Sebastian Knight had had many obsessions. He had spent an entire summer in the study of the stars—then a winter thoroughly engrossed in etymology. He had made a habit of attending every scientific symposium there was to be had, and had gotten himself removed from more than a few by questioning the conclusions made therein. He had never marveled at the unexplained—mysteries existed to besolved, and Sebastian had never met one he hadn’t done his damnedest to untangle.
Thecorpse, he told himself. Justlookat it.
But dawn was streaking its way above the rooftops. Too much more wasted time, and he would miss her—the woman who was French, but not French; English, but not English. She had the wordliarscrawled across her face in an ink only he could see. His latest obsession.
Her hair was fair, which he knew was always in fashion, whatever that happened to signify. She had a pleasing form, which came with all of the traditionally feminine accoutrements—breasts that swelled above the neckline of her gown, hips that swayed as she walked, eyes thickly lashed and of a brilliant summery blue. He’d seen a hundred women with similar attributes, perhaps a thousand. They were unremarkable to his mind; merely a set of physical characteristics by which a person might differentiate one woman from the next. But she—she was beautiful, in the sort of way that even a man so inured to the concept of physical beauty could, in fact, appreciate. She moved with the confidence of an aristocrat, with the grace of a practiced courtesan, though she was neither.
She managed aladies’ club, and before that she had been a seamstress of some renown—though her shop had burned down some months ago. Arson, he had determined. She took in the lowest dregs of society, women with no options left to them, and gave them jobs. They wove together, these facts that he knew of her; a mystery that even his formidable brain had not been able to solve. French, English, neither or both. Seamstress and aristocrat and courtesan and entrepreneur. The survivor of a fire that ought to have ruined her, and from which she had escaped unscathed, both physically and economically. A guardian angel to prostitutes and beggars. But the contextof her was missing, somehow. Or rather, shedefiedcontext. None of her pieces fit together; he could not makesenseof her.
Where was the blasted coroner? He was going tomissher.
Sebastian dropped into a crouch and heard the unfortunate sound of the tails of his coat dropping into a puddle. At last he turned his attention to the unfortunate soul laid out upon the pavement before him. The body had been here an hour, perhaps a little more. The collar of the deceased man’s coat had been turned up against the cold of the air, but it was dry. He had not, then, been caught in the rain that had ceased perhaps two hours ago. He had no beard but the beginnings of the growth of one along his jaw—either he was the slovenly sort, or he had not yet fully committed to growing his beard out properly. Sebastian glanced down at the cadaver’s hands, judging the length of his nails, the relative condition thereof.
Slovenly, then.
There was the sound of approaching footsteps over his left shoulder. “You’re late,” Sebastian said, continuing his examination. “I expected you a quarter of an hour ago.”
“I don’t come at your beck and call, Mr. Knight.” The coroner, Mr. Nathaniel Beckett, arrived at his side. “How the hell did you get here so quickly?”
Sebastian shrugged. “I’ve got people I pay to keep an eye out for this sort of thing,” he said. “I prefer to see the scene of the crime as it occurred…before it is ruined by too many hands too eager to lay waste to it.” They had a habit of that sort of thing, of cleaning things up prematurely, in Sebastian’s estimation. They tended to drag bodies out of public view, or otherwise muck about with the staging of it in ways that confused the facts. Their efforts often either added or detracted from the scene in ways that confused or distorted the view.
“And did yourpeoplehappen to witness the crime itself?” This was delivered in a scathing tone, which did not surprise. Mr. Beckett was not fond of him, Sebastian knew. But he was willing to tolerate Sebastian, provided he gained something from it. Usually what he gained was a body returned to its loved ones far faster than it might have been otherwise. Occasionally he gained a suspect in a crime he might not otherwise have uncovered.
“No,” Sebastian said. “They rarely do. But I pay a shilling for something of interest—fires, robberies.” He bent his head, reached out to grasp the dead man’s hand and examine the fingers again. “Corpses.”
Mr. Beckett made an uncouth sound deep in his throat. “And how do you know one of your people wasn’t enterprising enough tocreatesomething of interest?”
“For a shilling?” Sebastian glanced up. “I’d estimate that it would take at least a guinea to inspire that. No; a shilling is enough to fill a stomach for an evening”—with food or ale, perhaps a bit of both—“but not so much that one might risk their life or freedom committing crimes just for the purpose of reporting them.” He let the man’s hand drop once more. “You’ll want to look in Cheapside for this man’s place of business. Likely St. Giles for his home.”
“Cheapside?” Mr. Beckett canted his head. “How the hell do you figure that?
“Context.”
“Context?”
“Yes, Mr. Beckett,context. Noun. Latin origin. The circumstances which, when joined together, allow one to come to an assessment or conclusion.” He gave a vague gesture toward the corpse. “Hishands, Mr. Beckett. Look at his hands.”
Mr. Beckett crouched beside him, leaned in for a closer look. “They’re burnt.”
“Moreover, these burns are in various stages of healing, suggesting they occur habitually—an occasional consequence of the deceased’s vocation, perhaps.”
“So he’s a coalman, then.” Mr. Beckett said. “Or a lamplighter. Or an ironworker.”
“Not quite,” Sebastian replied. “If you lean closer you will note the smell of beeswax. Nottallow, mind you, butbeeswax. This man is—or was, rather—a chandler. But his candles were quality, not those meant for the lower classes. Ergo, Cheapside.”
Mr. Beckett issued a grunt. “Could be any other shopping district.”
Sebastian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in aggravation. Dawn was imminent. He hadn’t thetimefor this. “No, no—you see his clothing? His grooming habits? He does not own a shop; he merely works within one. His clothes are at least half a dozen years old and ill-fitting besides; likely purchased secondhand. His hair is unkempt—”
“Yourhair is unkempt,” Mr. Beckett interrupted.
“Out of lack ofinterest, Mr. Beckett, not lack offunds.” Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “He hasn’t shaved this morning, but there is no difference in the hue of his skin beneath the bristle, suggesting that hedoesshave, but infrequently. Therefore he doesnotmanage the sales within a shop, where the owner would expect a more presentable appearance. He works in the back, where he will not be seen by customers. His wages would not be handsome enough to merit the hiring of a hack to convey him to his place of employment, so he must live within walking distance, and if he could not afford a hack—”
“Then he likely couldn’t afford better than St. Giles,” Mr. Beckett concluded.
“Just so.” Sebastian rose to his feet. “He’s been here perhaps an hour or so, Mr. Beckett, judging by the fact that his coat remains dry despite the fact that it was raining just hours ago. I suspect he was delivering goods on behalf of his employer; the homes in this area do seem the sort that would prefer beeswax to tallow. I imagine that, if you were to give him a thorough search, you would find that he has been relieved of any valuables that might have been on his person, and that when you find his employer—in Cheapside—you will be informed that he was meant to be delivering goods and collecting payment.” Sebastian adjusted the lapels of his coat.
Mr. Beckett climbed to his feet and let out a low whistle. “And his murderer?”
