‘What in Hades happened to her?’ he asked, his voice savage.
‘Iron bar, I’d say. Or perhaps fists.’ The constable didn’t sound too happy about having to look either. ‘Then a knife.’
‘Luc?’ James stayed by my side and I can’t say I blamed him. ‘Is it her?’
‘I cannot tell. Her face is… gone.’
‘That’ll be the rats on top of whatever it was that killed her,’ the constable said helpfully. ‘Or the fishes. Crabs, possibly.’
The walls of the dreadful little room seemed to close in. I told myself it was the effect of the flickering lantern light as I made myself step closer to Lucian. A mangled red thing was all that remained of the woman’s head but the body was, mercifully, covered by a dirty sheet.
‘Let me look.’ Her hair was matted and so filthy that the colour was hidden. I stepped between the men and the slab and lifted the sheet. She was blonde. Oh hell. I flipped the sheet back, although she was long past any desire for modesty, and moved to the feet while I could still manage it. They were bare and dirty and I made myself touch, run my hands down both, ice cold and waxy in my shaking grip. ‘It isn’t her. Can I… can we go now?’
The room was becoming darker and colder and tilting…
Chapter Fourteen
Lucian scooped me up and strode out of the morgue door, up the steps, his beautifully-clad shoulders bumping against the foul walls, my feet knocking against the bricks.
When we got to the top, the other two panting after us, Lucian snapped, ‘A chair and hot water and a clean towel.’
I found myself sitting in a leather armchair in what must have been a senior officer’s room. The constable brought a steaming basin of water and some coarse yellow soap and I washed and washed my hands, trying not to behave like Lady Macbeth.
‘Here.’ James pressed a flask into my hands as soon as I had dried them on the rough towel. I gasped at the kick of brandy but the fumes cleared the stench from my nostrils.
Lucian hunkered down in front of me. ‘Can you talk, Cassie? How did you know it is not her?’
‘Her feet. That poor soul has been walking barefoot for years. And her nails, finger and toe, were ragged and uncared for.’ I didn’t mention the scars on her legs, the flea bites. The mark of human teeth on her thighs. ‘No-one will find out who murdered her, will they? No-one is going to be punished for this.’
‘Well, no, Miss,’ the constable said as though I ought not to expect anything else. ‘Not unless someone saw it and speaks up. Or he does it again and gets caught red-handed.’ I saw James shudder at the choice of words. ‘Sometimes they goes mad and confesses,’ the constable added helpfully.
I don’t really remember getting back to the carriage, or anything much until we were passing St Paul’s again. When it came into view I dropped the window glass down and took a deep breath of coal smoke, horse droppings and drains. It smelled wonderful.
‘No forensics, no post-mortem, no detection. And no-one cares about women like her,’ I muttered and then got a grip on my temper and on reality, or what was passing for it those days. Ranting at Lucian and James about the absence of modern policing methods was not going to help, nor was a tirade about the treatment of women, the poor, sex workers…
‘It is another negative that does not give us any positives,’ I said and both men relaxed infinitesimally. I suppose they thought they would have a fainting, hysterical woman on their hands. ‘If Arabella went in the river she hasn’t been found, but it doesn’t prove that she did not end up there.’
‘We have not spoken to de Forrest,’ Lucian said, apparently determined to change the subject. He was staring out of the window as though the bustle of Fleet Street was absolutely riveting.
‘Why should he know anything?’ James objected. ‘We have no evidence that he was actively courting her, although he needs to make a good match and those notes prove that he is on friendly terms with Cottingham.’
‘Even if he were courting her, there is no reason to think she would agree to go along with it,’ I pointed out.
‘True. But he would expect her to obey her brother in this.’
‘Then why isn’t he making anxious enquiries about her?’ I asked. ‘If de Forrest is so enamoured of Arabella, he will be frantic and even if he merely likes her, surely he will be deeply anxious. I mean, we are and you two don’t want to marry her and I don’t know her.’
‘That is a good point.’ Lucian took the pair of pistols out of the pockets of his greatcoat and began to unload them. ‘Either he knows where she is or what has happened to her or he has no interest in her, not even as the sister of a friend.’
‘Which would mean he was not courting her,’ James countered as he dealt with the other pair of Manton’s.
‘Or he is merely indifferent.’ Lucian put the pistols away and shook his head. ‘We are going in circles. This is all guesswork.’
‘Perhaps he was courting her but only because of the rumours about his impotence,’ I speculated. ‘It might be a logical reaction to all the gossip about him. Even if he does not believe that she would be attracted to a man his age, it could be a smokescreen to stop the talk about his potency.’
‘If he knows where she is or what has happened to her, then why has he not told Cottingham? He would have no motive to keep quiet, would he?’ Lucian asked. ‘The more I think about it, the more I am certain that the odd pieces of gossip I picked up about his interest in her are just that. Gossip. And the correspondence with Cottingham merely coincidental friendship and business dealings.’
‘Even so, we ought to talk to de Forrest. I don’t like leaving any stone unturned.’