Page 5 of Silence of Deceit
Hugh shifted his unyielding gaze, one that always felt like it was peering into her mind, from the duke to Audrey. “You met at the asylum.”
Carrigan, their driver, called to the horses and brought the carriage to a halt. It introduced a drop of quiet into the brougham.
“We did,” she said.
“There is no need to bring that up,” Philip hissed, though she wasn’t certain if he was speaking to her or to Hugh. “And you can stay here with Carrigan while Marsden shows me to the body. Have you not born witness to enough of them already?”
“While I trust Carrigan is a competent bodyguard, this is not a part of the city one wants to leave a woman alone in a carriage. The duchess will be safer inside the dead house with us,” Hugh said, eliciting a glare from the duke and a half-grin from Audrey.
That one bit of mischief had breathed more life into her than anything she’d experienced in the last two months.
They stepped out into the damp and murky street alongside a nondescript brick and stone building. The briny stench of the river was strong here, as were more unsavory odors. Audrey removed a kerchief that Greer had doused with rose oil before deeming her suitable enough for a trip to what amounted to a mortuary. Her lady’s maid had not made a single complaint when she entered Audrey’s bedchamber in her nightrobe to help her mistress dress.
“Unidentified or unclaimed corpses are delivered here,” Hugh explained as he entered the building and held the door open for Audrey. “If they are not claimed within a day or two, they’re sent off for a pauper’s burial. Unfortunately, some of the bodies are already in a state of decomposition when they arrive and so the smell can be challenging.”
She gritted her molars and brought the kerchief to her nose and mouth. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“Oh, you should try visiting in the summer,” he replied. Her stomach all but churned. The stale, rotting meat odor would have certainly been worse then.
They did not have to follow Hugh far to find bodies. They were on benches, tables, cots, and even the stone floor, covered by blankets and sheets. Makeshift shelving had been constructed within the winding passages, stacking three bodies at a time in places. Audrey was vigilant not to touch or brush against anything. She did not need any errant memories of these strangers’ deaths to course into her mind.
Philip stayed adhered to her side while Hugh spoke to a bespectacled man wearing a soiled leather apron. Audrey didn’t want to inspect the nature of the apron’s stains for very long. Guttering lanterns lit the halls, and thankfully, cast many of the dead in shadow. If Delia was, in fact, the woman the patrolman had pulled from the river, Audrey hated to think of her here, among the unknown corpses. Delia had not been as fortunate as Audrey. Each time she came to Violet House, Audrey was reminded of that. And now, the stark contrast of their circumstances had reached an end.
“This way,” Hugh said to them, then followed the attendant toward a table. Checking the tag strung around a bared toe, the attendant nodded.
“This here is the one,” he announced, then unceremoniously pulled the sheet back to reveal a visage so hideously bloated and discolored, it did not resemble anything remotely like a face.
Philip swore under his breath, and Audrey barely had time to turn away before the grotesquely disfigured face seared into her brain. A second glance was not needed to know that identifying Delia in such a straightforward way would be impossible.
“I’d estimate she was in the water for at least a week,” Hugh said, his voice calm.
“Aye, at least that,” the attendant agreed. “The Runner what brought her in says she were caught up in fisherman’s netting. Rolled up in a knot of buoys.”
Audrey looked across the sheeted figure, avoiding the woman’s still-exposed face, and admired Hugh’s iron will. He had certainly seen many bloated corpses in his career and was no longer so adversely affected by the sight.
“How can we know if it is her?” Philip asked, his voice muffled. One of his handkerchiefs covered his nose and mouth as well. Even through the rose scent of her own, Audrey could trace the vile odor from the corpse. Her stomach churned. No one deserved this.
“May I see her gown?” Audrey asked, hoping for something else to gaze upon and tell her something informative. Hugh gave the attendant a nod.
The woman was not unclothed, or stripped to her undergarments, as bodies often were at death inquests. While Audrey had not been invited to the death inquest held for her late friend, Lady Charlotte Bainbury, she had let herself into the room prior to the inquest and had inspected her friend’s belongings for any memories stored within them. Fabric was difficult to read; the energy they retained was usually weak, showing only hazy memories. But the dress Charlotte had been wearing at the time of her death had offered stronger images than usual, perhaps because of the circumstances. She had been chased through the woods and pushed from the edge of a quarry pit.
The attendant complied, pulling down the sheet further to reveal the gown on the body. Immediately, Audrey knew.
“It is Delia,” she said, her voice soft. “I gave her that gown last month. Madam Gascoigne made it for me two seasons ago.”
Hugh cut his eyes to her, a question lighting each dark brown iris. “Madam Gascoigne?”
“A modiste on Bond Street,” she explained.
She had fallen in love with the silver satin, studded with hundreds of tiny, multifaceted crystals. Because wearing a ball gown more than once would be a fashion faux pas—one that could haunt a lady for years—Greer set Audrey’s spent gowns aside, carefully wrapping and boxing each before putting them in storage. Every season, she and Greer went through them, determining which to give to charity, which to take apart and use for scrap material, and which Greer would like for herself. As she had always made it clear she did not wish for any evening gowns, only simpler morning dresses, promenade dresses, and day dresses for her days off, Audrey had been all too happy to see her most beautiful creations appreciated by Delia. A part of her had hoped she would sell the gowns to secondhand shops, as wearing them out would be impractical. But Delia had never quite seemed to care about practicality or convention.
“A modiste. Yes, of course,” Hugh replied, then coughed before looking down at Delia again.
The water had ruined the satin. Sharp rocks, river detritus, and the abrasive hemp of the fisherman’s nets had torn it in countless places. Strings of algae and river moss clung to the frayed embroidery, and dirt and sediment encrusted the fabric. As Audrey did not like to carry a reticule, she always had pockets sewn into the skirts, hidden by decorative tucks of material or embroidery. She didn’t know why her card case would have still been in the pocket of this gown when it was given to Delia. Greer always cleaned and prepared her cast-offs with utmost efficiency. She could not imagine her lady’s maid would have overlooked the case; it would have weighted down the skirts quite a bit.
As her eyes skipped over the spoilt and torn satin, a piece of cheap blue cambric stuck out of one such tear, as if it were a pocket turned out through the hole in the skirt.Odd. Audrey remembered this gown quite well, and there was no blue cambric lining, especially not of such low quality. She reached for the cambric, but then retracted her hand.
“What is it?” Hugh asked.
