An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London. J. Durham J.
Читать онлайн книгу.
agree with you more,’ said Pilgrim.
‘Egos that are big enough already, if you ask me.’
Pilgrim ignored the aside, and bent to retrieve some paperwork that had fallen from Tanner’s desk. It was a mortuary sketch of a young woman. ‘Did you do this, Wainwright?’ he asked.
‘Sir?’
‘This drawing; it’s very good.’
Dolly moved to stand behind Pilgrim to inspect the drawing for himself. Wainwright relaxed under their evident approval.
‘Inspector Field says I have a gift.’
‘He’s right,’ said Pilgrim.
The young woman in the drawing looked as if she could be asleep, her eyes closed, freckled face relaxed, and lips slightly parted. The gash across her throat had been cleaned of blood, and Wainwright had faithfully recorded each layer of skin and muscle, the seam of subcutaneous fat, and the section of vertebrae that was visible through the incision.
‘Who is she?’ asked Pilgrim.
Tanner took the drawing from him. ‘Another sorry slapper gone to meet her maker. Found on the floor of her lodgings on the Waterloo Road.’
‘What’s her name?’
Tanner didn’t reply. Pilgrim had to prompt him. ‘She did have a name?’
‘Eliza Grimwood.’
‘You got the killer?’
‘No one saw or heard anything.’
Dolly grinned. ‘Business as usual, then.’ He wandered to Pilgrim’s desk and picked up one of the letters. ‘Aren’t you going to open these, sir? I can give you a hand, if you like.’
Pilgrim was saved from having to answer by Wainwright.
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, Sergeant Pilgrim, sir, Inspector Field has asked to see you and Constable Williamson. Right away, he says. He’s getting his photograph taken at present, but says as you’re to go straight in.’
A flash greeted Pilgrim and Dolly as they entered Charley Field’s office. When their vision cleared, they could see the Inspector standing in the middle of the room, fists on his waist and legs akimbo.
‘Be with you in a minute, boys,’ he said. ‘You can’t hurry art, you know.’
A barrel-chested figure, in his early fifties, with a ruddy face and military air, he was generally a man of action, unable to stay still for more than a moment at a time. At that particular moment, however, he had no choice, for his head was gripped by a photographic brace.
The legs of the photographer were visible beneath the camera cover, as well as one arm, which was holding aloft a smoking tray. He emerged from under the cover, his hair sticking up in spikes.
‘I think we might have that last one.’ His tone spoke more of desperation than conviction, and his hands shook slightly as they replaced the plate in the back of the camera with a fresh one. ‘Now we’ll try a different pose.’ He released the springs holding Field’s head.
Field shook himself like a dog. ‘All done?’ he said. ‘Capital!’
‘But we … ’
‘Nonsense. I’m sure you’ve got what you need.’ Field grabbed the camera tripod. ‘Let me help you with your equipment.’
As the photographer rushed to rescue his camera, Field also scooped up the photographic plates. ‘These are yours, aren’t they? And this? We wouldn’t want you to forget anything.’ He bundled up plates, camera, vice, photographer and all, and practically threw them out into the corridor.
Closing the door on the confusion, he turned back into the room and signalled for Pilgrim and Dolly to take a seat.
‘Newfangled nonsense,’ he said. ‘Making people stand about like cattle. It’ll never catch on. Still, we have to keep the newspapers happy.’ He settled himself in the chair behind the desk, and turned his knowing gaze from Pilgrim to Dolly, and back again. ‘I have to say, you don’t look at all well, boys. I’ve seen more colour in gallows-meat. What you need is a spot of country air.’
Before they had a chance to respond, he jumped up, strode back to the door, and disappeared through it.
Dolly looked at Pilgrim. ‘What … ?’ he began.
But Field was already back, towing a bespectacled man in his wake. He pulled up another chair, and pushed the man into it.
‘This is Chief Constable Moxton. Head of the Essex Constabulary and an old friend of mine. He needs our help.’ Field turned to Moxton. ‘Now, George, tell my boys all about your problem. If anyone can help you, these two can. They’re the city’s best. Even Mr Charles Dickens will tell you so.’
Chief Constable Moxton’s eyebrows rose fractionally. ‘Quite a recommendation.’
Pilgrim sensed the barb beneath the words.
‘Indeed it is.’ Field swallowed it.
‘How can we help you, sir?’ asked Pilgrim. He nodded at Dolly to take out his notebook.
Moxton took off his spectacles and wiped them. ‘Last Friday morning, a little after noon, a large trunk was delivered to the Reverend Bonwell, of Great Barrow …’
‘Is that one ‘l’, sir, or two?’ cut in Dolly. ‘In Bonwell?’
Moxton turned his gaze on the constable, replaced his spectacles, and continued as if he had never spoken. ‘The trunk contained the body of a young boy, aged about four years old.’
Pilgrim felt Field’s gaze flash over him, but kept his own firmly on Moxton.
‘Our initial examination,’ continued Moxton, ‘showed that the boy died of unnatural causes.’
‘Did the Reverend know him?’ asked Pilgrim.
‘No. I have given Inspector Field all of our notes to date. Everything is in the file.’ Moxton stood up. ‘The investigation is in your hands now, Field. I wish you luck of it.’
Pilgrim and Dolly, taken by surprise at the brevity of the briefing, were slow to rise.
‘Adolphus,’ said Field, ‘would you be so good as to show the Chief Inspector out?’ He jumped up and pumped Moxton’s hand. ‘We will keep you abreast of developments here, George. You may count on it.’
Pilgrim and Field watched as Dolly followed Moxton out and closed the door behind them. Pilgrim turned to look at Field.
‘Sour old bastard,’ said Field.
Pilgrim sat down again. ‘So what’s the real story?’
Field went to the decanter and splashed some port into a glass. ‘Join me?’ he asked.
Pilgrim shook his head.
‘Sorry, I forgot.’ Field carried his drink back to his seat and propped his feet on the desk. ‘The Reverend Bonwell, in his wisdom, burned the wrappings on the parcel. But not before the housekeeper had noticed from where the carriage had been paid, God bless her soul. “Euston Square Station”. She said as much in her interview.’
‘Which made it a Metropolitan case.’
‘Exactly so. George wasn’t pleased. They don’t get many murders in Essex.’ Field looked at Pilgrim, his eyes sharp and serious. ‘I must be straight with you, Harry, I wasn’t sure if I should put you on the case.’
Pilgrim’s features smoothed. ‘Why wouldn’t you?’
‘Don’t be disingenuous. The boy’s not much younger than … ’
‘I don’t have a problem with the case,’ cut in Pilgrim, ‘but the same can’t be said for Moxton. You’re