A judge was still under investigation for the part he’d played in convicting Adrian Croft, a wealthy upper-class citizen with a questionable reputation, of murder.Viscount Carver, who’d been one of the Prince Regent’s most trusted advisors, had fled the country.Peter’s former boss, Sir Nigel, had been stripped of his duties.
Mr.Croft himself had received a full pardon, though it cost him the blackmail files that had made so many people pray for his death.
Happily, the new chief magistrate, Mr.Hastings, had encouraged Peter’s return to Bow Street.A request Peter had gladly accepted even if it meant answering to a man he’d recently issued orders to.
Jackson, however, had instantly asked to resume his former duties as Runner so Peter could regain his title of chief constable.The younger man had joked that he’d rather someone else took the blame when a case went unsolved.Although Peter hated to admit it, this was far too often the case.
The carriage rocked, axels creaking, as it came to a standstill.Dressed in a greatcoat in case of rain, Peter thrust the door open and stepped down onto the uneven cobblestones.Jackson followed him out.
“Ready?”Peter asked.
Jackson responded with a firm nod.“Let’s see what we’ve got.”
They strode toward the spot where a small group of men gathered.Two of them were holding lanterns, which helped illuminate the area.The pungent smell of rotting seaweed clawed its way up Peter’s nose.He reached inside a pocket and pulled out the silver case that housed his cheroots.It took no more than five seconds before he inhaled the smooth taste of Indian tobacco.His next exhale filled the air with a veil of smoke.
A bell rang somewhere in the distance.Peter stepped forward with purpose, his attention going briefly to the obscure shape that lay at the edge of the dock before honing in on the man who stood nearest.
“Good morning.”Peter stuck out his hand and the man, a scruffy fellow with dark wisps of hair poking out from beneath his cap, shook it.“I’m Chief Constable Peter Kendrick and this is my colleague, Mr.Jackson.We’ve come in response to the message delivered to Bow Street a short while ago.A body was mentioned.”
“Aye.”The man shoved both hands in his trouser pockets, hunching his shoulders against the damp air while jutting his chin toward the shape on the ground.“We covered ’er up.Out o’ respect.”
“It’s a woman then,” Jackson observed.
“Aye.Young one, by the looks o’ it.Shame really.”
Peter took a long drag from his cheroot, tilted his head, and sent the smoke skyward before saying, “We’ll need all your names for our records.”
No one argued.The man he’d been speaking to straightened a little.“I’m Jones.First name, Randolph.This ’ere’s Benjamin Clarence, David Lee, Finn Stevenson, and Ian Ackroyd.”
Jackson jotted down the information while Peter crossed to the body.It had been concealed beneath a large piece of canvas, possibly sackcloth, considering the coarse appearance.Peter dropped to a crouch and drew back the edge to reveal the woman.Mr.Jones was correct.She was indeed young.Most likely in her early twenties.
“I need more light,” Peter said, scanning her pasty skin.Her eyes were closed, as though in slumber, her dark hair slicked back due to wetness – a few strands partially pasted to her right cheek.
Footsteps approached and a soft glow spilled over Peter’s left shoulder, flooding the woman’s face.It was clear now, judging from her appearance, that she’d been in the water a while.At least a couple of days, Peter reckoned.
He glanced up at Jackson, who’d brought the lantern over, then shifted his gaze to the men still gathered behind him.“Which one of you found her?”
There was a long pause before Jones chose to speak up.“Clarence and me.We was preparing the boat we use to ferry goods across the river when we saw her floatin’ nearby.”
“A possible case of self-murder then,” Jackson murmured while Peter returned his attention to the dead woman.
The Runner wasn’t wrong to suppose such a thing.These types of deaths happened from time to time, especially on the river where those who wanted a way out of life would jump from one of the bridges.Victims of foul play were rarely found in the Thames, most likely because those guilty of murder were wise enough to weigh the bodies down.Make sure they were never discovered.
Peter pulled the sackcloth back farther.The body appeared to be intact, so Jackson could be right.Were it not for a tiny detail that snared Peter’s attention.He lifted the woman’s right wrist, turned it slightly, and waved Jackson closer with the light.
Sure enough, the skin in one spot looked raw, with a purplish bruise directly beneath.Like something or someone had gripped her.
Of course, it could be nothing – no more than an accident of the woman’s own doing.Peter had no intention of making assumptions.But he’d been at this job long enough to know that this finding could be proof of foul play.
As such, it warranted further investigation.
2
Adrian’s fist connected with the hard leather bag, one of several provided by Reed’s Boxing Club.Suspended between two ropes that were anchored to the ceiling and floor, it recoiled in response to the force.
Arms back in position, he bounced on the balls of his feet, keeping his body light, his chin slightly tucked to his chest.His right arm drew back, muscles coiling with power, before he unleashed it with splintering strength.
The exertion felt good.Necessary after the recent break he’d been forced to take from his physical training.A sheen of moisture had formed on his back, causing his shirt to cling to his skin and leaving it cool despite the build-up of heat in his body.
