S. Parris - The Secret Dead - A Novella

‘Ready?’

I tried to swallow, but my throat had dried. I managed a nod, and he pulled back the sheet covering the body.

In the stillness I heard myself gasp aloud, though I had the presence of mind not to cry out. Stretched out on the table was the body of a young woman, about my own age, unmoving as a marble tomb. Her flesh was so unblemished that it seemed at first she might be merely sleeping; indeed, I dared to hope as much for the space of a heartbeat, until I looked more closely and saw in her face the unmistakable contortions of strangulation. It was clear, despite the bulging eyes, the protruding tongue and the discolouration of the face, that she must have been unusually beautiful, not very long ago. Her skin was pale and smooth, her dark hair flowed around her shoulders and her waist was small and neat, her hips narrow and her breasts full. Ripe bruises like shadow fingers formed a ring around her white throat.

‘By my reckoning,’ Gennaro said, turning over the hourglass, now brusque and businesslike, ‘we have about two and a half hours until Matins. There is no time to waste.’

So saying, he took a broad-bladed knife and slit the girl’s shift lengthways in one swift movement, from hem to neck, leaving the fabric to fall away either side. I tried to avert my eyes from the dark thatch of hair on her pubic mound, but it was difficult; I had not seen a woman’s body in three years. If Gennaro noticed my confusion and the colour rising to my cheeks, he was discreet enough not to mention it.

‘Who is she?’ I whispered, fixing my gaze on her feet. The soles were bare and dirty.

‘Beggar. Homeless. Come, hold that lantern closer.’ His reply came just a fraction too quick.

‘But – how does she come to be here?’ I blurted, forgetting my earlier promise.

‘She was found in the street by one of the night patrols and brought to me. They thought they might be in time to save her. Alas, they arrived too late.’

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