whatever. Her outer skirt was lifted high, her legs apart, hands clenched at her sides. She’d been stabbed multiple times. Something was odd though. But what? My attention shifted to her clenched fists and the position of her arms.
I turned to Ian. “She was in pain, but not struggling. And she was already on her back when she died.”
“Is that so?”
“I think so.” Well, actually Fisher on Forensic One thought so in a scene sort of like this . I crouched down and reached out. I did not need to do this, certainly not without latex gloves. But yeah, I had to know if my guess was right. I turned her head. There was a small mat of bloody hair at the back.
“All those stab wounds are the likely causes of death, but I bet she was pulled down from the back and hit her head enough to be out of it but maybe not unconscious. If she could feel herself being stabbed, that would account her clenched fists, but she couldn’t fight back in that condition.”
I stood and stared at Ian, waiting for his thoughts on the matter. Dad really liked Forensic One and said they had their shit together for the most part.
Ian stared vacantly into space, stroking his mustache. “Interesting,” he said. “Motive?”
I shrugged. “There are a lot of stab wounds. If you ask me, this person had mad issues—is probably insane.”
Ian closed his eyes and swore softly. “Puckeridge,”
“So nobody saw or heard anything?” I asked.
“Not a bloody one.”
No surprise to me. This wasn’t all that different than what Dad and Uncle Rich dealt with. “It’s not likely anyone will talk in public even if they did see something.”
“Quite,” Ian said. “I suppose people are similar the world over in situations like these.”
“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” I agreed. Crap. Now I was channeling Aunt Agatha. She should have been the one stuck here. She’d love it.
I scanned the onlookers. Just like with that drug shooting back home, these people weren’t going to say a word. This was the type of place where you learned to keep your mouth shut and cover your ass. Even the honest working people were like that. They didn’t trust cops and preferred to take care of things their own way.
I followed Ian when he moved aside to let the body be taken away. “If you want, I can hang around and see if I can find anything out.”
Ian’s eyes narrowed a moment. “I doubt you’ll have much success, young man,” he said, emphasizing young .
“You never know—”
“This is police business.” Ian stiffened. “I’ll be occupied for some time with this. I’m sure you can find your way to the station to wait for me. Just through the archway there, right on the High Street, across left.”
Dude was harsh, but I wasn’t really surprised. “If I see a bakery, you want me to bring you some donuts?” Ian’s blank stare made me smile, I slid my hands into my pockets and walked away.
Chapter Eight
My sense of smell was working overtime as I walked down Wentworth Street and I wished it wasn’t. The stench of sulfur from coal fires thickened the fog, making it cling to my skin. Next came the smells of horses, their crap, human waste, and rotting garbage.
Sharper were the scents from the shops and stalls I passed—mildew from musty cellars, of tanned leather, varnish, fresh-cut lumber, and even a hint of flowers to relieve the worst of it. They combined into a weird cloud that threatened to choke me.
Despite the unsettling smells, my stomach growled. I had the change left from the money Ian had given me for the carriage ride, but where could I get something to eat around here this early? It was still dark. Man, I wished I had my cell phone to know the exact time. I should have grabbed that old pocket watch Agatha had given me to wear with my costume for the party. Oh well, yet one more bad choice to add to my endless list.
I paused and watched a couple women who sat by the side of the road, selling
I turned to Ian. “She was in pain, but not struggling. And she was already on her back when she died.”
“Is that so?”
“I think so.” Well, actually Fisher on Forensic One thought so in a scene sort of like this . I crouched down and reached out. I did not need to do this, certainly not without latex gloves. But yeah, I had to know if my guess was right. I turned her head. There was a small mat of bloody hair at the back.
“All those stab wounds are the likely causes of death, but I bet she was pulled down from the back and hit her head enough to be out of it but maybe not unconscious. If she could feel herself being stabbed, that would account her clenched fists, but she couldn’t fight back in that condition.”
I stood and stared at Ian, waiting for his thoughts on the matter. Dad really liked Forensic One and said they had their shit together for the most part.
Ian stared vacantly into space, stroking his mustache. “Interesting,” he said. “Motive?”
I shrugged. “There are a lot of stab wounds. If you ask me, this person had mad issues—is probably insane.”
Ian closed his eyes and swore softly. “Puckeridge,”
“So nobody saw or heard anything?” I asked.
“Not a bloody one.”
No surprise to me. This wasn’t all that different than what Dad and Uncle Rich dealt with. “It’s not likely anyone will talk in public even if they did see something.”
“Quite,” Ian said. “I suppose people are similar the world over in situations like these.”
“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” I agreed. Crap. Now I was channeling Aunt Agatha. She should have been the one stuck here. She’d love it.
I scanned the onlookers. Just like with that drug shooting back home, these people weren’t going to say a word. This was the type of place where you learned to keep your mouth shut and cover your ass. Even the honest working people were like that. They didn’t trust cops and preferred to take care of things their own way.
I followed Ian when he moved aside to let the body be taken away. “If you want, I can hang around and see if I can find anything out.”
Ian’s eyes narrowed a moment. “I doubt you’ll have much success, young man,” he said, emphasizing young .
“You never know—”
“This is police business.” Ian stiffened. “I’ll be occupied for some time with this. I’m sure you can find your way to the station to wait for me. Just through the archway there, right on the High Street, across left.”
Dude was harsh, but I wasn’t really surprised. “If I see a bakery, you want me to bring you some donuts?” Ian’s blank stare made me smile, I slid my hands into my pockets and walked away.
Chapter Eight
My sense of smell was working overtime as I walked down Wentworth Street and I wished it wasn’t. The stench of sulfur from coal fires thickened the fog, making it cling to my skin. Next came the smells of horses, their crap, human waste, and rotting garbage.
Sharper were the scents from the shops and stalls I passed—mildew from musty cellars, of tanned leather, varnish, fresh-cut lumber, and even a hint of flowers to relieve the worst of it. They combined into a weird cloud that threatened to choke me.
Despite the unsettling smells, my stomach growled. I had the change left from the money Ian had given me for the carriage ride, but where could I get something to eat around here this early? It was still dark. Man, I wished I had my cell phone to know the exact time. I should have grabbed that old pocket watch Agatha had given me to wear with my costume for the party. Oh well, yet one more bad choice to add to my endless list.
I paused and watched a couple women who sat by the side of the road, selling
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