Daniel Friedman - Riot Most Uncouth

“You mean that the killer’s rumored blood-draining is an unusual hallmark?” I said.

“Yes. And if I were to accuse a prominent nobleman of this crime, and later on, another bloodless corpse turned up, there is a small chance my professional reputation might suffer some damage.” He straightened his cravat as he said this, tightening it until it crimped the flesh of his neck, letting me know he was a man who valued his honor.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, I’d rather enjoy seeing you embarrassed,” I said. I took the opportunity to return his nasty leer.

“You’d have a fine view of my shame, while dangling from the gallows.”

Distraught by my exchange with Archibald Knifing, I decided to return at once to the murder house. I found Angus the volunteer watchman still guarding the front door.

“What do you want, Lord Byron?” he asked.

“I have spoken to Archibald Knifing,” I said. “I am concerned he may intend to wrongfully accuse me of this crime. Therefore, I must catch the killer so that I may exonerate myself.”

“That’s very interesting.” He adjusted his bulk slightly, pushing the protrusion of his belly down into his trousers. “Let me know how that goes for you.”

“I must see the murder scene.”

“You know I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not? Knifing has already inspected the place for clues.”

“It’s disrespectful, nonetheless, to admit passersby to a place like this, merely to satisfy their curiosity. Death is a private affair, I’ve always believed. I suppose I am obliged to help preserve whatever I can of the poor girl’s dignity.”

I felt my face and throat flush hot with rage. I wished that I’d brought the bear. Then I became very conscious of the fact that I was armed and Angus was not. “What use have the dead for dignity?”

“What else have the dead got?” Angus said, letting a glop of emotion squish through the cracks in his absurd facade of official nonchalance.

“I need to see that body,” I said, sensing vulnerability and inching closer to the constable. “What possible harm could it do to let me in?”

“What possible good could it do you?” he asked. “There’s nothing in there for you to learn. You are not an expert criminal investigator. If Knifing missed some clue to the killer’s identity, you won’t find it either.”

“Do you think I could have committed this crime?” I asked. I loomed even closer, putting my face near enough to the constable’s that he could feel my breath on his cheeks. My strategy was to unman him with my overbearing youth and masculinity.

He did not back away. “I can’t be certain. You seem mentally unbalanced, and very angry, especially for a gentleman of such privilege. But, no. I don’t think you did it.”

“Then let me try to exculpate myself while I still have a chance. The undertaker will surely arrive soon to take away the body, and my opportunity will be irrevocably lost.”

His features pinched and his mouth curled sourly downward. He spat some thick gray phlegm into the grass. “You really want to see what’s in there, Lord Byron?”

“I asked, did I not?”

Angus turned on his boot heel in a crisp, assured motion; his muscles perhaps recalling some long-past, slimmer time when he was a soldier. I followed the constable into the house, past the house matron’s parlor, and up a narrow stairwell. I could hear the sound of muffled weeping coming from some of the other girls’ quarters.

Angus led me down a dim hallway and stopped in front of the third entryway on the left. He removed a key from a metal ring he had looped through his belt, worked it in the lock, and cracked open the door. The windows were covered with heavy curtains, so Angus took an oil lamp down from a fixture on the wall and held it so the light cut in through the doorway.

The corpse of Felicity Whippleby was bound about the feet with knotted bedsheets and hung upside down from a chandelier-hook on the ceiling. Her open eyes had dried and begun to shrivel in the sockets, exposing pink connective tissue around the milky, discolored orbs. Her lips hung slack and loose; her cheeks were purple-white.

“She might have been beautiful,” I said.

Angus shrugged. “She’s not anymore, though.”

Her neck was slashed open, and blood pooled on the rug beneath the dangling form. The half-dried puddle was thick and brown around the edges, on the way to turning black. I noticed that there was much less of it than one might expect to find in a human body, and there was a mashed-down spot the rug beneath the corpse, which might have been left by a heavy washbasin or some similar vessel. The killer had collected her blood and taken it with him. He’d also slit her torso open from the throat to the navel, and gray coils of swollen viscera, shiny in the low light, protruded from the ragged wound.

I tried to hide my shock at the sight of the body. It was necessary for me to demonstrate my brilliance here; to find something Knifing had missed. “If the killer took the blood with him, how did he get it out of here?” I asked.

Angus was unimpressed by my observation. “He hung up the body with rope. He probably used rope to lower his bucket out the window. It would have weighed maybe fifteen pounds; plus the weight of the container. No great feat for a healthy man; easier than lifting the corpse. Knifing found a bit of spillage below, on the street. We canvassed all the houses with views of the window, but nobody saw anything.”

All I could think to say was: “Spillage?”

“Have you anything else to contribute, Lord Byron? Does your keen poet’s eye spot some subtle clue that escaped Mr. Knifing?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’ve got nothing else right now.”

“I thought not. Have you a joke or a quip? Have you a clever bit of wordplay?”

“None springs to mind.” My voice cracked a little.

“Personally, I will sleep worse tonight for having looked upon this sorry tableau,” said Angus. “I’ve got a daughter, and I fear for her. Frightens me deep down to know this kind of thing is out there in the world.”

I nodded, staring transfixed at the corpse, which swung in little circles, moved by the slight breeze from the doorway.

“You didn’t need to see this,” he told me. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but I’ve got no patience for it. This isn’t a game. This isn’t some lark. This isn’t for your drunken amusement.”

He drew away the lamp, put it back on the wall. Felicity Whippleby fell back into shadow as he closed the door.

Angus pivoted on his heel and descended the staircase. I was about to follow him, when I heard the sound of someone moving around in the quarters opposite Felicity’s. I felt I would be remiss in my investigative duties if I failed to question a potential witness, so I knocked on the door.

A young woman about my age, wearing an informal housedress, opened the door.

“Oh my goodness,” she said. “You are not supposed to be here.”

Her appearance was really quite striking; her skin was pale and clear, and her lips sensuous. And though her figure was quite trim, her bosoms were sufficiently ample. It was immediately evident that she was a subject of great interest, and not only to my investigation.