Nathaniel led him through the fog to the wall that divided the Public Dock from the Navy Yard. The fishermen parted to let them through, each man turning to observe Child’s reaction.
On the quayside stood a ten-foot pole topped by a riveted iron hook, where the fishermen liked to hang their largest catches. Lately it had displayed a shark that had washed up here last month. Now the shark was gone and in its place hung a man. He was naked, turning on a rope in the wind, secured under the arms, with his hands tied behind him. Nathaniel didn’t like blood and there was a lot of it – dried on the dead man’s chest and back, smeared across his thighs, in his ears, in his nose, in his mouth. He had seen murdered men before – washed up on the mudflats, or dumped in the dockside alleys where he worked as a nightwatchman. None of them had prepared him for this. This one was more than a corpse. He was a spectacle, like the boneless man at the Greenwich Fair.
Steeling himself, he studied the man again. He was about thirty years of age, very thin, with long black hair. His eyes wide open, staring accusingly. His lips were pulled back in a frozen rictus, white skin stretched taut over angled cheekbones. Beneath the first mouth was a second: a gaping, scarlet maw where the throat had been slashed.
Child stepped forward, his face inches from the body. ‘Jesu.’
He was staring at a spot just above the dead man’s left nipple. The lines seared into the pale, hairless skin were smooth and deep. The flesh around them was puckered and blistered. From where he stood, Nathaniel could just make out the design: a crescent moon on its side surmounted by a crown.
‘It’s a slave brand,’ he said. ‘Someone’s marked him like a Negro.’
‘I know what it is.’ Child stepped back, still staring at the body.
Jago’s growling rose in pitch, and Nathaniel made soothing noises, though his heart was in full sympathy with his dog.
‘You recognize him, don’t you, sir? It’s that gentleman, Thomas Valentine. You met him, didn’t you, sir, before?’
‘I met him.’ Child’s abrupt tone discouraged further discussion upon this point.
Nathaniel studied the magistrate surreptitiously, trying to understand his mood, trying to work out if he himself was under suspicion. But Child seemed to have forgotten that he was even there. He mouthed something beneath his breath that Nathaniel didn’t catch, only a waft of sour brandy fumes on the chill dawn air.
‘Cut him down,’ Child said at last. ‘Not a word to anyone. Understand?’
Nathaniel dragged an old shipping crate over to the hook, and clambered onto it. The dead man’s eyes gazed unseeing at the still, brown river. Out on the Reach, the Guineamen creaked, and the fishermen muttered sullen, riverine prayers. On every side of them, the Devil’s Breath coiled and smoked.
About the Author
Laura Shepherd-Robinson worked in politics for nearly twenty years before re-entering normal life to complete an MA in Creative Writing at City University. Blood & Sugar, her first novel, won the Historical Writers’ Association Debut Crown, was a Waterstones Thriller of the Month, and a Guardian and Telegraph novel of the year. It was also shortlisted for the Crime Writers’ Association John Creasey (New Blood) Dagger, the Sapere Books Historical Dagger and the Amazon Publishing/Capital Crime Best Debut Novel. Daughters of Night is her second novel.
Also by Laura Shepherd-Robinson
Blood & Sugar
First published 2021 by Mantle
This electronic edition published 2021 by Mantle
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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ISBN 978-1-5098-8085-0
Copyright © Laura Shepherd-Robinson 2021
Images: St James’s Square / Ackermann print / Mary Evans Picture Library,
Gates: Lee Avison / Trevillion, Birds: Shutterstock
Design: Ami Smithson, Mantle Art Department
The right of Laura Shepherd-Robinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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