Page 6 of Silence of Deceit
“The cambric,” she explained, gesturing toward it. “It’s an addition. Delia might have sewn in another pocket?”
The attendant eagerly reached for the cambric, but Hugh clamped a hand around the man’s wrist. “I will see to that, thank you.”
The attendant cleared his throat and stood back. Audrey could only imagine the loot he and the other workers must have found within the pockets of the dead that came through here. Hugh turned the cambric out through the slit in the skirt; it looked to be an inner pouch, but it was sliced open, the pouch empty.
“She might have sewn money into the lining of the skirt,” Hugh said.
“Gone now. Maybe it’s why she were killed,” the attendant suggested.
Audrey’s stomach lurched, and she stared at the man, then Hugh. “She was killed?”
“Back of the skull’s smashed,” the attendant said with a shrug.
“Is that an injury that she could have sustained after she was already in the water, dead?” Philip asked, perhaps thinking of the many shipping vessels that plied the waters of the Thames. A strike from a keel could inflict damage.
“Nah, something hit her right here,” the attendant said, pushing Delia’s stiff body to the side, to indicate a back portion of her head. Audrey could not force herself to look. “If a boat or rudder had hit her, she’d have been torn up a lot more.”
Hugh nodded to the attendant, who let Delia’s body fall flat again, then pulled the sheet back up over the remains.
“How could no one have seen her for so many days?” Audrey asked. “At low tide, the pool of London is nothing but puddles.”
Not that she visited the river very often to see it drain. In fact, she had not been to the Thames since last April when she had so foolishly gone to the docklands in search of Mr. Fellows’s houseboat. She believed evidence of Philip’s innocence in Miss Lovejoy’s murder would be aboard, and she had found it—but Mr. Fellows had also found her. He’d shot her in the shoulder, and she’d taken a dunk in the stinking water. If not for Hugh’s timely arrival and heroics in jumping in to save her, she would have drowned long before her untreated bullet wound could have killed her.
“At low tide, the detritus is everywhere,” Hugh answered, then grimly added, “She would not have stood out among the rest.”
“Heavy skirts like that would’ve anchored her right down,” the attendant commented with an appraising nod.
“Your Grace, I am sorry for the loss of your friend,” Hugh said. “Does she have any family I can contact?”
Audrey felt heavy as she shook her head, like a great weight was attempting to push her toward the dirty floor. Delia’s family had washed their hands of her years ago when they had sent her to Shadewell. Like Audrey, Delia’s family had arranged for her imprisonment. However, the circumstances had been far more appalling. Even thinking of them now made her shudder with revulsion.
“Any idea where she was living?” Hugh asked next.
“I…” Audrey glanced toward Philip and held her chin firm. “I think I might. A boarding house in Lambeth. Lark Street.”
Philip swore. “Tell me you have not been in Lambeth.”
It wasn’t the finest part of London, but Audrey bristled at how much of a snob he sounded. “After our first meeting, I admit, I was skeptical. I don’t believe in coincidences usually. So, I asked Carrigan to follow her.”
When she’d spied Delia entering the boarding house, her stomach had twisted. The place was pitiable, and Audrey had felt guilty when she returned to her grand home on Curzon Street.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wished her harm?” Hugh asked.
“No, I’m afraid I was not privy to her…social dealings.”
Delia’s life in Lambeth could not have provided her with much opportunity to frequent other, finer homes in town. Though, she had mentioned seeing another Shadewell patient, Mary Wood. Her real name, Delia had excitedly imparted, was Miss MarySimpson—the false name of Wood shielded her identity while at Shadewell. Audrey had also employed anom de guerrewhile there. Mary Simpson had only been a patient for a short time. She had been prone to violent fits of temper that could not be controlled, some of which would leave her in a frenzy of whole-body spasms. The few times Audrey had witnessed one of her episodes had been frightening. Would Delia have called on Mary, as she had Audrey? She then thought of it: the calling card case.
Earlier, at Violet House, she had not wanted to touch it when Hugh revealed it had been found on a corpse. But now, knowing it had been on Delia’s person, and that she might have been killed, Audrey reconsidered. If she could hold it, read its memories, perhaps she could determine how her friend had found herself in this tragic situation.
She met Hugh’s eyes. “May I have the card case now?”
His mind, sharp as a blade, caught her meaning immediately. He reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and extracted the case.
“No.” Philip gripped Audrey’s wrist to prevent her from reaching for it. “That will not be necessary, Marsden.”
She pinned her lips against a grimace of annoyance. It was of no great surprise that Philip did not want her to read the object. After the conclusion of Lady Bainbury’s murder investigation in August, he’d insisted they stay far afield of anything having to do with murder and scandal.
Upon their return to London, he and Audrey had discovered that society was clamoring for the whole story. The calls on Violet House and the invitations piling up in their salver would not cease until she assented, so Audrey accepted Lady Dutton’s request for a stroll along Rotten Row. Considering the Viscountess Bleekeridge’s reputation as a venerated gossip, she’d been assured one thorough telling of the investigation would inform all of society within a day. Ladies would no longer ask Audrey for the tale, but simply discuss it amongst themselves.
