“I had no idea such a place existed,” she whispered as she trailed after him along an unremarkable corridor.
“It’s not something any of us wish to remember, quite frankly.” He opened a door on the right and pushed the panel wide, gesturing for her to precede him. “When bodies are discovered within London proper, and they’ve obviously met with a gruesome end—murder—they’re held here until released to the families. Many times, in cases like this, an inquest is held here instead of in a home or tavern as is popular.”
“What if the families don’t wish for such a thing?”
“We’ll try to respect their wishes, of course, but in cases like this that are assumed related, we must insist protocol is followed as dictated by Whitehall.” A delicate shiver racked her shoulders, for here in the cellars, it was cooler than outside. That was a good thing, for it kept decomposition from accelerating. In the summer months, large blocks of ice were brought in and stacked around the bodies.
“Have the inquests on those two women been performed?” she asked as he flipped a switch that brought gas lights around the room to life.
“Yes, yesterday evening.” He’d received a missive after he’d returned home from the musicale indicating such. “Obviously, cause of death was murder by stabbing—gutting really—but I wanted one last look at the bodies side by side before they’re released to the families this afternoon. I also thought you might have some interest in it.”
“I appreciate the inclusion.” She followed him across the moderately sized room where two tables waited, her limp making progress slower. Crisp, white sheets covered the two bodies lying upon them. “Oh, dear God, the smell!”
William tamped on a grin when she pressed a gloved finger to her upper lip, and he didn’t show sympathy when she made dry heaving noises. In this business, there was no pity. One must steel oneself and grow a strong spine. Yet, there was no denying the stench of decay was quite pervasive. “You must have a strong constitution when dealing with crime, Francesca.” As she worked to sort herself, he walked between the two tables and then gently drew down the sheets, exposing both women to the harsh lighting. “Let us examine once more the wounds in the hopes seeing them together will give us a fresh perspective.”
Both bodies were now devoid of clothing, for such was the grim detail that death had provided. The dead woman from a few days ago was much paler. On both bodies, obvious signs of stitching were present from where the undertaker had sewn the flesh back together after the coroner had performed the inquests. Two plain wooden coffins waited, leaning against the far wall of the room—the final resting place for those two women.
“These poor women.” Francesca held her handkerchief to her nose and mouth. Today, her notebook and pencil remained firmly inside her reticule, and he didn’t blame her. This first foray into the aftermath of murder wasn’t pleasant.
“Indeed, but we must look at the situation clinically and without emotion, for life has long ago left the two of them. It’s up to people like us to give them the justice they deserve.” He indicated the jagged wounds on both abdomens. “Now that the bodies have been cleaned and the gruesome entrails contained, we are able to see the stabbing patterns more clearly.”
Francesca, to her credit, crept closer as she examined the bodies. “The person who killed them must have been in a blind passion or rage. Perhaps the killer was even insane.”
“Indeed.” For there was no doubt in his mind the killer was the same person. The jagged lines of the stab wounds were identical. “But why carve a W into each shoulder?” He indicated the initials on both bodies.
His companion lowered her handkerchief. She frowned as she peered at the carvings. “Perhaps it isn’t a W at all. Why couldn’t it be an M?”
William’s brow wrinkled. “I suppose that’s possible…” He looked more closely at one of the carvings, but there was no indication the killer had meant one letter over the other. “To what purpose, though? What could an M signify?” Damn it all, an abstract portion of his brain had hoped that letter had been a W, for it would have been too easy to accuse Lord Wainwright of foul play.
And clear the field as it were.
“I’m not certain.”
“Mmm.” He continued to look between each body. “Perhaps the man wished to show unequivocal possession—mine. That would make an M meaningful.”
“Yes, but a tad ordinary. The more interesting aspect here is the fact the initials weren’t made by the same knife as the abdomen wounds.”
“Then what weapon was used?”
“I’m not certain, but the blade was much thinner, allowed for more delicate work, almost as if the killer wished to enhance the kill or embellish it.”
“A truly outstanding theory.”
“Thank you.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Also, why do you assume the killer was a man? Are not women capable of such foul deeds? Even more so if they were committed when a woman was under high duress.”
“True enough, for women do tend to harbor a more emotional side, but poison is usually more the weapon of choice for a woman. Less messy.” He frowned. “However, the probability is low. Ninety percent of murders in this city are conducted by men.”
“Yet it’s a working theory.” She glanced between the two bodies. “Their backgrounds are varied, which gives us nothing to go on except they were both at the same ton events.”
“Then jealousy perhaps as the motivation?”
“Of what? Dancing?” She shook her head. “There’s not enough information here.”
“Agreed, which is why this case is so frustrating.” And it added to the miasma of annoyances already gripping him.
“What now?” She glanced at him, questions clouding her eyes, none of which he could read. Why the deuce did he want to?
“You tell me,” he responded in a low voice, but there was no mistaking the double entendre of his words.