would have left her there.”
Hawkwood turned. “Because a brave soldier didn’t think it right that someone tossed her into a hole without due ceremony, and I didn’t want the bloody resurrection men getting to her.”
Though they still might.
Quill grunted non-committally and then Hawkwood saw the surgeon’s eyes narrow. Taking the rag from his apron, Quill wetted it in the bowl and used it to gently rub the skin on the corpse’s right upper arm. “Now, what …” he murmured softly “… do you suppose this is?”
Hawkwood moved closer.
The pigment in the skin could easily have been mistaken for a consequence of what Quill had termed the lividity process, but as the damp cloth did its work and the dirt was wiped away, Hawkwood saw that it was something else. There was pigmentation but it had been there before the body had settled.
“I declare,” Quill said, straightening. “She has a tattoo. Looks like a flower; a rose, unless I miss my guess. Nicely wrought, too. See how the petals are drawn?”
Quill’s admiration for the ink-work made Hawkwood wonder again about the surgeon’s background and if he had indeed seen naval service. He eyed the man’s forearms. There didn’t appear to be any anchors or sea-serpents or salutes to Mother, though they could have been high up on Quill’s arms and hidden by the sleeves of his shirt. Maybe he had a large one on his back – HMS Volage under full sail, surrounded by mermaids.
“Intriguing,” Quill murmured, appearing not to have noticed Hawkwood’s surreptitious perusal of his anatomy.
“You mean, what sort of woman gets herself tattooed?” Hawkwood said.
“Indeed.”
“And what happened to her clothes?”
“Ah,” Quill said. “Now, that one I can answer. They were buried with her, at the bottom of the bag.” The surgeon jerked his head. “Over there, the small table in the corner.”
Crossing the room, Hawkwood found it hard to avert his eyes from some of the horrors on show. The space was not well lit and shadows were playing across the intervening tables, revealing a stomach-churning vista of part-opened chests, excised ribcages, and basins and weighing scales containing items of viscera that would have looked more at home on a butcher’s block. From the condition of the bodies on display, Quill liked to work on more than one at a time. Hawkwood couldn’t think of a single conceivable reason why that should be.
Arriving at the opposite wall, mercifully without losing the contents of his own stomach, Hawkwood examined the items to which Quill had referred. The bundle did not consist of much: a thin muslin dress, a cotton chemise, a pair of stockings and a pair of half-boots. The sacking had not protected them from the wet. All were soaked and heavily stained. The stench of the pit rose from them, though it was more than likely they had also absorbed some of the odours seeping from the walls and tables in Quill’s dead house.
Placing the clothing to one side, Hawkwood picked up the boots. They appeared to be of good quality, or at least they had been before the water had got to them; made from some kind of velvet material, with a small heel, not for walking but for evening wear.
“I don’t think she was a vagrant,” Hawkwood said, re-joining Quill at the examination table, one of the boots in his hand.
Quill looked down at the footwear and nodded in agreement. “I thought that, too. The clothes do not strike me as hand-me-downs. Indeed, the stockings would appear to be silk. Also, as you’ll have noticed, other than the water damage, all are intact, which suggests they were not removed from her by force. She disrobed prior to being attacked.”
He turned back to the body. “Notwithstanding her current condition, there’s no evidence that she was malnourished.”
Hawkwood did not reply. He focused his eyes on the tattoo. Quill followed his gaze. “The rose is significant, you think?”
“Maybe,” Hawkwood said, as a thought struck him.
Quill looked at him. “You’re asking yourself what sort of woman who’s young and pretty and who wears expensive clothes and removes them voluntarily, might carry a tattoo on her shoulder.”
Hawkwood considered the boot he was holding.
“I think we can both hazard a guess, don’t you?” Quill said.
Hawkwood nodded. “It’d be a place to start.”
Quill held out his hand. “Then I think you have your work cut out. Don’t let me detain you.”
Hawkwood passed the boot over. “I don’t suppose you can tell me when she might have been killed?”
Quill shook his head. “Not with any certainty. Rigor’s not a precise measure. It can take between two and twelve hours to take hold fully, but the process can also be slowed or accelerated depending on location and temperature.”
Hawkwood thought about the rain and the cold and the mud she’d been buried under. Mud had remarkable properties. It could both protect and preserve. He recalled the times on campaign when on cold nights he and Jago had smeared their blankets with clay; with straw bedding for a base, the mud had provided extra insulation against the cold and they’d generally passed the night in relative comfort.
He realized Quill was still talking.
“A body returns to its flaccid state after a further eighteen hours or thereabouts. I note the flies have started their work, but the eggs have yet to reach the larvae stage, which could be down to the temperature of the ground. Given that, and from her current condition and from what you and the constable have told me, I’d estimate she’s been dead for between twenty-four and thirty-six hours.”
Hawkwood absorbed the information.
“You really do end up with the most interesting ones, don’t you?” Quill murmured.
“It’s a curse,” Hawkwood said as he turned to go.
Quill smiled grimly. “You should have my job.”
“I’m sorry, but can you explain to me again why this is Bow Street’s case,” Hawkwood said, “and not the Garden’s?”
The “Garden” was Hatton Garden. St George the Martyr’s burying ground fell within the Hatton Garden Public Office’s area of jurisdiction, though only by the width of a few streets.
Chief Magistrate James Read turned away from the rain-spattered window, clasped his hands behind his back and raised his coat-tails to the fire. Late middle-aged and trimly built, with aquiline features and swept-back silver hair, the magistrate’s fastidious appearance exuded quiet authority. If he was irritated by the lack of grace in Hawkwood’s enquiry, he gave no outward sign.
“It was at Hatton Garden’s request.”
“Request?” Hawkwood said cautiously.
“For assistance; from Magistrate Turton.”
“Magistrate Turton has his own Principal Officers,” Hawkwood said, still unconvinced. “Why does he need us?”
“It
