“You’ll want to give the driver instructions,” the woman told him. “Or else he’ll take us where I asked to go.”
“Right. Of course.” With no wish to wind up farther from home than necessary, and with the last of his funds spent on whoring, Stewart gave the driver his address and added, “The slower the better,” before climbing in.
Chief Constable Peter Kendrick hated the bloody cold with a passion. He could not wait for winter to end, for the frigid air chilling his bones every morning to cease. The wetness, caused either by fog or some infernal drizzle, only made the misery worse. What he wanted right now was to stand before a fire, toasting his icy hands. Instead, he’d been forced from the warmth of his bed by one of his Runners.
It was an age since he’d woken this early. Not since Polly Griffin’s body was found in September last year. Months had passed since that incident. After her killer had been done away with, he’d gradually grown accustomed to a more peaceful London. Not that crimes didn’t happen. A city this size would always be home to unpleasant things, but he’d not had to deal with additional murders.
Until now.
“I’m sorry for waking you, sir.” Lewis, the Runner who’d banged on Peter’s door until he’d yanked it open and demanded an explanation, did indeed look remorseful. No doubt he regretted being the one responsible for alerting his superior.
“Don’t be. You did what was needed,” Peter said. He’d dressed quickly, then checked the time. It was just after four, which honestly wasn’t too bad. After grabbing his box of cheroots and donning his hat, he’d reconvened with Lewis.
They’d left the rooms Peter rented from Mrs. Cranburry, a widow whose husband had been an acquaintance of his father’s, and exited the house. It didn’t take long for the hackney Lewis had acquisitioned to take them to Bow Street, or for Peter to spot the scene of the crime.
Two other Runners stood in the street, guarding a parked carriage, their tight expressions a testament to their current distaste for their job. Both men straightened at Peter’s approach and bid him good morning.
“I trust the body is still inside?” Peter asked.
“Of course,” said the nearest Runner who mostly served as a clerk since he was still fairly green. Gordon was his name. “Lewis said not to touch anything.”
Peter nodded and sent a look past Gordon’s shivering person to Adams, who worked with Gordon. “Where’s the driver?”
Gordon nodded toward the Bow Street offices. “In there. Anderson is taking his statement.”
Excellent. Progress was already underway. Peter thanked the Runners and suggested, “Why don’t the pair of you go and get warm while Lewis and I take a look at the scene. While you’re at it, prepare a pot of fresh coffee.”
Gordon and Adams did not need a second telling. They muttered their thanks and departed, teeth chattering so loudly it was clear the cold air had seeped into their bones. In his own attempt to ward it off, Peter lit a cheroot and enjoyed the warmth he pulled into his lungs.
“Right, then,” he said to Lewis. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
The young Runner had come a long way this past year. He no longer looked like he’d soil the crime scene with his vomit. Instead, his expression was grave, devoid of emotion. That was the price of the job. It took the sentiment straight out of people and killed it.
Lewis pulled the carriage door open and took a step back so Peter would have better access. Despite the darkness, there could be no denying the gruesomeness of what had occurred here. Peter tossed his half-smoked cheroot and stepped closer, his critical gaze already assessing each detail.
“Fetch a couple of lanterns,” he muttered.
“Right away, sir.” Lewis disappeared inside Bow Street, leaving Peter alone with what already looked like a brutal encounter with a sharp blade.
He stared at the victim, who slumped against the far wall. It was a young man, his blank eyes fixed on Peter as though in a silent plea for assistance. Hopefully a calling card would be found in his pocket to help identify him.
The brisk click of approaching footsteps made Peter turn. He extended a hand and took one of the lanterns Lewis brought with him. “I’m climbing in for a closer inspection. You stay here by the door and help light up this side of the cabin.”
Lewis agreed and Peter illuminated the space closest to him, just to be sure he wouldn’t disturb any evidence he might have missed in the dark. Finding nothing, he entered the cabin and took a seat on the bench.
“Bloody hell,” Lewis murmured as he caught his first fully-lit view of the scene.
Peter had to agree. The victim’s cravat was gone from his neck and shoved into his mouth, his throat slit open. Blood stained the front of him. His hand, which he must have used to grab at the wound, was drenched with it, the sticky liquid smeared across his lap and on parts of the seat. Whoever had done this must truly have hated his guts. Which begged the question: Who was he, and what had he done?
The answer to this might very well lead to his killer.
Peter searched the dead man’s pockets as best he could and did indeed find a calling card with a name. Stewart Warren, Number 7 Garnsford Street. There were also a couple of shillings and a folded piece of paper. A brief note with a message scrawled across it with uneven letters.
A coward’s death for the coward you are.
Peter frowned and refolded the paper, then placed it and the calling card in his own pocket. He held the lantern high, allowed the light to fall across Mr. Warren’s pale face, then down, over the rest of his body while checking for anything else that could help solve this crime.
“Look there,” said Lewis. “On the floor in the corner.”
