An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London. J. Durham J.
for God’s sake?’
The sergeant had the grace to look sheepish. ‘The guv’nor wouldn’t have him at the station. “No room” he said. He twisted old Frobisher’s arm, that’s the landlord, to keep him here.’
Pilgrim caught Dolly’s eye as he took the key.
‘You’ll bring it back when you’re done?’ asked the sergeant.
Pilgrim nodded, and he stomped away along the passage.
The door opened into a small airless room, obviously a storeroom of some kind, with a high barred window and stone floor. It was cool, but not cool enough. Dolly clapped his hand to his nose. On the table lay a shape, covered with a sheet.
‘I can’t believe they put him in here,’ said Dolly. ‘Can you really not smell him, sir?’
‘No. You can leave him to me, if you like.’
Dolly shook his head. ‘No point me being here if I don’t help, is there?’
Pilgrim drew back the cover on the table. The boy who had been delivered to the Reverend Bonwell lay underneath it, his eyes open. He was dressed in a smock and a spotted neckerchief, with a straw hat resting on his chest. With his wispy hair and round cheeks still unaffected by death, he was obviously little more than a baby. Younger, certainly, than Moxton’s estimate. Pilgrim’s guess was no more than three years old.
‘Help me undress him,’ he said.
They started at the bottom. Dolly unlaced the thick-soled shoes and inspected them, one at a time, while Pilgrim peeled off the stockings to look at each of the boy’s feet in turn. He turned the small feet gently in his hand. They were rimed with dirt but otherwise unmarked, without blisters or calluses. The flesh was spongy under his fingers, well past the stages of rigor mortis and bloat, and into active decay, which meant the boy had been dead for quite a few days. But not, thought Pilgrim, as long as a week.
He passed the stockings to Dolly, and moved on to the hands. He inspected the fingers one by one, scraping the dirt from under the fingernails and peering at it. There was nothing out of the ordinary: no blood, or any tissue. He turned his attention to the stockings and shoes, noting the darns on the stockings, and the worn soles of the shoes.
‘You’re going to have to help me with this, sir.’
Together they eased the boy’s coarse smock over his head.
‘There’s our cause of death,’ muttered Dolly.
Black and yellow bruises ringed the boy’s throat, obscene against the white skin. Pilgrim brushed his fingers against them.
Dolly investigated the smock minutely, while Pilgrim removed the boy’s vest and drawers.
Pilgrim looked down at the corpse, naked on the table, and felt reality slip. For an instant he was no longer standing in the storeroom of the inn, but a sparse living room with a fireplace. The boy laid out on the table was bigger, the limbs just starting to stretch into childhood proper, his head not fair, but a mop of brown. Pilgrim could see every hair etched clearly, every freckle on the skin. The features were so familiar, so sharp, he could reach out and touch them. The vision was merciless in its detail, robbing him of breath.
He glanced at Dolly, but the constable was oblivious, engrossed in his examination of the smock. As Pilgrim reached for the vest, he noticed his hand was shaking. He stilled it by sheer force of will. This was not the time for sentimentality. He stared at the vest for a moment without really seeing it. Then he peered closer. ‘That’ll do,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Laundry mark.’ Pilgrim showed Dolly a faded symbol, drawn in ink on the seam.
‘Looks like an “F”,’ he opined.
‘We’ll keep this.’ Pilgrim was gripping the vest so hard his knuckles were white. ‘And the neckerchief. Let’s finish here, and find somewhere to wash up. We have to pay our respects to the clergy.’
In the fading afternoon light St Margaret’s rectory looked like a child’s drawing; four-square and perfectly symmetrical, with five windows to the front and a big black door.
Pilgrim pulled on the doorbell for a third time, and glanced at Dolly, who was sniffing the lapel of his jacket.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘I still smell, sir. We both do.’
‘Can’t be helped now.’
The door opened.
‘Yes?’ An old woman with skin like a lizard peered at them.
‘Detective Sergeant Pilgrim and Detective Constable Williamson, to see the Reverend Bonwell.’
‘You’d better come in.’ She ushered them through the hallway into a parlour, without taking their coats. ‘I’ll tell the Reverend you’re here.’
‘And Mrs Bonwell, if you please,’ said Pilgrim.
She threw them another dark look, then went out and closed the door behind her.
‘Anyone would think we were after the silver,’ muttered Dolly. He took a seat in one of the overstuffed armchairs.
After a glance around the room, Pilgrim strolled to a side table crammed with photographs. They showed stiffly dressed, hatchet-faced, people in formal poses. It was difficult to imagine a less amiable group of people. He picked up one – a family grouping. The Reverend, identifiable by his collar, was seated in the centre, with a woman, presumably Mrs Bonwell, standing behind him. They were flanked by two children: girls of about five and three. Pilgrim studied the photograph more closely. There was something odd about it. The children were not quite to scale, either with their parents or each other, and their figures were paler, their features blurred. The effect was disturbing, ghostly.
He spotted a large family bible, and was about to open it when he heard footsteps approaching the door.
‘Follow me,’ snapped the housekeeper.
Her eyes narrowed as she saw the bible in Pilgrim’s hand. He replaced it on the table and followed her.
They were met in the study by the Reverend and his wife, positioned exactly as they had been in the photograph: the Reverend seated and Mrs Bonwell standing behind him. Bonwell had a lantern jaw and thick black hair. He met Pilgrim’s gaze directly, unlike his wife, who stared down at the carpet. Pilgrim and Dolly took the seats indicated by the housekeeper – two chairs directly in front of the Reverend. As Dolly pulled out his notebook he couldn’t resist another sniff of his jacket.
‘I understand you are from the constabulary.’ The Reverend Bonwell had a deep voice, suited to sermonising.
‘We are from the Metropolitan Police, sir. As you know, the trunk was sent from Euston Square Station.’ Pilgrim turned to the woman. ‘Mrs Bonwell took delivery of it, I understand?’
‘She did,’ said the Reverend.
‘Can you describe the wrappings, madam? Or the label?’
‘I would be grateful if you could address your questions to me,’ said the Reverend. ‘My wife’s nerves are not strong. As I have already said, at some length, to the other police constables, I myself removed the paper from the package. There was nothing remarkable about it.’
‘And the handwriting on the label?’
‘Unremarkable.’
‘I understand you threw the label away? Did you not think it might have provided valuable evidence?’
‘My wife disposed of it. She has many qualities, but the ability to think like a policeman is thankfully not one of them.’
Mrs Bonwell flushed, and pulled her sleeves over her bitten fingernails.
Pilgrim considered her. ‘Do you know anyone in London?’ he asked.