O’Malley nodded. “A tin can and a coil of copper wire.”
“Might earn you a shilling or two,” Tennant said. “Were you mudlarking here on Tuesday afternoon?”
Bert scratched his head under his tweed cap. “That when the blighter and the girl got done in?”
“We think so.”
“Nah,” the boy said. “We was ’larking over by Southwark Bridge that day.”
“Think back to the last time you were here,” Tennant said. “Did you see anyone hanging about? Someone who looked out of place?”
The boys exchanged glances and shook their heads. Sammy pointed to the beard in Tennant’s hand. “Can we have it back?”
“I’m sorry, son.” O’Malley ruffled the younger boy’s sandy hair.
Tennant fished in his trouser pocket. “You boys turned over valuable evidence like loyal subjects of the queen. You deserve a reward with her face on it.” He handed each boy a half crown.
“Cor blimey, two-and-six,” Sammy said, staring at the coin in his palm. “Wait’ll Mum sees this!”
“Aiding the Yard in our investigations,” O’Malley said. “That’s champion. Now, the officer will see you home and explain things to your mam.”
Tennant watched the boys scamper up the lane with the constable trailing them. “Stumbling across two dead bodies … they don’t seem worse for the experience.”
O’Malley grinned. “If they’re anything like my nephews, they’ll be entertaining their mates with every gory detail.”
“You’re probably right. Did you retrieve Brigid Dowling’s carpetbag from the Chapter House?”
“Yon copper’s looking after it,” O’Malley said, waving over a young constable.
“There’s little doubt, but we’ll need the Chapter House desk clerk to identify the victim as Brigid Dowling and link the body to the bag.”
“I asked the fella to report to Horseferry Road at three o’clock.”
“Good. That should give Doctor Lewis time to arrive.” Tennant took out his pocket watch. “Let’s flag a hackney before the fog swallows them all. You can brief me on the way to the mortuary.”
They found a cabstand on Upper Thames Street, took their seats, and headed toward Westminster as the leading edge of the river’s mist turned midafternoon to dusk.
“Let’s start with Brigid Dowling’s belongings,” Tennant said.
O’Malley hauled the carpetbag from the floor and balanced it on his knees. It was a typical double-handled textile case in a plum-and-green flower design. It lacked a lock, but the owner had added a buckle to secure its contents. The sergeant unhooked the strap and parted the handles.
“The lass had a change of linen and stockings, a nightdress and wrap, a pair of slippers, and a net bag of toiletries.”
“Anything that confirms her identity?”
“A label inside, stitched into the fabric.” O’Malley pointed to the spot. “Here. ’Tis hard to see in this gloom, but it says B. Dowling and gives an address in Ireland.”
“Anything else?”
“She had a telegram tucked into an inner pocket from the Chapter House, confirming her reservation.”
“No letter?”
O’Malley shook his head. “You were expecting one?”
“Yes. I have the note Brigid sent to Lady Styles.” He pulled it from his pocket and handed it to O’Malley. “Read the last lines.
“According to this, a letter from Lizzy Dowling should have been on her.”
