Don Gutteridge - Bloody Relations

Cobb followed Madame Renée through a narrow hall to a curtained-off doorway.

“I can’t look in there again,” she said, her voice faltering as she pushed the lantern into Cobb’s hand. “Sarah was like a daughter to me.”

“No need to, ma’am. That’s my job,” Cobb said with more confidence than he felt. He had been involved in only two murder cases since joining the force, not counting the lethal consequences of tavern brawls. Thus he had seen a number of dead bodies, but the thought of somebody deliberately murdered and a woman to boot was unnerving in the extreme. He took a deep breath, pushed the curtain aside, and went in.

He found himself in a small bedroom, furnished only with a washstand and a low-slung bed not more than a foot off the wooden floor. Above the bed, high up on the wall, was a window in which a kind of muslin screen ballooned gently, letting in a bit of the night breeze and keeping out the mosquitoes. But it was the bed itself that caught Cobb’s attention and held it in a horrified gaze. The lantern trembled in his hand.

Two people lay on top of a skimpy coverlet, both naked, one of them snoring monstrously and the other very much dead. Cobb forced himself to concentrate on the gaping wound in the girl’s neck as she lay motionless on her back with her legs apart and all her womanly appurtenances exposed to the lantern light. There was blood everywhere. The coverlet was soaked, as was the throw rug beside it and the bedding under the young male who lay beside the victim. In his right hand, a slim dagger glittered, gobbets of the girl’s blood still wet upon its six-inch length. Cobb thanked the Lord that her eyes were closed.

He edged forward, keeping to the outside wall to avoid stepping in the blood on the rug and trying to clear the shock from his head. He was also doing his best to recall what he had learned at the side of Lieutenant Marc Edwards during his investigation of the murder at Frank’s Theatre last year. Observe the scene coolly before becoming part of it, he said to himself. He stopped in the narrow space between the bed and the wall with the window in it. The cheesecloth screen covering the eye-level window looked untouched: no one had come in or gone out that way. He held the lantern high and peered across the bodies to scrutinize the blood-drenched throw rug and blood-smeared plank floor from another angle. No sign of footprints. It appeared that neither Molly nor Madame Renée had ventured into the room after coming upon the grisly sight.

While the naked man continued to snore loudly, Cobb leaned across him to examine the murdered girl, still keeping half an eye on the knife in her client’s hand. Her hair, lustrous brown and unbloodied, lay demurely upon its pillow; her small rosebud lips were opened as if to register a final “oh” of surprise or regret. She wore no makeup. She didn’t have to: she was naturally beautiful. And a whore.

Cobb sighed, and the man stirred, moaned, and took up snoring again. Cobb leaned farther over him and held the lantern up to examine the wound. It looked wide and deep, but it was clear she had been killed by a single thrust. Dr. Withers would be able to tell him more. Cobb forced himself to make a quick survey of the rest of the girl’s body, feeling the heat in his cheeks, but there were no visible signs of any other kind of injury. He straightened up then and shone the light upon the girl’s killer. He was surprised to see a fine-boned young man with a shock of ashen hair, beardless and, even in this poor light, pale-skinned. Cobb lifted the knife free of the man’s fingers. They were uncallused. That, and the clothes strewn about Cobb’s feet, indicated a man of means. Not unexpected, in Madame Renée’s establishment. There would be no end of trouble, Cobb surmised, when the murderer was well-heeled and the victim a lowly denizen of a brothel. But at least there would be no doubt about who the killer was. Cobb would escort this gentleman to the jail himself. With no apologies.

Cobb wrapped the knife in his freshly laundered handkerchief and quietly left the room. For the moment he had decided to question the madam and Molly about the circumstances leading up to the murder. Get a clear picture of what happened as soon as you can, would be Marc Edwards’s advice. And if the gentleman wished to sleep and keep himself out of the way, so much the better. Before entering the parlour, however, Cobb took a quick look at the layout of this part of the house. The bedroom behind him was one of three such cubicles exiting off a narrow hallway. He walked to the far end of it, where a water closet lay to his left. Even in the unlit corridor, he could see that there was no window in the end wall. The other two cubicles were empty, with their forlorn little cots neatly made up.

When he came back into the parlour, he saw Madame Renée sitting in one of the padded armchairs. She was holding her chin in her hands as if physically trying to still her shuddering body. Cobb had seen it before: delayed shock. Molly had come back into the room, her own tidal waves of trauma passed, and was prodding a fire into life in the stove, preparing to brew some tea. Across the room in a doorway leading to another part of the house, Cobb could see two moon faces peering out: the other girls, no doubt.

Cobb nodded to Molly to carry on, then went to the sideboard. He brought a glass of whiskey across to Madame Renée, and she accepted it gratefully.

“I’m gonna haveta ask you and yer girls some questions, when you feel up to it. I also need to have someone go up to Dr. Withers’s place and lead him back here to examine the body.”

Madame Renée trembled anew at the mention of the word “body.”

“I treated her like my own, didn’t I, Molly?”

“We all did, Mum,” Molly said, plunking the tea kettle onto the hot stove. “Sarah was the sweetest girl. She wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“Is there a boy we could send into town for the doctor?” Cobb asked. “And, if possible, another lad to fetch the chief constable.” Cobb was beginning to worry about being the lone authority with a killer to watch over and witnesses to interrogate. God knows what other form of trouble might be lurking nearby. He couldn’t be everywhere at once.

Madame Renée collected herself. “Yes. I sent our trackers home hours ago, but they just live two doors up. Carrie, dear, go up and fetch Donald and Peter.” A natural air of command had come back into Madame Renée’s voice.

Carrie, in a flimsy wrap, inched out of the doorway, her face glistening with tears. “Is Sarah really dead?”

“Yes, she is, Carrie. And Constable Cobb is here to help us. So be a good girl and fetch the lads. Tell them it’s urgent.”

Cobb reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. “Would sixpence speed them on their way?”

“You give them that and we’ll not see hide nor hair of them,” Madame Renée said, a brief twinkle surfacing through her distress.

A few minutes later, when the tea had been made and Madame Renée’s grief had subsided, Cobb went outside and gave two skinny, yawning boys their instructions. He slipped them each a three-penny piece, and they vanished into the darkness. As he re-entered the parlour he heard Madame Renée saying to Molly, “We’re ruined, you know. We’ve lost Sarah and we’re ruined.”

While Cobb knew that Marc would have questioned the witnesses one at a time in privacy, he could not bring himself to order Molly or her mistress out of the room while he dealt with them individually. Besides, if they had wished or needed to concoct a plausible lie about what had happened, they had had plenty of opportunity to do so before his arrival. So he drew up a chair beside Madame Renée and Molly, while the others were allowed to look on. Cobb decided to start with what he assumed to be the most salient points first, then backtrack to the larger narrative of events.