Jonathan tugged up on the pleats of his trousers and crouched down to examine the body closer. “What do you see, Sergeant?”
“Appears to be in her twenties, sir.” Sergeant Lester moved the woman’s collar. Even in the dim light, bruising was visible on her neck. “I’d say Hutchings is right. Looks like she was throttled.”
Whether or not that was the cause of death was still to be seen. When the lanterns arrived, he could possibly discern more clues from the body. Jonathan stood and took note of the alleyway—one entrance from the street and, at the other end, a brick wall too high to climb. When he kicked aside a broken bottle, a cat dodged past, no doubt in pursuit of vermin of some kind. Pieces of crates and other rubbish littered the space, giving the air a foul odor and contributing to the rodent problem. A door on his left led into the Porky Pie, and above, on either side, were windows of upper stories from which lines of drying clothes were strung over the alley. He wondered vaguely if their owners would pull them inside before the rain started.
He tried the door handle. Locked.
Circles of light spread through the alley as Hutchings returned with two lanterns.
Sergeant Lester took one, and Jonathan the other. “Ask around inside the pub, Constable,” Jonathan said to Hutchings. “Learn who has a key to this door and whether anyone noted anything suspicious.”
“Yes, sir.” The constable started away.
“Do you think the killer escaped through the pub?” Sergeant Lester asked. He tried the door handle as well, with the same result.
“If so, he either had a key or was assisted by someone inside.”
Raised voices came from the crowd, Merryweather’s among them. Jonathan shared a look with the sergeant, and they strode to the mouth of the alley to investigate.
“Let me through, sir.” A young woman was attempting to push past the constable. “I insist you move aside directly.”
Jonathan brought the lantern light closer. The woman was short with light-brown hair pulled up beneath a flower-embellished hat. Her skirt was striped, and she wore a matching fitted jacket over a blouse with a lace collar. A brooch with some sort of blue flower was pinned to her lapel. But the most conspicuous characteristic was the woman’s cleanliness. Her clothing was laundered and her shoes unblemished. It was obvious the garments were costly, even to a person with no knowledge of fashion. Her appearance stood out like a beacon in the grimy street.
“I’ll handle this, Constable,” Jonathan said. He turned to the woman and tugged on his hat brim. “Detective Jonathan Graham, at your service, miss.”
“Sophie Bremerton.” She inclined her head.
“How might I be of assistance, Miss Bremerton?”
“Thank you, Detective.” She darted a sharp look at the constable. “This man refuses to let me past.”
Jonathan glanced at Merryweather, then back at her. “With good reason, miss. This is an active crime scene.”
“Yes, I realize that, Detective. It is the very reason I’m here.”
In just that moment Jonathan took her measure. She was confident and well-spoken, with an aristocratic accent. The woman was no doubt slumming—a favorite pastime of the privileged and bored. Curious wealthy tourists visited impoverished neighborhoods for amusement. The idea of these people seeking a thrill from witnessing the hardships of their fellow man made Jonathan’s blood boil.
Very well, he’d teach this Sophie Bremerton a lesson. Show her the people he protected were not simply here for her entertainment.
“Stand aside, Merryweather.” He took Miss Bremerton’s elbow and pulled her into the alley with long strides, holding up the lantern so the body on the ground was completely illuminated.
Miss Bremerton cringed back. “Oh my. Do you know her name?”
“No.”
“She’s so young.”
“Was young,” Jonathan said, satisfied that the interloper had gotten more than she’d asked for. “So tell me, Miss Bremerton, is this what you hoped to see? Is it tragic enough for . . .” His words trailed off when he realized she was not listening but had stepped away and begun to speak with Sergeant Lester. Jonathan scowled and followed her.
“A pleasure to meet you, Sergeant,” she was saying. “What do you suppose happened to this poor woman?”
Sergeant Lester knelt, set down his lantern, and pulled back the dead woman’s collar.
Miss Bremerton knelt on the other side of the body, arranging her skirts around her and then leaning close to study the woman’s neck. “She was strangled,” she said.
“That’s our guess, miss,” Sergeant Lester said. “The doctor will know for certain.”
“How terrible.” Miss Bremerton’s voice was much softer. It seemed she finally understood this was not simply a carnival show but a life cut short in a violent manner.
“Yes,” Jonathan said, coming to stand behind her, glad the exercise had had its intended effect. “It is, as I told you, a crime scene—a murder scene. Of course it is not pleasant. Now, if you’re quite done . . .” He reached out a hand to assist her to rise.
Sophie Bremerton apparently suffered from convenient hearing loss. She didn’t even glance up as Jonathan spoke, but tipped her head to the side, looking at the body. “She didn’t intend to go out of doors, I think. She wears no hat nor gloves.”
“They may have been stolen,” Sergeant Lester said.
“But not her ring?” Miss Bremerton pointed to the silver band on the woman’s finger. “I do not think it is very valuable, but it is surely more so than a pair of gloves.”
“Perhaps the thief did not see it in the dim light,” Jonathan said. “At this point, we can’t rule out any possibilities. Now, if you please . . .” He held out his hand again, but as before, she ignored him.
“The gown is very distinctive,” she said. “Custom-made raw silk with Brussels lace.” She sat back on her heels. “But it was not sewn for this woman.”
“How do you know that?” Jonathan asked, curious in spite of his irritation.
“The sleeves are too short.” Miss Bremerton pointed to the woman’s wrists. “And of course the tournure is all wrong for this skirt.”
Sergeant Lester looked up at the detective with a confused expression that Jonathan was certain matched his own.
“Tournure, miss?” the sergeant asked.
“The bustle,” Miss Bremerton said.
Sergeant Lester furrowed his brows. “You mean the contraption that makes a hump on a lady’s bum?”