“By God, I think it’s colder in here than outside,” complained his companion, Dr. Ethan Munroe, as he blew a warm puff of air into his cupped hands. Though they should have been warm enough, encased as they were in brown kid leather gloves.
Sam shot a sideways glance at Munroe as they entered the space. He was a big man, although anyone above five feet, ten inches seemed big to Sam, who barely scraped the five-six mark. At least a decade older than Sam’s forty-one years, the doctor was blessed with a thick silvery mane that he wore tied back into a queue, a style more suited to the turn of the century than the more modern age of 1816. Sam had always thought it was an odd, old-fashioned quirk for an enlightened man like Munroe, who’d been trained in the prestigious schools of Edinburgh to become a doctor. Why he’d abandoned that respected profession to work as a lowly sawbones and then an anatomist—a profession not even acknowledged by Polite Society—Sam would never understand. But he was grateful. As a Bow Street Runner, Sam had called upon the doctor’s services in more than one murder investigation.
Like now. Sam’s gaze skimmed across the dead man lying on the floor to fasten on the four men huddled together about five paces away from the body. Sam recognized three of the men as constables. The fourth man—tall, chubby, and ridiculously young, with a mop of carrot-colored hair—was a stranger. But it was his gaze that swung toward Sam and Munroe, and he was the one who stepped forward, raising his hand with the puffed-up authority of a new recruit. He ordered, “Hold!”
Sam was already yanking out his baton, with its distinctive gold tip, which identified him as a Bow Street man. “Sam Kelly. This is Dr. Munroe,” he said, thrusting the baton back into the deep pockets of his greatcoat as they approached the circle of men.
“Kelly,” said Dick Carter with a nod. He was as short as Sam, but round, and as dark as a Spaniard. His black eyes glinted with amusement. “Ye’re bringin’ yer own sawbones ter crime scenes these days?”
“Dr. Munroe and I were at the Pig & Sail breaking our fast when I got word. Who found the body?”
Sam wasn’t surprised when the redheaded lad spoke up.
“I did,” he said.
Sam eyed him. “And who are you?”
“Edward Price.” His chest swelled slightly. “Watchman.”
“You’re a bit early for your duties, ain’t you?”
Edward frowned. “I was chasing a thief. Swiped an apple in front of me, as bold as you please.”
“Where is he?” asked Sam. He didn’t bother looking around. He knew the church was empty except for the six of them. And the dead man.
“The little guttersnipe got away when I was flaggin’ down help. But I’ve seen him about. Snake’s his name—”
Sam couldn’t control his start of surprise. “Snake.”
“Aye. Not his real name, mind you—”
“I know who Snake is,” Sam said, cutting off the watchman. In fact, the Bow Street Runner had come into contact with the young scamp the previous year, when Alec Morgan, the Marquis of Sutcliffe, had been accused of murdering his former mistress, Lady Dover.
“You didn’t see nothin’?” asked Sam. He had light brown eyes, so light that they appeared gold, but there was nothing soft about them as he fixed his gaze on Edward Price.
“Nay.” Edward swallowed hard enough to cause his Adam’s apple to click. As though he couldn’t stop himself, he slid his gaze back to the body. “I found him just like that. Why’d anyone want to do that ter his tongue?”
Sam grunted, but ignored the question. He was going on twenty years as a Bow Street Runner, and the profession had given him a decidedly jaundiced view of humanity. Cutting out someone’s tongue was odd, but not the strangest thing he’d witnessed.
He shifted his attention back to the corpse, studying the naked body. He wondered if some scavenger had stolen his clothes after the man was dead, or if the fiend who’d killed him had wanted the victim to be found naked as the day he was born. And if the killer had stripped him—or forced the man to strip before death—why? What was the point of his nakedness?
The body looked frozen. Probably was frozen, given the cold temperatures inside the church. Sam let his gaze travel from the dead man’s chest up to the throat, ghost-pale except for the nasty red abrasion that blazed across it. Obviously strangulation. Sam knew that would account for the man’s swollen, distorted face, and the broken capillaries around the eyes.
But it wouldn’t account for the mutilated mouth. Cutting out the poor wretch’s tongue would require a sharp blade. Christ. The lad asked the right question, he decided. Who would do that? What kind of madman were they dealing with?
Maybe it was that savagery that had been done to the dead man, or maybe it was the bloated features, but it took Sam a full minute to realize that he actually recognized the victim.
“God’s teeth.” Only years of experience kept him from giving a startled jolt. “Do you know who that is?”
“Yes.” Munroe was squatting down to examine the corpse more closely. His black brows, a distinctive contrast from his silver hair, collided in a deep frown. Slowly, he raised his gaze to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam realized the doctor had pinched his round gold wire spectacles onto the bridge of his hawklike nose. Behind the lenses, Sam could see that Munroe’s intelligent gray eyes reflected his own awareness. And wariness.
“Sir Giles Holbrooke,” Munroe identified.
“Shit,” one of the other men muttered.
Munroe nodded at the man who’d issued the profanity, his expression grim. “Former secretary of state of foreign affairs, one-time undersecretary for the Home Department. I believe he is—was—a member of the Privy Council advising the monarchy . . . and by all accounts, a close friend to our future king, the Prince Regent.”
Sam couldn’t shake his sense of disquiet as he followed Munroe down the stairs to the autopsy chamber. That particular room was in the basement of the doctor’s anatomy school, which he’d opened more than two years ago in Covent Garden. Their boots thudded against the stone steps. Even though he’d descended these stairs to the subterranean chamber countless times before, Sam couldn’t control the spasm of distaste as cold air wafted up, brushing against his cheeks like spider webs. Around them, wall torches flickered, causing the thick ebony shadows in the passageway to weave and dodge on the walls, like a pugilist match from the underworld.
A grim atmosphere certainly, and yet it had nothing to do with why Sam’s gut was churning now. That, he knew, had everything to do with the man lying on the autopsy table, awaiting Munroe’s ministrations. Sir Giles’s murder would draw the attention of Polite Society, Whitehall, and possibly even the Prince Regent himself. The idea of presenting himself to the future king of England or one of his palace emissaries to explain that Sir Giles had cocked up his toes with his tongue cut out, naked in what had been a church—a Catholic church, for Christ’s sake—made Sam’s blood run cold.
Of course, it probably wouldn’t come to that. Sir Nathaniel Conant, the chief magistrate of Bow Street, would most likely become involved before any of that. Bow Street and the Home Office had a very close connection, often working in tandem on behalf of king and country. Sam would report his findings to Sir Nathaniel, and Sir Nathaniel would be the one to inform the home secretary, Lord Sidmouth, about the investigation. Lord Sidmouth would then be the liaison to the Prince Regent and his court.