Ten
“Where?” I asked.
“Southwark, near the river. At least what was left of her,” Mr. Dooley replied. “The body has been taken to Kew.”
Kew Mortuary was where bodies were now taken and held over until they could be identified.
According to what Brodie had shared, very often no one stepped forward to claim the bodies that were found in the Thames. Either due to lack of money for a proper burial, or out of fear that they might be accused of the crime of murder.
Under more horrific circumstances, bodies in the past had been disposed of in the river after being sold to the medical society for dissection and study.
“I want to see it.”
“Not a pretty sight when the river and other things have been at them. Mr. Brodie might not approve you goin’ there.”
“Nevertheless, Mr. Dooley. I would very much appreciate it if you could arrange it. It could be important to our client.”
He nodded. “Wait here, miss. I’ll place a telephone call and let them know we’ll be round.”
An ache had begun at the back of my head as I sat and waited with Rupert. He lay at my feet, brown eyes staring up at me.
Even though Mr. Dooley returned in short order, I was still impatient even though such things were never pleasant. And it was not as if I hadn’t seen a body before. In fact, I had seen more than one in the course of working with Brodie.
What would I find when I accompanied Mr. Dooley? It could be a fool’s errand—bodies appeared frequently across London. Still … it was important that I know.
He returned in short order. “I have a driver waiting.”
He escorted us from the station to a waiting coach, the hound trotting at my heel.
Rupert jumped in after me as Mr. Dooley gave the driver, in police uniform, our destination.
The Kew Mortuary was in Richmond, a lengthy ride across London. Not that I wasn’t familiar with Richmond. An acquaintance owned several boats on the Richmond canal.
He had retired from the sea after losing his leg in one of the accidents that were quite common aboard ship.
He had traded a merchantman that regularly made the voyage from London to India, for the smaller canal boats, his cargo traded for passengers who ventured into the countryside beyond the city, then returning with fresh produce for London markets.
Linnie and I had first made the acquaintance of Captain Turner on one of those canal voyages to riverside villages and farms. More recently he provided information regarding certain cargos that were received at the London Docks through old friends from his days aboard the merchantmen and schooners.
But this was hardly a trip for pleasure into the countryside.
It was early evening when we arrived at Kew, a single lamp burning beside a small block building attached to the back of a larger building just east of the Kew Bridge.
Just beyond that large building a line of trees was outlined against the night sky filled with a grey hue from the northern lights that cast a melancholy gloom over the countryside.
Mr. Dooley assisted me down from the coach. He ordered the driver to wait. I gave the hound instructions to ‘stay’ in the coach. Mr. Dooley then escorted me toward that single light at the entrance to the mortuary.
I have discovered that there are sights and smells that once experienced, are never forgotten. They were there now as an attendant answered the bell-pull at the door. He nodded to Mr. Dooley and then escorted us inside.
The mortuary was spartan and stark with concrete block walls, a single light overhead, and the attendant’s desk. A door beyond led inside the holding area.
Mr. Dooley nodded to the attendant, signed a log book, and we were then shown into the main part of Kew Mortuary.
I had seen the inside of such places before, with several rooms, each with lights, stark white walls and tables, with rolling trays of physician’s instruments.
At the Bow Street Station, there were holding rooms with what were referred to as ‘cold’ boxes, compartments with blocks of ice that lined the wall where bodies were stored until identification could be made.
That stark accommodation would be considered extravagant compared to what I saw now.
This, as Mr. Dooley had explained, was the final place a body was taken if it was not identified, only to then be buried in an anonymous grave in a graveyard nearby.
The hallway that led into that larger room was dimly lit. It was impossible to see what waited in that larger room until I stepped into it.
“Over here.” The attendant indicated a table with a sheet draped over what appeared to be a small body.
“Are ye certain that you’re up to this, miss?” Mr. Dooley again inquired.
I nodded. It hardly seemed that whatever was under that sheet could be an adult person, but he had assured me that it was a young woman.
“Please continue, Mr. Dooley.”
He nodded to the attendant and he drew the sheet back.
I heard a sudden gasp and realized that it was my own as I stared at the body—or what remained of it on that table, and realized the reason it had seemed smaller than expected.
Both legs were missing as well as one arm and a good portion of the other, leaving hardly more than the young woman’s torso.
“Are you all right, Miss?”
I realized then that Mr. Dooley was holding onto my arm. I took a deep breath and nodded.
“Do you recognize her?” he asked.
I forced myself to look past the severed places where her arms and legs had been, and stepped closer under the light fixture.
I nodded. “Yes.”
The young woman’s hair was matted and tangled with all sort of debris. Wherever she had been, whatever had happened, the evidence of it was there. Only the remnants of clothes remained, stained with blood and grime. Her features were battered and bruised.
One eye was swollen shut, the other, dark brown, stared up at the ceiling. Yet, beneath the grim bruises and blood, there was a person. A young woman I did recognize in spite of all of it—Lizzie Smith, the young woman who sold flowers at Covent Garden.
I recognized her from that photograph of two young women, smiling for the photographer, both with hopes and dreams of travel.
I returned to Bond Street with Mr. Dooley, where I made a statement about Lizzie Smith, how I knew of her and then gave him the name of the other young woman in the photograph—Gwen Tavers.
“I’ll put some men on it first thing in the mornin’, now that we know who she was,” he said gently. “And I’ll check with the boys who work the streets out of the station house nearest Southwark. At least we know the poor thing’s name. But with no family …”
I already knew what he was going to say. There was no one to collect the body, no one to mourn her. Except perhaps for a young man at Covent Garden.
Only more questions.
Who would do such a thing to a young woman? What had happened? Where was she the past days after she disappeared? Had she answered that advertisement for a travel companion? And then met with someone?
If so, who had placed that advertisement with The Times?
I had given my word to Reggie Tavers that I would help find his daughter. And now possibly Charlotte Davies as well. I knew as well as anyone, perhaps more so, the fear and heartache one went through when someone they loved disappeared.
I was struggling with all of it. With the gruesome sight of what remained of that poor girl’s body, that brought back memories of my sister’s maid.
Brodie had told me that it would always be there.
And two other young women were still missing. Was that to be their fate as well?
This was far more than a young woman’s desire for travel and adventure that had gotten her into some mischief.
So many questions with no answers. And only one clue that connected them—that advertisement in the newspaper.
I needed Brodie, to tell him about Lizzie Smith, and ask what was to be done.
“Lady Forsythe?”
Mr. Dooley, kind and caring. I looked over at him.
“How do you do this day after day?” I asked.
“I think of my Maeve and the young ones,” he replied. “It’s all that’s needed to start the next day.”
His wife and children, with the hope of protecting them, and others. Very much like Brodie.
He was quiet as he assisted me into the coach.
“I’ll see you home.”
It was late when we arrived at Mayfair, the ride silent, Rupert with his head on my knee as if he sensed the tragedy.
Mr. Dooley escorted me to the door and waited as I found the key.
Mrs. Ryan was there.
“I’ll be sayin’ good night then, miss.” He tipped his hat and returned to the coach.
“I held supper over …” Mrs. Ryan said then stopped.
Whatever else she might have said was set aside, usually a comment about Rupert. But the frown on her face was not for him. Her hand was warm and comforting on my cold one.
“Come along, miss,” she said gently, without the usual Irish fire in her voice. “And that scraggly animal as well.”
I didn’t sleep. It was impossible with images of poor Lizzie Smith there each time I closed my eyes.
I eventually rose and dressed for the day, even though it was only half past four of the morning.
The hound was there, as he had been through the long hours of the night, standing guard, or more accurately snoring on the floor beside the bed. He looked up at me somewhat anxiously.
“I’ll let you out,” I told him. “Mrs. Ryan will not be pleased if you soil the carpets.”
Brodie would have simply shaken his head at that—talking to Rupert as if he understood.
I was convinced that he did as he led the way down the stairs and to the front entrance, made a somewhat desperate sound, and then bounded down the steps with some urgency.
I returned to the parlor and spent the next hour making notes in my notebook about the night before. I then read back over everything I had written after meeting with Reggie Tavers.