Page 5

Without a word, the lad disappeared on his task.

Sir Gabriel entered the stall, though Messinger stayed back. “I had a look,” the chief magistrate said, adding, “without touching anything, mind you.”

The knight knew better than to muddle a crime scene.

“It appears she was killed elsewhere and then left here,” Sir Gabriel said.

“I agree, and as her clothing and hair are dry, and it’s been sleeting most of the afternoon and evening, she was covered with something that repelled the elements while being transported.”

“A canvas?”

“Possibly,” he replied. “Or a container of some sort.”

Hugh held out the lantern, indicating for Sir Gabriel to take it. He did, and Hugh gently rolled the young woman onto h er back. Her limbs were slack, the rigidity of death not yet affecting her muscles and tendons. With that, and the tacky state of the blood on her bodice, Hugh was inclined to place the time of her death no more than one or two hours ago.

Now that she was positioned face up, he saw her youth more clearly. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had not yet been twenty. Her skin, though ashen, was clear and soft; her ungloved hands showed well-groomed nails and no callouses; and the dress she wore looked as fashionable as something Audrey or Cassie would own.

“She was clearly a young woman of some status,” Hugh said. “Someone will be missing her very soon.”

He stood, and when Sir Gabriel handed him the lantern again, the shifting light caught on something within the hay. A glint of something metal. He crouched again for a closer look. The object had been resting underneath the young woman, and when Hugh had adjusted her to her back, it had been revealed.

“What is that?” Sir Gabriel asked, having seen it too.

Hugh brushed away sheaves of hay covering the object. It was a small bronze ring, hammered into a crest on one side and stamped with a design that looked to be two hands clasped together. He picked it up. The ring looked ancient, without the refinement or polish of modern jewelry. He ran the tip of his finger over etched words above and below the joined hands, but in the poor light, they weren’t legible.

He held it out for Victor Messinger to see. “Do you recognize this ring?”

Although he stayed planted where he was at the stall’s threshold, Messinger leaned forward, squinting to see. He shook his head sharply.

Hugh tucked the ring into the pocket of his dinner jacket, curious as to how it had come to be underneath the body. Had it slipped from the pocket of whoever had delivered the young woman to this spot? Or perhaps it belonged to the victim. There was an opening in her skirt near her hip, which aligned with a tie-on pocket underneath her dress. Audrey had often lamented to him the fact that ladies’ fashions usually lacked pockets, and she insisted on having them sewn into all her dresses.

The thought regarding his wife brought forward another: her peculiar ability to hold objects and receive visions of what had occurred around the object in the recent past. Audrey had employed her inexplicable gift several times during previous inquiries, before they’d married. Almost always, the knowledge she would glean from the objects would help to advance an investigation. Should she hold this strange ring in her bare hand, it would surely provide help again.

However, as useful as her gift was, Hugh would not ask her to touch this object. It could show her the horrific attack that had ended this girl’s life. With Audrey nearing the start of her confinement, when she would need to stay close to home and rest in preparation for the birth of their child, any stress, any shock or horror she was subjected to could be detrimental to her or to the baby. He would not risk that.

Hugh straightened and backed away from the body. He had scores of questions, but the most important ones to get answers to right then were who the young woman was and why she had been left here, in Messinger’s carriage house.

“Does anyone else live with you?” Hugh asked as he rejoined the MP at the stall entrance.

“At the moment, no,” Messinger answered. “My wife died several years ago, and my son, Calvin, left late in September for his tour of the Continent. He is due to return in March.”

It was fairly common for young men of means just out of university to go on a grand tour for five or six months. They would travel through France, Spain, and Italy as a means to completing the worldly education it was believed every gentleman should possess. Of course, from the tales Hugh had heard from those who’d partaken in a grand tour, the most revered activity was the sowing of their wild oats. Hugh suspected every English gentleman returning from his tour left behind at least one by-blow, if not several.

“Stabbed?” Sir Gabriel presumed.

“I believe so, though I’d like Lord Thornton to have a look at her,” Hugh replied. The physician, who was the fourth son of the Marquess of Lindstrom, had been Hugh’s good friend for many years. Grant Thornton was a roguish Lothario, but he was also a skilled doctor. He would know how the young woman came to die.

“I’ll arrange for her to be brought to St. James’s Square,” the chief magistrate said, knowing it was where Thornton lived and operated an office out of his home for patients in need.

“Mr. Messinger, I’m going to need to question your staff,” Hugh announced.

“I have told you that she is not known to anyone under my roof, and no one saw anything,” the man insisted, his temper rising. He was overwrought and likely worried that once news of the bloody discovery emerged, suspicion would be directed at him. Rightly so, too.

“If you want my help finding out what happened here, I will need to speak to the members of your household,” Hugh said, trying to maintain his calm. “Of course, if you’d rather Bow Street take over, I’m sure the chief magistrate will assign his best officer to the case.”

Sir Gabriel sent Hugh a knowing smirk, and as expected, Messinger was quick to respond, “No, no. Of course, Lord Neatham, you may speak to my staff. Forgive me, it has been quite a shock. Please, come inside.”

Sir Gabriel addressed the servant at the carriage house doors, ordering him to fetch a hired cart from a local livery for the transport of the young woman’s body to Lord Thornton’s home. As the servant ducked his head and ran down the mews lane, he passed Sir who rushed into the carriage house, his hat and coat drenched.