Page 14 of Who Cries for the Lost

But Sebastian only shook his head and said, “So whoever killed him got close.”

“About as close as you can get.”

“Any idea where he went into the river?”

“Somebody who knows the Thames might be able to tell you, but not me.” Gibson pushed open the door to the outbuilding and went to hang his lantern on the chain that dangled over the naked corpse that still lay on the high stone table in the center of the room, now bearing a series of incisions that testified to Gibson’s explorations. “But I did find something else interesting. Look here.”

Shifting to the end of the table, he gently cradled the dead man’s left heel in his palm and turned the pale foot to one side. “See the abrasion marks there, and there? Somebody tied a rope around your captain’s ankles—or maybe his own cravat, because I don’t see any sign of rope fibers.”

“Huh.” Sebastian reached for one of the dead man’s cold hands and turned it to the light, but there were no marks on the wrist. “Before he died, do you think?”

Gibson shook his head. “I’m almost certain it was after. It might have been done to keep the legs together while your killer was shifting the corpse. But given that he didn’t bother to also tie the hands together, I’m thinking it’s more likely he fastened something to Sedgewick’s feet to weigh the body down when he tossed it in the river.”

Sebastian shifted his gaze to the singed ruin of Sedgewick’s face. “If true, that means that whoever killed him didn’t intend for the body to be found. So why bother to obscure his identity by obliterating his features?”

“Insurance, perhaps, in case the body somehow turned up after all? Although that wouldn’t account for the sexual mutilation.”

“So, what, then? Rage? Revenge?”

“Maybe.” Gibson turned to the row of wide wooden shelves that stretched across the back wall of the room, where a silent, oddly truncated form lay beneath a bloodstained sheet. “You might want to take a look at this,” he said, and flipped back the covering to reveal the pale, naked shoulders and torso of a stocky male form.

“Jesus Christ,” whispered Sebastian. The man’s neck ended abruptly in a jagged, raw mess of pulpy red tissue and torn muscle and gleaming white bone.

There was no head.

“Who the hell is that?”

“Not a clue. And look here,” said Gibson, easing the sheet farther down the dead man’s body to where the wrists ended in two bloody stumps. “He hasn’t been identified, and I’m not sure he ever will be. It’s rather difficult to identify a naked body that’s missing both its head and its hands. And unlike in Sedgewick’s case, there are no prominent scars on the parts of the body that we do have.”

“Where was he found?”

“Washed up on the Isle of Dogs this afternoon. From the looks of things, I’d say he was probably in his late thirties or early forties. Well fed, and with nicely kept feet and toenails, so he’s no pauper. Although he’s muscled enough to suggest he’s probably not something like a merchant or shopkeeper or clerk, either.”

“No one’s been reported missing?”

“No one who fits his description,” said Gibson, reaching to draw the sheet back up over the headless corpse. Then he turned to face Sebastian, his arms crossing at his chest as he leaned back against the shelves. “Maybe we’re coming at this all wrong. Maybe Sedgewick was the victim of some madman who’s simply choosing his victims at random.”

Sebastian met his friend’s troubled eyes and saw there a tumult of disturbing thoughts that mirrored his own.

“Maybe,” said Sebastian. “Or maybe there’s a method to his madness, and we just need to find it.”

Gibson sighed, his hands falling to his sides as he pushed away from the shelves. “Well, if you’re right, then I pray to God you figure out what that method is. Before whoever he is kills again.”

Later that night, Sebastian lay in his wife’s arms, his head nestled at her shoulder, one hand resting lightly on the soft swell of her belly where a new child grew. With the coming of darkness it had turned chilly, and a small fire burned on the hearth, filling the bedroom with its warm glow.

The birth of their first child, Simon, had come so close to killing Hero that the thought of this new child filled Sebastian with both joy and terror.

“I’ll be all right,” she said softly, somehow guessing the drift of his thoughts. “You’ll see. And this one will be your girl.”

“Promise?” He kept his voice light, although inside he was howling with fear. If he lost her... Dear God, he couldn’t lose her.

“I promise,” she said. “Have you come up with a name?” They’d made a bargain back in the early days of their marriage: She would name the boys, while he would get to name the girls.

“Not yet. There’s plenty of time.” He shifted to press a kiss against the soft flesh of her stomach. “How did your interview with the wherryman go this afternoon?”

For several years now she’d been writing a series of articles on the poor of the capital. It was an original and profoundly important project that endlessly enraged her powerful father, Lord Jarvis. But Hero simply smiled at his grumblings and went on with her interviews, for she was one of the few people in all of Britain unintimidated by the King’s formidable cousin.

“We had to reschedule for tomorrow morning. Something came up.” She paused, then said, “Given that no one knows the river better than a wherryman, I thought I might see if he has any idea where Miles Sedgewick’s killer is likely to have tipped his body into the river.”

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