“That’s what it looks like. But murder is not a technique approved of by most of the skilled pickpockets and cutpurses in London.”
She loved to watch him work, listen to him reasoning his way through an event.
He folded his arms, touched his chin with his finger and frowned. “On an occasion like this, the explosions would have hidden any gun retort, if timed right. It could be a simple robbery gone wrong. His clothes are fine, so he obviously had a fat purse somewhere.”
He bent, one knee on the ground and thrust his hand into one of the large pockets on the outside of the coat. He searched the man’s pockets, pulling out what he found and making a small pile on the skirt of the coat nearest to him.
A two and sixpenny ticket to the rehearsal of the fireworks for the celebration of the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle. She couldn’t read the small print, but she recognized it as the twin of one in her pocket. A few loose guineas, but no purse.
Ash passed the handkerchief to her, and she looked at the blue letters embroidered in one corner. The florid initials, GC meant nothing to her. She held it while she watched her husband pull more items out of the man’s pockets. No door key, which would mean he had servants to let him in. What gentleman bothered with a door key? A square token of dull silvery metal, with something stamped on to the surface. That item never hit the pile of belongings.
And that was all. Gold or pinchbeck buckles at his knees and fastening his shoes, fine buttons on his coat and waistcoat. All eminently sellable, and all left behind.
“I can think of a few possibilities,” she said when he straightened and came back to her side.
“Go on.”
“The robber was interrupted or startled, and the gun went off. Could the weapon have been too finely tuned?” Some pistols were set to go off the minute a person touched the trigger. Not popular, because of the inherent dangers of such a weapon, but they existed.
“Possibly. But if you knew your pistol had that problem, would you really push it against someone’s back?”
“And what about the fireworks?”
“Ah. Yes. They would muffle the sound.”
“Is this it, sir?”
A man held out a wicked but beautiful weapon. Ash took it. The hammer was deep in the pan, which was blackened by the recent explosion that had forced a bullet into the man of the ground. It was chased, engraved, the workmanship beautiful. “A gentleman’s weapon,” Ash remarked.
“Yes.” She took it from him, hefted it. Touched the place the murderer must have done, but she had no visions, merely her acute sense of observation. “A duelling pistol,” she remarked. Gentlemen collected them, showed them off to people.
In the months since her marriage, she had seen a few gory scenes. When she demanded that her husband involve her in his work, he’d taken her to the messiest scenes. He either wanted to test her tolerance, or to see if he could rely on her not to become missish. Ash often helped Bow Street magistrates with their more “interesting” cases, as he put it, or took private commissions.
But she had not let him down. The first two times, she did vomit, but not where it affected the scene of the crime, and she’d learned how to suppress her reaction. Sometimes the stink and degradation of the place forced that out of her, rather than the crime itself. Sometimes she wanted to weep, like the time when a husband had beaten his wife to death. So she took to carrying more than one handkerchief with her.
The work, the stubborn crimes that multiplied in a city as large as London, fascinated her. If she had to learn to bear the sight of death, then she would. She was useful, performing a service that benefitted people, rather than becoming a decorative ornament.
After all, the first time she’d met Ash was the morning she woke up next to the body of her dead husband.
Was this man somebody’s husband? Would his death cause mourning and sorrow? Or had the person who killed him wanted him dead? Juliana had wanted her first husband dead, but she had not killed him. She’d have been stupid to do so, as she’d have become the prime suspect. Which she had. Only Ash had cared, only he had sorted through the evidence until he got to the truth. And for that, she would be forever grateful, even though he didn’t want her gratitude.
“Could he have known his killer?”
Ash jerked a short nod. “I am thinking about that possibility. After all, what was he doing here, in this space? He could have arranged to meet someone, or someone forced him here at gunpoint. Or both. I need to know who he is, who he came with, if anyone, where he was sitting for the performance. There are two things absent from his pockets, that I’d expect to find there.”
She got his meaning. “His card case and his purse.”
“Precisely.”
An attendant approached them. “Could this be it, sir?”
He held out his hand, palm up, an elaborately chased case with that same monogram on the lid. The victim had a positive fever for his initials.
“Where did you find it?” Ash asked.
The man pointed to a corner of the area, toward the back. “Just there, sir. Didn’t see it until we brought the torches in.”
“Thank you.” Ash took the case from him. “Perhaps he’d already got it out, ready to present his card to the person he met.”
“Which indicates he didn’t know the person.”
Ash nodded. He ran his finger along the front edge of the case, searching for the button or lever that opened it. Knowing his impatience with devices, she took it from him. There should be a catch just below the center of the slim box. Ah yes.
A stentorian throat clearing at the opening drew everyone’s attention, including hers. She knew that sound, had dreaded it
