Next he looked at the man’s hands. They were strong, lean, with fingernails chipped and far from clean, but they did not look like the hands of a manual worker. There were no calluses. The knuckles were torn as if he had been in a hard fight very recently, perhaps only moments before his death. The bleeding was slight in spite of the ripped skin, and there had not been time for bruising.
Pitt slipped his hand into a jacket pocket and was startled to close his fingers over a small metal box. He pulled it out and turned it over under the light. It was exquisite. He could not tell at a glance whether it was gold- plated or solid, or possibly even pinchbeck, that brilliant imitation of gold, but it was intricately modeled like a tiny cathedral reliquary, the sort used to house the bones of saints. The top was decorated with a tiny reclining figure, relaxed in death and wearing long clerical robes and a bishop’s mitre. Pitt opened the box and sniffed gently. Yes, it was what he had supposed, a snuffbox. It could hardly have belonged to the man who lay dead at his feet. Even if it were pinchbeck it would be worth more than he had seen in a month, perhaps in a year.
But if he had been caught stealing it, why was he left here on the doorstep, and above all, why had whoever killed him not retrieved the box?
Pitt felt to see if there was anything else in the pocket, and found only a short length of string and a pair of bootlaces, apparently unused. In the man’s other pockets he found a key, a piece of rag for a handkerchief, three shillings and four pence in small change, and several pieces of paper, one of which was a receipt for three pairs of socks purchased only two days before from a shop in Red Lion Square. That, if diligently followed, might possibly tell them who he was. There was nothing else to indicate his name or where he lived.
Of course, there were thousands of people who had no homes and simply slept in doorways or under railway arches and bridges, or at this time of the year in the open, if tolerant police did not disturb them. But looking at this man, Pitt deduced that if such misfortune had happened to him, it must have been recent. His clothes were all hard worn; there were holes in his socks-these were not the new ones! The soles of his boots were paper-thin in places, but he was dry. He had not the inlaid grime or the musty, moldy smell of someone who lived outside.
Pitt stood up as he heard footsteps along the pavement and saw the familiar, awkward, angular figure of Sergeant Tellman approaching him from the Charlotte Street direction. He would not have mistaken Tellman even in the lamplight, but the dawn was now whitening the eastern sky.
Tellman reached him and stopped. He was hastily dressed, but it was noticeable only in his jacket, buttoned one hole crooked. His collar was as tight and straight as usual, his cravat as plain and neat, his hair wet, combed back from his lantern-jawed face. He looked dour also, as usual.
“Some gentleman too drunk to avoid being run down by a hansom?” he asked.
Pitt was used to Tellman’s opinion of the privileged.
“If he was a gentleman he was on extremely hard times,” he replied, glancing down at the body. “And he wasn’t hit by a vehicle. There isn’t a mark on his clothes other than where he fell, but his knuckles are grazed as if he put up quite a fight. Look at him yourself.”
Tellman eyed Pitt sharply, then bent as he was told and examined the dead man. When he stood up again, Pitt held out his hand with the snuffbox in it.
Tellman’s eyebrows shot up. “He had that?”
“Yes.”
“Then he was a thief ….”
“So who killed him, and why here on the front doorstep? He didn’t go in or out that way!”
“Don’t reckon as he was killed here either,” Tellman said with a hint of satisfaction. “That wound on his head must have bled a good bit … heads do. Cut yourself and you’ll soon see. But there’s not much on the step around him. I’d say he was killed somewhere else and put here.”
“Because he was a thief?”
“Seems a good reason.”
“Then why leave the snuffbox? Apart from its value, it’s the one thing that could trace him back to the house he stole it from. There can’t be many like it.”
“Don’t know,” Tellman admitted, biting his lips. “Doesn’t make sense. I suppose we’ll have to start asking all ’round the square.” His face reflected vividly his distaste at the prospect.
They both heard the clatter of hooves at the same time as a hansom came from the Caroline Street corner of the square at a brisk clip, followed immediately by the mortuary van. The van stopped a dozen yards along the curb and the hansom drew level with them. The frock-coated figure of the surgeon climbed out, straightened his collar and walked over to them. He nodded greeting, then regarded the dead man with resignation. He hitched the knees of his trousers slightly, to avoid stretching the fabric, and squatted down to begin his examination.
Pitt turned as he heard more footsteps, and saw the constable coming with a highly nervous lamplighter, a thin, fair-haired man dwarfed by his pole. In the dawn light through the trees he looked like some outlandish knight-at-arms with a jousting lance beyond his strength to wield.
“I din’t see nuffink,” he said before Pitt could ask him.
“You passed this way” Pitt reaffirmed. “This is your patch?”
There was no escaping that. “Yeah …”
“When?”
“S’mornin’,” he replied as if it should have been obvious. “ ’Bout first light. Like I always do.”
“Do you know what time that was?” Pitt said patiently.
“First light … like I said!” He sent a nervous, sideways look at the body, half obscured by the surgeon as he bent over it. “ ’e weren’t ’ere then. I din’t see ’im!”
“Do you have a watch?” Pitt pursued, with little hope.
“Wo’for? Gets light different time every day,” the lamplighter said reasonably.
Pitt realized he was not going to get more exact than that. The answer, from the lamplighter’s point of view, was sensible enough.
“Did you see anyone else in the square?” he said instead.
“Not this side.” The lamplighter shook his head. “There were an ’ansom on t’other side, takin’ a gennelman ’ome. Bit the worse fer wear, ’e were, but not fallin’ down, like. Din’t come ’round ’ere.”
“No one else?”
“No. Too late fer most folks from parties, an’ too early fer maids an’ deliveries an’ like.”
That was true. At least it narrowed it down a little more. It had been dark when the constable had been on his previous round, and barely light when he had found the body. The lamplighter could not have been around long before. Which meant the body had been put there within the space of fifteen or twenty minutes. It was just possible, if they were very lucky, that someone had awoken in one of the houses on this side and heard footsteps or shouting, even a single cry. It was a forlorn hope.
“Thank you,” Pitt accepted. The sky was pale now beyond the heavy trees in the center of the square, the light shining on the far rooftops and reflecting mirrorlike in the top-story windows above them. He turned to the surgeon, who seemed to have completed at least his superficial examination.
“A fight,” he pronounced. “Short one, I’d guess. Know more when I see him without his clothes. Could be other abrasions, but his coat isn’t torn or stained. Ground was dry, if he fell over or was knocked. Wasn’t on the street, anyway. There’s no mud on him that I can see. No trace of manure or anything else. And the gutters are pretty wet.” He glanced around. “Rained yesterday evening.”
“I know,” Pitt retorted, looking at the glistening cobbles.
“’Course you do,” the surgeon agreed, nodding at him. “Don’t suppose I can tell you anything you don’t! Have to try. What I’m paid for. One very heavy blow to the side of the head. Killed him. Probably a length of lead pipe or a candlestick or a poker. Something of that sort. I’d guess metal rather than wood to do that much damage. Heavy.”
“Likely to be marks on the person who did it?” Pitt asked.
The surgeon pursed his lips thoughtfully. “A few bruises. Perhaps where the fist connected. Judging by the splits on his knuckles, most likely a jaw or head. Clothes or soft flesh wouldn’t do that. Face would be bruised, hand wouldn’t show. Other fellow had a weapon, this one didn’t, or he wouldn’t have had to use his fists. Nasty.”
“I’m not arguing,” Pitt said dryly. He shivered. He was getting cold. “Can you say anything about time?”
“Nothing you can’t deduce for yourself,” the surgeon replied. “Or about the poor devil here,” he added. “If I can improve on that, I’ll send you a message. Bow Street good enough?”
“Certainly. Thank you.”
