“I’m the Bow Street man Sam Kelly,” Sam corrected coldly, having always disliked the old-fashioned nickname. It carried the taint of corruption, from the days when a few unscrupulous Runners had been caught working in collusion with the criminal class, assisting thieves to rob the gentry so they could later return the stolen goods for the reward.
The lad sidled closer, almost furtive in his manner, though no one paid him any particular attention. “Mr. Drake wants me ter bring ye ter ’im, if ye don’t mind, sir,” he said. “Ye see . . . there’s been a murder. A Lady. Real vicious-like.”
“You saw the body?”
“Nay. Oi was called ter the door. But oi ’eard a mort inside blubberin’. She was carryin’ on somethin’ awful.”
“All right.” Sam hastily tossed back his drink—he wasn’t about to waste whiskey, even if it came from the Pig & Sail—and pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his knees. Shrugging into his greatcoat, he retrieved his Bow Street baton with its distinctive gold tip from the scarred table, and used it to point toward the door. “Let’s go.”
The Lady had been murdered in Grosvenor Square, which actually wasn’t a bad place to cock up your toes, Sam reflected. It was considered one of London’s more fashionable neighborhoods, with its stretch of elegant homes, three, four, and sometimes even five stories, house and terraces made of limestone or sandstone.
Not that he could appreciate much of the architecture or the enormous park across the wide street at the moment. At near midnight, the darkness and fog, the latter as thick as porridge, made it impossible to see beyond a dozen paces. Unlike the gas lighting craze sweeping the city, Grosvenor Square residents kept to the tradition of lighting oil lamps, which were legally required to be hung out of each household at night, or risk being fined a shilling.
As uncomfortable as he was about some of the changes he saw happening throughout the country, Sam had to admit that gas lighting on the street would’ve been helpful. At least he’d be able to do a proper scan of the neighborhood, he thought, as he and the lad scrambled down from the hackney he’d hired to bring them to the address. He dug out a coin and tossed it to the jarvey. The impenetrable blackness beyond the weak yellow glow of the oil lamps was giving him an itchy sensation that he was being watched—not an uncommon feeling in London Town, considering the number of criminals who often lurked in the shadows.
Sam hurried toward the one townhouse that had both an oil lamp burning outside and light spilling from most of the windows. The windows in the adjacent houses were either shuttered or dark, the occupants already in bed or still out for the evening. It almost appeared as though the elegant neighboring buildings disapproved of the unseemly activity taking place at Number 8.
It was a fanciful notion, one which had Sam shaking his head as he approached the two men standing in front of the partially opened door, smoking. He recognized them as members of the Night Watch, Henry Greely and Jack Norton.
“Good evenin’.” He nodded at them.
“’Tis evenin’. Nothin’ good about it,” Jack grumbled and shifted his body so Sam could enter the townhouse. “The devil is surely out and causin’ mischief.”
Sam merely grunted a response.
“Oy, where’d ye think ye’re going?”
Sam glanced over his shoulder to see that Henry had grabbed his young companion by the scruff of his neck, halting his entrance into the townhouse.
The urchin squirmed and glared at the night watchman. “Oi brought the thief-taker, didn’t oi? Oi want me bread promised by Mr. Drake!”
“’Ow much did Mr. Drake promise ye?” Jack asked, digging into his pocket.
A crafty gleam came into the child’s eyes. “A guinea.”
Jack snorted. “Do ye take me for a sapscull? Give us the truth, boy, or go hungry!”
“A quid.”
“And Oi’m the King of England. Try again!”
With a half smile at the lad’s boldness, Sam left the two watchmen to haggle with the scamp. He strode down the long, narrow hall to the stairs, his gaze taking in the black-and-white marble tiles and high ceiling with its white-plaster decorative molding. A chandelier hung in the center, its dozen candles melted down to short stubs, the flames flickering erratically.
Upstairs, another watchman was stationed outside an open door, his attention fixed on whatever activity was going on inside the room. The man started visibly when Sam came up next to him. Without a word, Sam thrust his baton under the young man’s nose and moved into the room.
The smell hit him first, that raw meaty odor that signaled fresh death.
Half a dozen men were inside. Sam spotted William Drake immediately. Not only because he’d known him for almost twenty years. But because he was an imposing figure at six-foot-three, easily towering above the other men.
“Drake,” Sam said in greeting.
The night watchman glanced around. “Ah, Kelly. Wasn’t sure if the lad was going to find you. Told him to look in the Brown Bear or the Pig and Sail. Damn brutal business, this.”
“Aye. Murder usually is,” Sam remarked, his attention already focusing on the victim.
She’d been left sitting on a sofa designed in the Grecian style, its flowing lines and scrolled feet so popular with the gentry. The velvet upholstery was a soft blue, like a robin’s egg, nearly matching the color of the frothy silk and organza gown she wore. Her bosom, revealed by the dress’s low, square neckline, looked like it had been tattooed, dark angry wounds puncturing the pale skin. The bodice had also been torn up by the blade, the victim’s blood staining the delicate material.
The woman’s gently curved white arms, revealed by the tiny cap sleeves of the gown, hung limply at her sides, the small hands resting on the sofa cushions, palms up as though she’d been supplicating her killer. Cuts marred the delicate flesh here, too, he noticed. She’d either tried to fight back, or put up her hands in a futile attempt to protect herself.
Probably fight, he decided, his gaze traveling over the golden blond hair that had tumbled down in wild disarray around her shoulders, hairpins still clinging to the bright strands. Her head had lolled back against the sofa’s cushions, her long neck curved like a swan’s, her face tilted toward the ceiling. Her eyes were open, and glassy with death.
Distaste tightened Sam’s features as he examined the victim’s face. It hadn’t been enough for the fiend to stab the lass to death—he’d cut her here too. There were two slashes on the right side of her face, one short laceration, no bigger than half an inch, and faint. A scratch, really. The other was a little deeper and longer, running from her outer eye to her mouth.