CHAPTER 3
At three in the morning, a young copper on the late January graveyard beat fought a jaw-breaking yawn. He stamped his boots to keep the blood flowing and made his way along Horseferry Road, shining his bull’s-eye lantern through fence pickets for something to do.
His head jerked at the clattering racket of a speeding carriage.
A four-wheeler flew toward Lambeth Bridge with lamps dimmed and shades drawn.
The driver, a dark mass in the coachman’s seat, cracked his whip as he neared the bridge, but his horses balked, wanting no part of the steep approach.
The driver regained control with difficulty and turned the carriage east.
Change of plan, the copper thought. Heading to Westminster Bridge.
Instead, the carriage slowed and stopped.
Doors opened and slammed. Then the coach rumbled off, out of sight by the time the constable reached the end of the road.
He trained his lantern on something at the curb and walked toward a bundle where the carriage had stopped.
The constable pulled at the cord, and the bag opened.
A cascade of copper curls tumbled out.
* * *
Sergeant O’Malley’s bulk filled Inspector Tennant’s doorway.
“A copper found a girl in a sack near Lambeth Bridge who fits the description of our missing shopgirl. The chief is giving it to us instead of that pair of slackers.”
Tennant sat back in his chair. “You surprise me.”
“We’ve ‘pissed away’ too many hours with ‘letter-writing bollocks,’ says he, and ‘balmy’ female artists.” O’Malley grinned under his bushy mustache. “Time we did some real work.”
“Where have they taken the body?”
O’Malley’s smile faded. “To the mortuary on Horseferry Road. They’re describing her as young, with flame-colored hair on her, like the last missing lass.”
“Send a message to Doctor Lewis with my . . . you know the drill, Sergeant.”
“With your compliments,” O’Malley said. “And would she meet us on Horseferry Road?”
“That’s the ticket.”
* * *
Tennant and O’Malley waited inside the mortuary for Julia to arrive.
The inspector asked, “What about Annie’s old roommate? Did you find Margot Miller at her flat in Chelsea?”
“That I did.” O’Malley chuckled. “She’s a fine one. I’m thinking it’ll take more than a letter to frighten Margot—with or without a T.”
“Hmm . . . from a room with Annie O’Neill in Aldgate to a flat in Chelsea. Margot Miller is rising in the world.”
“She had two notes sent to her, printed in capital letters like the lady artists. Margot said she tossed them both in the fire. She laughed, saying they were off the mark, implying that other accusations might not be.”
They turned at the sound of a slight commotion. A young constable had stopped Julia at the vestibule’s entrance.
“That’s far enough, miss,” he said testily, “The public is not allowed in this facility.”
O’Malley rolled his eyes. “We’re used to her, but he’ll not be expecting a lady doctor.”
Julia had fished a note from her pocket when O’Malley called out, “That’s all right, son. Let Doctor Lewis through. She’s here for the postmortem.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Julia said as she passed the wide-eyed young copper.
Tennant said, “As usual, you’re a nine days’ wonder, Doctor.”
“Thank you for not saying ‘circus sideshow,’ Inspector.”
Tennant opened a door. “The victim is through here.”
He ushered her into a tiny but well-lit examining room. A sack still covered most of the girl’s body, but coppery hair spilled from the opening, and purple bruises stained the left side of her face.
“Tossed from a carriage like yesterday’s rubbish,” Sergeant O’Malley said.
Julia pulled on a vulcanized rubber glove and slit the sack with a scalpel, exposing the dead girl’s torso. Julia cut away her emerald wrap and held it up. Moths stitched in gold caught the light and sparkled against the bright green.
“A glittering shroud,” Julia said. “There’s blood spatter across the right shoulder.”
The doctor moved the girl’s head and found the probable cause of death. A blow had caved in her right temple. Julia cut away the girl’s silk chemise.
Tennant fingered the rough sacking. “Impossible to trace the bag, I’m afraid. Seamen use them to stow their belongings. They’re two a penny down in the docklands.”
“They tossed her far from the quays of Limehouse and Poplar,” O’Malley said.
“Her undergarment is silk,” Julia said. “An expensive chemise for a shopgirl.”
Julia found no other fatal wounds, but dark bruises stained the victim’s right shoulder and upper arm.
Something gleamed in the bright light of the hanging oil lamp. Julia reached under the girl’s neck, pulled out a snapped silver chain, and held it to the light. “Tangled in her hair,” she said.
The sergeant moved deftly for a big man. He circled the table, retrieved the sack, and folded it back inch by inch until he found a shiny object caught in the seam. Julia slit the canvas, releasing a silver oval.
She held it up. “I see a field of stars surrounding the letter M and a cross.”
“’Tis what’s called a miraculous medal,” O’Malley said. “In honor of the Virgin Mary. She’ll be on the other side of it.”
Julia turned it over. “Yes.”
The sergeant crossed himself. “She could be Frances Riley, called Franny, one of the missing shopgirls. We sent for the landlady who reported her missing.
“She should be here soon.” Tennant had cleared his throat, but his words still came out ragged. The light from the cramped room’s glowing lamp shrank, and his head spun.
“Perhaps the landlady has arrived,” Julia said. “Why don’t you and the sergeant let me finish up, and I’ll prepare the body for identification.”
* * *
Julia had noted and ignored the inspector’s pallor; she’d seen it before.
Despite the cold of the room, a layer of sweat had covered his forehead, and he breathed raggedly.
What is it? she wondered when the door closed behind him.
Not the body. He’d seen many in his line of work.
Julia returned her attention to the corpse and completed the autopsy.
An hour later, a teary Mrs. Murphy arrived to identify Franny Riley.
When Julia pulled the sheet down to the shoulders, Mrs. Murphy made a convulsive cry and pulled back.
For Julia, the worst moment of any postmortem was that instant of recognition.
Hope died in the eyes not slowly but swiftly, like shutters clapped close.
Then came the wait. Julia stood by patiently and helplessly for Mrs. Murphy’s goodbyes.
She leaned over the body and caressed the girl’s cheek, sobbing quietly.
After Mrs. Murphy left, Julia said, “Those weren’t the tears of a landlady.”
O’Malley nodded. “She left the girl’s room as it was, praying she’d return. ’Tis lucky for us if there’s something to find. Someone else would have crated her things and rented the room of a girl who’d vanished.”
Julia drew a sheet over the girl’s head and turned down the oil lamp’s burner. She bowed her head as Paddy O’Malley crossed himself and whispered a Hail Mary before they left.
In the corridor, Tennant asked, “Can you determine the cause of death?”
“A probable beating. A right-handed assailant inflicted the facial injuries on the left side. But the fatal wound crushed the bones of her right temple.”
“Two attackers,” Tennant said.
“Perhaps. I found fresh bruising on her upper right arm and shoulder. She may have fallen to the ground after being struck, hitting her head on something solid.”
The inspector asked, “Did you find other injuries?”
“Yes.” Julia took a breath. “There were fading bruises on her thighs and extensive vaginal tearing.”
“Evidence of rape,” Tennant said.
Julia nodded and tried to steady her voice. “The poor girl had been brutally used.” She looked up and saw Tennant’s eyes on her.
“Fading marks,” he said. “How long before they disappear?”
“Severe bruising can take several weeks to heal, as would the tearing.”
“Consistent with the timeline of her disappearance three weeks ago?”
“Yes. There’s . . . there’s something dreadful in that.” Julia looked away. “A swift act, terrible and brutal, is bad enough. But three weeks of torment . . .”
O’Malley looked at the religious medal in his hand. “Where was the poor lass all that time?”
* * *
In the afternoon, Tennant and O’Malley met Mrs. Murphy at her shop on Silver Street in Soho.
The grocer’s widow still ran the business and lived comfortably in rooms above the shop.
She ushered Tennant and O’Malley into a sitting room filled with evidence of her Catholic faith: a crucifix on the wall, a statue of Mary flanked by a pair of candles, and rosary beads in a dish by her rocking chair.
“Franny’s parents left Ireland in the forties and rented my basement flat,” Mrs. Murphy said. “Fleeing the hunger, only to be caught by cholera in ’54. That last terrible day, they’d left Franny with me to run errands on Broad Street and stopped at the pump for water. By nightfall, they were dead.”
O’Malley said, “No harm came to you and the lass?”
“Thank the Lord, I draw my water from the Warwick Street pump. It’s nearer the shop. Poor little Franny . . . only eight with no family left.”
“You offered her a home,” Tennant said.
Mrs. Murphy’s eyes were bright with tears. “God didn’t bless me with children, but the Good Lord sent me Franny instead.”
“You were a mother to her,” O’Malley said. “’Tis sorry I am for your loss.”
“She always called me Mrs. Murphy, but I felt like her mam.”
“The sergeant who interviewed you three weeks ago . . .” Tennant watched her eyes narrow. “His notes don’t tell us much.”
Her expression hardened. “Franny was a good girl for all that fella hinted otherwise. And him . . .” She waved around the room. “Sneering at my statues the way some Protestants do. I’m begging your pardon, Inspector, but I didn’t like the man.”