Page 2 of Murder at the Seven Dials
Which, by the looks of the crush of people up ahead, might not happen after all. If another foot patrol had arrived, he’d have jurisdiction, and Hugh might as well go home.
He forced his way through the spectators.
But wasn’t prepared for what met him.
Blood, he had seen before. However, in his near eight-year service to the magistrate, he’d not seen blood like this.
It painted the walls in frenzied streaks, spattered lines, and bursts of mist. The gore had rained upward upon the ceiling and had soaked what had once been a snowy white counterpane on an elegant, mahogany tester bed.
He noticed her legs first; the vulgar, suggestive splay of them, as if she’d been mid-coitus when killed. The victim wore black stockings, and though ripped, they were still clasped to lace garters around her thighs. Hugh stepped inside the room and met the glare of the night watchman.
The old man’s weathered face told a story of salt and wind and open sea. When he walked toward Hugh, a limp in his step layered in a past injury that likely prevented the man from finding work. Every parish in London had a revolving circuit of night watchmen, most of them impoverished old men without any other way of earning wages.
“You a Runner?” the night watchman asked.
“Officer Marsden.” He refused to call himself a Runner. The term made him out to be little more than a messenger running orders for the chief magistrate. He was an officer now, ranking above regular foot patrol and conductors, and despite the building commotion outside, it appeared he was the first to arrive.
“Well, I can’t get ‘im up,” the watchman said. He gestured toward the floor, to the space behind two grey velvet chairs sitting arm to arm. Hugh took his hands out of his pockets at the sight of the second man, this one the ‘nob’ Sir must have been referring to.
He sat upon the floor, his legs drawn up and his head tucked down, arms wrapped around his knees. Blood soaked his shirt and trousers. His hands, too. A gold band encircled the left ring finger, though the gleam was smothered by gore.
Hugh averted his eyes from the man and took stock of the rest of the furnishings: more heavy mahogany tables, fine Turkish rugs, the pair of plush velvet chairs, a japanned six-fold screen set beside the bed, and several deep green, striped silk bolster pillows scattered about the floor, covered in sprays of blood. Fine paintings hung on the walls, but there were no trinkets, and the cupboards near the cook stove were currently in use as bookshelves.
“See Mister Hugh? I says he’s done murder. Cor, look at that mess!”
Hugh spun toward the open doorway. Sir’s eyes were full-moon wide as they gazed upon the dead woman’s body. Hugh crossed into Sir’s line of sight and reached into his waistcoat’s breast pocket. He withdrew the promised five shillings. Hearing the coins sing, Sir tore his eyes from the gruesome display and whisked the coins away the moment they clattered into his palm.
“Run off, now,” Hugh said. “Before you give yourself nightmares.”
Sir made a spitting sound with his lips. “Seen plenty of cold meat, I ‘ave.”
Hugh had no doubt. Most people would be casting up their dinner, but Sir hadn’t so much as blinked. He took another shilling from his pocket and held it up. “Fetch a hackney and have the jarvey wait outside.”
Sir swiped the shilling and took off. Hugh then turned back to the night watchman and the blood-soaked man, huddled on the floor. He was indeed wealthy. The furnishings gave it away, as did the tailored cut of his clothes. Even spattered with blood, Hugh could tell they were expensive. Likely bespoke on Savile Row.
Though furnished well, this was not the man’s permanent residence. More likely the place where he met his mistress. The man rocked forward and back, clutching his knees. He wasn’t about to run, but Hugh wasn’t ready to approach the man just yet, either. He stepped toward the tester bed, bracing himself for the necessary inspection. He’d already observed the splay of her legs, so his eyes went to her face.
Damn.
Like Sir, Hugh had seen plenty of dead bodies in the five years he’d been with Bow Street. He’d yet to become immune to the initial cramping a dead body brought to his gut, or the hollowing sensation that came when he looked into a pair of wide, unseeing eyes. But there was something especially miserable when he came across the body of a child, or as in this case, a young woman.
He cocked his head for a better look. She’d had her throat cut. It hadn’t been done cleanly. The flayed skin appeared ripped and jagged, as if her killer had started and stopped a handful of times, cutting clumsily into the same section of throat more than once.
The woman had been butchered. Hugh lifted her left hand. The nails hung back loosely, torn and bloodied. She’d fought for her life, and she’d bled heavily for it.
Likely no more than five and twenty, her cheeks were smooth and unlined, the delicate skin around her eyes still firm. Her eyebrows were groomed to thin arches, darkened with kohl, and the pallor of death made the rouge on her cheeks more prominent. A cluster of onyx gems dangled from one ear lobe, while the other was bare. She was not the man’s wife, that much Hugh knew. Though she wore stays and a chemise, she lacked a pair of drawers, which left her lower half exposed.
The chatter in the hallway stroked Hugh’s attention; five people crammed themselves in the doorway, all of them craning their heads for a gander.
“Shut that door,” Hugh growled to the watchman. The old man startled but did as told, limping over to slam it.
“Did you find her as she is now?” Hugh asked. The night watchman didn’t answer. “Have you touched the body, or moved anything?”
Hugh would not give anyone, even an old man with a bum leg, the benefit of the doubt. He knew too much about base human compulsion to not automatically wonder if this man, or any of the vultures outside, had moved her, or what little she wore, for a look at her. Hugh also knew when he was being fed a lie, and so he watched the old man as he returned to the bed.
“Haven’t touched a goddamn ‘fing,” the man said. “Check me hands for blood if ye like.”
He didn’t need to. The old man grimaced, looking as if he’d rather take a swim in a latrine than touch a dead body.
