf was right outside the broken window. But that was by no means the only stink in this room; it also stank of blood, dreadful body odor, and infection. If he hadn’t possessed an iron stomach, he’d have been gagging by now. He gazed with distaste on the man sprawled under the inadequate covers of the iron bedstead, the only furniture in the tiny room besides a stool beside the bed with the stub of a candle stuck in the grease of dozens of candles before it. Spencer was pretty certain these rooms were generally let by the hour, not the night.
As for the fellow he’d been summoned to attend, well, he wasn’t worth tending to. The man looked as if he’d gotten in a knife fight with someone who had concentrated on carving his head up like an apple.
“What happened here?” he asked the thug who had brought him, a flunky from the very lowest ranks of the Organization, whose name he had already forgotten.
The man removed his greasy cap from his equally greasy head and stood uneasily beside him, turning the cap in his hands as if it was some sort of prayer wheel. “Dunno, guv,” he replied with hesitation. “’E wuz on me doorstep this mornin’, ’arf outa ’is ’ead. I figgered yew’d want ’im somewheres no one ’ud arst any questions. I brung ’im ’ere, an came ter fetch yew, cuz I didn’ know if ’e wuz on some sorta job fer yew or if ’e jest got ’isself inter trouble all on ’is own.”
“He wasn’t doing any jobs for me.” Spencer’s lip curled as he noted the swollen, red skin, the pus oozing from the wounds, the man’s flushed face and shallow breathing. “I don’t know what you thought I could do,” he added
testily. “He’s too far gone even for a doctor to help.”
Round and round went the brim of the cap as the man’s dirty hands shuffled along the edge. “Oi thunk . . . wut if mebbe ’e blabbed.” The cap went faster. “Arter wot’s been ’appenin’, an yew sayin’ we couldn’ be too careful, like. . . .”
Though it was well after sunup, the noise (and the stench) of the docks really didn’t change much no matter what hour it was. Both poured in through the broken window as Spencer considered that statement, frowning. The shouts, the sounds of cargo being loaded and offloaded, a drunk singing in the streets, it all interfered with Spencer’s ability to think. But think, he certainly must. The thug was right. It was possible that could happen. . . .
And it was imperative that he not give the impression to the flunkies that he considered them expendable. It was hard enough holding the Organization together right now without giving the underlings a reason to desert. For many of them, the promise of protection was as much, or more, important than the money they were earning.
“Let me think about this a moment,” he replied, stalling for time. “Have you any idea what happened to him? Did he get into a knife fight? Did he—somehow fall into some machinery somewhere?” This sort of horrible mutilation did happen in factories, but what would a petty thief and a man more used to being hired for his fists be doing in a factory? Had he taken a side job to intimidate some factory workers?
The cap stopped moving for a moment. “Oi . . . dunno,” the man admitted, “’E wuzn’t real clear. ’E said it wuz a raven. . . .”
More than likely that was a hallucination. Spencer snorted. “Preposterous. Why would a raven attack a man who wasn’t bothering it? Besides, the only ravens in London are at the Tower, and what would he be doing at the Tower?”
The man (what was his name? Geoff? No—George) shrugged, his shaggy brows furrowed as he struggled with the question. “Dunno. That wuz wot ’e said. Wutever, it took’t ’is ear clean off.”
“I can see that.” Indeed, the entire side of the thug’s head was a crusted mass of blood and pus, so it wasn’t possible to see if the ear had actually been cut off, or torn off—or even bitten off. But it did seem likely the ear was gone, one way or another. And why would a raven even do that? Ravens pecked, they didn’t leave gashes in a man’s scalp or bite off his ear.
No, he’d probably gotten into a stupid fight . . . in fact, now that Spencer thought about it, he was fairly certain this particular idiot was the one with a penchant for little girls. And that was a recipe for trouble.
Probably what had happened was that instead of being smart and just paying for one at a brothel that specialized in such things, he’d likely tried interfering with a child who had a brother or father who took exception to his “interest.”
And this did not give him an answer as to what he should do with the man now. What he wanted to do was just leave him here to die, which he surely would soon. But that would give a bad impression to the flunkies.
Plus, there was always a chance the landlord would come up here and the idiot would say something in his delirium. Or worse, the landlord would take exception to the idiot dying on his property, and get him dumped in a charity ward, where he might babble.
That was the problem, of course. Right now, what was left of the Organization was probably safe. But the wrong word carried to the right ears would change all that, and England would be too hot for any of them.
If only there was a place where he could leave this fool to die without. . . .
Wait . . .
“’E’s gonner die, ain’t ’e?” George asked, but in a disinterested tone of voice that suggested the man was not invested in the outcome one way or the other, except as it might apply to him in the future. Well good. At least there also wasn’t a messy friendship involved here.
“He’s dying now. If he’d come to me in the first place I could have at least cleaned him up and cauterized those wounds,” Spencer told him. “That would have given him a chance. Remember that for the future, George. No matter what stupid thing you’ve done to get hurt, have the decency to come to me so I can fix it and keep the Organization safe. Now the only thing we can do for him is see he dies quietly and painlessly. Can you get someone to help you move him again?”
George’s brow furrowed again. “Aye, but . . .”
“Here.” Spencer dug into his pocket and brought out a purse, handing the man a carefully calculated number of sovereigns. “Take him to Lee Chin’s opium house. It’s barely a block from here. Tell Chin I want the man to die free of pain and give him half of that. Keep the rest for yourself.”
That should solve multiple problems. If the idiot made it as far as the opium den without dying, Chin would drug him up, rendering it impossible for him to babble to anyone. Probably Chin would just administer a fatal dose at once and pocket the rest of the cash. And the body would be no problem for Chin. The Chinaman disposed of bodies all the time; his was one of the opium dens where the proprietor didn’t care if you drugged yourself to death as long as you paid for all the hashish you ate or opium you smoked. George would be satisfied that Spencer had done all he could, and he’d have enough cash to ensure he kept his own mouth shut.
And if the idiot did die on the way to Chin’s, George could just pocket all of it and dispose of the body himself. And he would still be sure that Spencer was taking care of his underlings.
For that matter, George might decide on his own to get rid of the idiot so he could keep it all. And that would be just as good of an outcome. Better, really.
“Roight, guv.” George pulled his cap back on his head. “Oi’ll get me mate. Yew c’n go on ’ome.”
“You did the right thing by coming to me, George,” Spencer replied. “I like a smart fellow who can think on his feet. I’ll keep you in mind when jobs in your line come up.”
Much pleased, George pulled at the brim of his cap by way of a respectful salute, and Spencer got out as quickly as he could without seeming too hasty about it. He stopped long enough in the bar to get the landlord’s attention, drop another couple of sovereigns on the bar, and say “I’m arranging for the wounded man upstairs to be moved to a hospital. Thank you for your trouble.”
“Weren’t no trouble, guv,” the landlord said, pleased, but he was already on his way out.
* * *
Halfway back, it started to rain, which just put the cap on what had begun as a miserable day. And even in the relative comfort of a hansom, he was still subject to the rain blowing in the front, which put him in a foul mood as he ran up the steps of his house and opened the door.
But he’d had a visitor arrive while he was gone, and his temper changed immediately, for he found someone waiting for him in the hallway who put him in a much better mood.
One of his regular suppliers sat patiently on the bench in the hall, a thin girl in a dull gray dress so small for her that it strained at the seams sitting beside him. When he entered, the man stood up and held out his hand.
To see him on the street, you would never look twice at him. He was clean and neat, dressed in an old brown suit showing a respectable amount of wear, and a good bowler hat that fit him properly. His moustache was neither so large as to be ostentatious nor so small as to be laughable. His face and expression were pleasant, but not notable. This was as it should be. Workhouses would trust that a man like this was looking for a cheap servant girl. They’d never trust anyone dressed shabbily.
Spencer placed a sovereign in the outstretched hand. The man grunted appreciatively and shoved it in his pocket. “Lambeth Work’ouse,” he said. “Put to service a year ago. Caught wi’ ’er marster. Sent back wi’ big belly. Lost it. ’Ere she be now. Name’s Peg.”
And with that brief history of the girl, he tugged on his hat and left. Spencer approved of this man’s way of business. Get the goods, deliver them, give just enough information to be useful, collect the fee, and leave. Spencer put on a pleasant expression and sat down on the benc
h next to the dull-eyed girl.
Fortunately, he didn’t need his girls to be virgins.
“Hello, Peg,” he said. “I’m your new master.”
“Yus, sor,” she replied in the faintest of voices. She looked as if she expected to be beaten or raped, or both, at any moment.
Well, he needed to change that, as quickly as possible.
“I’d like you to come with me. I’ll introduce you to my housekeeper, she’ll give you a nice, hot bath, and new clothing to wear. Would you like that?” He scrutinized her carefully for any sign of response to kindness. He thought he saw something stirring, but he couldn’t be sure.
Well, let Kelly do what she could with the girl. Then they’d feed her. Food often worked small miracles with the dull ones.
“Yus, sor,” she repeated, and followed him obediently to the kitchen.
His housekeeper—the only other person in this entire city who knew what he was about and what he was—was making luncheon. “Mrs. Kelly,” he said. “When you are quite ready, would you please do the usual for our new girl, Peg?”
The old woman turned around, looked the girl up and down, and grunted. Long familiarity with her allowed him to discern that she was pleased. Well, she should be; she was as invested in this project as he was. “Let ’er eat, fust,” the old woman replied, “Poor gel looks like she ain’t et roight since she was born.” She finished her preparations, and slapped down three plates on the kitchen table, one for each of them. Each plate held a generous portion of steak-and-kidney pie. A moment later, a platter of bread and butter, a pot of jam, and a bowl of apple pudding joined those plates. He sat down in his usual chair. He preferred eating in the kitchen, and the girls that were brought here ostensibly as servants were too impoverished to realize that people of his stature were not supposed to eat in the kitchen.
“Excellent luncheon as always, Mrs. Kelly,” Spencer told her. Long ago he had learned the value of a well-placed compliment. Properly used, they accomplished far more than ranting and raving. And the truth was, the old harridan really was an outstanding cook. She grunted in reply, though it was a pleased grunt, pushed the girl Peg into the middle seat, and sat down in the remaining one.
The Bartered Brides (Elemental Masters) Page 6
