Down a Dark River, page 2
“Good to see you, Andrews,” I replied.
He maneuvered the boat to within inches. The other man flipped the black fenders over the sides and threw the line to me. I tied up, my hands moving automatically around the cleat while my eyes scanned the boat. It was just your average lighter, low-slung, broad across, more weathered than most, but with no obvious identifying marks.
Andrews removed the two rocks weighting the blanket. In the moment before he pulled it away from her face, I wondered if by some coincidence the victim might be Madeline Beckford. But it wasn’t. This woman was a few years younger, no more than twenty years of age. Her chin was dropped to the side, and her dark hair fell in waves across her breast.
“For God’s sake,” I muttered. “She looks asleep.”
Then Andrews drew away the blanket to reveal the rest of her. Her wrists were bound with rope, and a good amount of blood stained the upper half of her skirts, which appeared torn.
Something inside me hardened with the force of a slammed door, like it always did.
“Ach,” Stiles said softly.
But it didn’t look to me as though the amount of blood she’d lost would be enough to kill her. So how had she died? A blow to her head? There was no sign of blood amid the hair. Perhaps she’d been killed elsewhere and laid in the boat. But why would someone bother doing that?
Her being in a lighter was peculiar, as Stiles said. But more than that, she was not the sort of person we usually pulled out of the Thames. Her dress was of dark blue brocade, which I recognized because my Belinda had one of a similar fabric. The bodice was embroidered with silvery threads, and the ripped skirt revealed the shimmering undergarments that probably cost a small fortune. In short, she was no female mud lark who’d been scrounging along the riverbanks for bits of coal or scrap. And she was no prostitute either. That type wouldn’t have a dress like this unless it was stolen—and one look at the snug fit of the bodice told me it likely belonged to the wearer. Though her hair was mussed, it had been done in an elaborate style, formed into thick brown coils that fell over her shoulder, the way Belinda sometimes wore hers.
“Look at her hands,” Stiles murmured to me.
Her skin was pale and soft, the fingernails clean. No doubt about it. She was the wife or daughter of someone of means, which meant they’d be looking for her and holding the police accountable. I looked again, closely: no rings. No necklace, no earrings.
I said to Stiles, “Where’s the jewelry?”
He looked startled, and then chagrined. “Of course. I didn’t think of that.”
Blair spoke up: “There’s a few splats on her dress, but she was never in the water.”
Yes, the hem of her dress was clean. Someone had put her in this boat—carried her to it—possibly even placed her in alive.
I bent over the stretcher and unfurled the canvas, so it lay flat between the two poles. God knows how many times I’d done that.
“Get her out of there,” Blair said.
Andrews scooped up the body, and Stiles took her from his arms. “She’s stiffish,” he said and laid her on the stretcher before picking up the ends of two poles as Andrews took the others.
“You look over the boat,” Blair said to me and strode up the pier in their wake.
Well, it was no more than I’d expected.
I stepped in, taking care where I put my feet.
The sweeps used for steering were absent, but the boat seemed intact. Some pinkish petals and twigs floated in an inch of water, but that was probably rainwater, not a leak. I bent over the bow to look for numbers, letters, or any of the symbols I’d recognize, burned into the sides below the gunwales, but I found none. There were no clusters of interior scratches, meaning it probably wasn’t a company boat, which handled one or two sizes of packages repeatedly.
Shifting my weight, I stepped over the center thwart toward the stern and bent to check the exterior and the transom for nicks or markings. Still nothing. The four thwarts—all present and intact—met the sides, and their grooves hadn’t been reinforced to accommodate heavier-than-usual loads. The metal cleats were solid, but if they’d borne manufacturers’ marks, these had been effaced. Finally, I bent over and sniffed. A tea or tobacco manufacturer’s wares will taint the wood, but I smelled only moldering planks.
A few hard drops of rain pelted my back. With nothing more to be discovered here, I headed into the station. As I hurried up the pier, I scanned the quay and felt a flash of relief that I saw no one. Even a novice newspaperman would have sensed a story here.
As I entered, a young sergeant gave a respectful bob of his head and gestured down the hall. “Second door, Inspector.”
The young woman’s body lay prone on a worn wooden table. My eyes were drawn to a white sliver of skin amid her skirts. The cloth had been sliced crudely all the way to the waist.
Stiles was standing at some distance, trying to keep a wretched look off his face. I could read his thoughts as if they’d been printed on his forehead: Had the murderer raped her before he killed her?
The young woman was perhaps five foot three or four. Slender, but not underfed. Seven and a half or eight stone. Her face was pale, with a patrician nose, fine dark brows, and a well-formed chin; but her mouth was raw at the corners, as if she’d been gagged, and it wore the rictus I associated with death. I examined the bodice and saw pearls among the silver threads. This dress probably cost more than I made in five years.
Someone had removed the ropes that bound her wrists and positioned her arms to reveal several fairly deep cuts, crusted with blood, across the skin on her forearms. I bent closer. These cuts were clean, probably made by a blade, and likely the source of the blood on the skirts.
Blair drew back her curls and pointed to the throat, with purplish-brown marks. I put my hands close; the murderer’s hands were about the size of mine. Doubtless a large man.
“Can’t tell if he choked her first, or if he cut her when she was still alive,” Blair said.
“Why wouldn’t he have just dumped her body in the river?” Andrews asked.
“Mebbe he meant to, but she landed in the boat,” Jenkins said behind me.
“She was laid out too nicely for that.” I turned. “Unless you moved her.”
Jenkins put up a hand in denial. “Didn’t touch her. Just put the blanket over her to be decent.”
“He might’ve killed her in the boat,” Blair said. “But why float her down the river?”
Andrews shrugged. “P’rhaps didn’t want to be bothered with moving her.”
“It looks like she’s wearing her own clothes,” Stiles interjected.
He was thinking of a case from last month, with a man who made a shopgirl change her clothes before he killed her. It was one of the reasons we hadn’t initially identified the body. We’d been looking for a girl in a green dress, and she was wearing black mourning, two sizes too large.
I nodded. “The dress fits her. She’s wealthy.”
Blair’s mouth twitched irritably. “Did you find anything on the boat?”
I shook my head. “Nothing above the waterline.”
He coughed to clear his throat. “Well, the Yard’ll hear about this sort of missing woman quicker than anyone else.”
Only then, with a flash of annoyance, did I realize that this might have been another reason he’d wanted me here—to serve as a messenger boy back to the Yard—because public opinion notwithstanding, people still came to us to find missing friends and relatives.
Blair turned to Jenkins. “Ask Charlie Dower to come in for a sketch. Then he can make copies to take round to the other divisions while Corravan takes her to the morgue.”
I wasn’t Blair’s to command, but I didn’t balk, partly because I’d have chosen to go to the morgue anyway. If I went alone, so much the better.
Jenkins returned with Dower, a short, sturdy man of about forty. He was one of the desk clerks and a good hand with a pencil. He had a habit of humming as he drew, off-key measures of music hall songs. Tilting his head back, he flashed a smile up at me. “Hullo, Inspector. A pleasure.”
“Hullo, Charlie.”
He studied the woman for a moment before nudging her chin. I was standing on the opposite side of the table, and the movement revealed a flicker of silver in the hair at the back of her neck.
“Wait.” I pointed. “Look there.”
Blair came to my side, bent down, and squinted. “I see.” His thick fingers took a moment to untangle it.
“What is it?” Stiles asked.
Blair laid it on the table. As if in answer to our prayers, on a thin chain hung a heart-shaped locket bearing a scrolled monogram: “R A E,” with the “A” larger, for her surname. I pushed the tiny button at the side. The locket sprang open to reveal a picture of a young man. Light hair, a close-mouthed smile. Smug, I thought. But handsome. Perhaps a brother, but probably a sweetheart.
We could have Charlie Dower not only depict the woman but also reproduce an enlarged image of the small, delicate photograph. With the initials from the locket and some luck, we’d discover who she was within a day or so.
“This bloke’ll know who she is,” Blair said.
Stiles winced, his sympathy evident on his face. He was thinking that if this man loved her, her brutal death would all but kill him.
Into my mind unbidden came a vision of Belinda’s beautiful hazel eyes, her dark hair, and her hand on my left cheek drawing me close for a kiss.
I turned abruptly and made my way back out to the pier for some air.
CHAPTER 2
I had Stiles wait for copies of Charlie’s drawings, so he could deliver them to the Metropolitan Police divisions in the wealthier areas of London. Meanwhile, I took the first copies of both sketches for myself and went to the morgue. I waited for the examiner to share his findings, so it was nearly two o’clock when I entered the Yard.
Sergeant Connell motioned me over to his desk. “What’d Blair want with you?”
“A dead woman, about twenty, well-to-do. Choked to death. They found her floating down the river in a lighter.”
His eyes widened. “Cor, like a bit o’ cargo? That’s bloody strange.” He nodded toward Director Vincent’s closed door. “Might be her father in there. Daughter’s missing since last night. He brought a picture.”
“What’s his name?”
“Albert. Or mebbe Alfred. He’s a judge.” He dragged out the last word in a way that told me the man had not endeared himself to Sergeant Connell.
Albert or Alfred. Either way, an “A”. And a judge, so he was likely well-off. Those two pieces fit. I nodded. “Might be.”
I went to my office to remove my coat. If Archibald Bowden were still our director, I’d have gone straight to his office and knocked, wet coat, filthy shoes, and all. But Vincent was a different sort of man. He was my age, young for the post at just thirty years old, the second son of a baronet, and a former correspondent for the Daily Telegraph. What’s more, he’d never spent a day in uniform, while most of us had spent a few years in the rougher divisions—Lambeth, Stepney, or the Chapel. Vincent’s appointment after the bribery scandal had given rise to grumbles that he must be someone’s favorite nephew. To go along with his neat waistcoat and shined shoes, he had a way of speaking that was different from most of us who’d been raised working class. Still, I’m not one of those who thinks that a bit of public-school polish means a man’s a fool. What bothered me was how Vincent was more concerned with kowtowing to the Review Commission than with making it so we didn’t all have dozens of cases on our desks. During the three months since he’d arrived, I had mostly stayed out of his way.
I pulled an old rag out of a drawer and swiped at my shoes and the bottoms of my trousers before I went to Vincent’s door. Through the mottled glass, I saw two figures. The director was sitting behind his desk, while the judge seemed to overflow the leather armchair reserved for guests. I heard a low rumbling voice but couldn’t make out the words.
I knocked, and Vincent answered, a frown coming over his features when he saw me.
“Could I speak with you a moment?” I flicked my gaze toward the judge and back. As I said, Vincent isn’t a fool. He caught my meaning.
“Of course.” He turned his head. “Excuse me, Your Honor.”
We went to my office, and I shut the door behind us.
He surveyed the clutter but said nothing as he rested his fingertips on the top slat of a chair stacked with case files. His gaze, steady and observant, met mine across the desk. “What did you find?”
I took both drawings from my pocket, unfolded the soft creases, and laid them on the desk, the sketch of the young woman on top. “Connell said the judge brought a photograph of his missing daughter. This is the dead woman they found on the river this morning. Do you think it’s her?”
He let out an audible exhale. “There’s a strong resemblance.” His fingertips drew the man’s portrait out from behind hers. “Who’s this?”
“His picture was in her locket.” Briefly, I relayed the events of the morning, concluding with her initials.
“They match,” Vincent acknowledged. “Was she—” he hesitated, chose the polite alternative, “—outraged before she was killed?”
“No. Although her skirts were cut to the waist, as if he thought about it.” I paused. “The examiner said she died of choking, and the cuts on her wrists happened after. I went to the morgue and sent Stiles over to Marylebone, Chelsea, and Mayfair with sketches.”
“Only those three?”
“They were the most likely, but it seems he needn’t have bothered.” I nodded in the direction of Vincent’s office. “Who’s he?”
“Matthew Albert, of Portman Square, in Mayfair.”
Despite myself, I started. My missing woman Mrs. Beckford lived not an eighth of a mile from there. That part of Mayfair wasn’t the usual breeding ground for crime. Then again, London was changing.
Vincent was staring at the sketch of the dead woman. “Assuming she’s our victim, her name is Rose.”
“R”. That made two of the three initials correct.
“She’s twenty, unmarried, and attended the annual ball at Lord Harvey’s last night.” Vincent pushed the heel of his hand into the middle of his brow, as if he had a sudden pain.
I wondered what aspect of this case upset him especially. It might be that this young woman was from his own class and could have been someone he knew.
He dropped his hand to his side. “We need to keep this quiet. We can’t have the press trumpeting that we’re failing to keep our young ladies safe, on top of everything else.”
True, but that wasn’t the only reason to keep it away from the papers. A single headline could turn this case into a bloody circus, with people peppering us with clues, ninety-nine percent of which would steer us astray.
“I doubt the papers know,” I said. “The quay was empty.”
“Well, that’s something.” Vincent still looked grim. “The photograph he brought is a good one. But be prudent. Please make absolutely certain.”
As if I wouldn’t.
“No doubt he’ll have questions. It’s better you answer them.” Vincent led the way back to his office, took a fortifying inhale, and opened the door.
The judge was a large man, running to fat, though the cut of his clothes worked to conceal it. His thick forearm held a silver frame against his waistcoat. His polished shoes caught my eye. He hadn’t walked anywhere outdoors today, that much was certain.
Vincent stood beside his desk. “Your Honor, I’d like to introduce Chief Inspector Michael Corravan. He was called to the River Police this morning.”
The judge frowned.
Vincent continued: “Please show the inspector your photograph.”
The judge didn’t rise, so I stepped forward to take it. The weight of the frame told me this was solid silver, not plate. And the photograph was one of the new expensive kind, tinted with colors. I studied the picture for a long moment—the nose, the chin, the brows, her mouth. Making allowances for the way death altered faces, this was the dead woman.
I looked up. “I’m very sorry. This morning, a woman was found dead on the river. Your photograph tells me it’s your daughter.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he said, his voice surly. “She’d never go near the river.”
This sort of hostility didn’t get my hackles up anymore. “She wore a heart-shaped locket, about so big,” I put my thumb and forefinger an inch or so apart, “with the monogram ‘R A E’.”
“To my point.” He waved a hand. “She doesn’t own such a thing.”
I set aside the fact that the initials matched.
“She was dressed in a fancy gown, of dark blue brocade with silver threads,” I continued. “There were pearls sewn into the bodice, sleeves that just covered her shoulders, and the skirt had a train.”
This punctured the man’s confidence at last. He blinked several times, rapidly. “She has a dress like that. It came from Worth’s.” His voice faded. “In Paris. On the Rue de la Paix.”
It’s peculiar the details that come to people’s minds in those first minutes. But I understood. He was clinging to what he knew to be true, in the face of something he couldn’t imagine.
He swallowed visibly. “How?”
I paused to see if Vincent would answer.
“I asked how.” The judge’s eyes sparked with anger. “Tell me, man. Or don’t you bloody know?”
I kept my voice even. “She was choked and put into a small boat, which was found near Limehouse Basin. We don’t think she suffered.” That last was a lie, but I said it anyway.
He went white to the lips. And then two red spots appeared, one in each cheek. “I must see her. I’m not telling her mother, until I do.”
“I’ll have one of the sergeants take you,” Vincent said.
So Vincent wanted me to stay here.
I said to the judge: “I’ll need to ask you some questions.”
Vincent gave a warning cough to catch my eye. He shook his head, and I felt a prickle of irritation. I hadn’t planned to ask questions now. I can be tactless, but I’m not heartless. The judge was in such shock that I’d get nothing useful out of him anyway.
