The Twelfth Night Murder by Anne Rutherford Page A

looked at where the water rushed between the stone piers set in the river on starlings, shoved the wheel, then eddied and surged onward toward the open river. The space was close enough to catch many bits of flotsam in the water. Most of it stayed for a while, then eventually was dislodged or rotted away and carried off down the river to the sea. Branches from well upriver were caught and clung to each other, and in turn caught other items such as discarded rags, broken furniture, and anything else that would float. She said, “The boy was lodged amongst all that rubbish along the bank?”
    Pepper nodded.
    Suzanne looked down at the body again, then her gaze took in the gawkers standing around. “Who discovered him?”
    The onlookers glanced around at each other, and a woman stepped forward. “’Twas myself, my lady.” She curtsied, and that felt strange to Suzanne. Most people could tell her rank, and she was certainly no lady.
    But she maintained her dignity and said, “My name is Mistress Thornton. What is yours?”
    The woman was now able to look her in the face and said, “My name be Weaver, mistress.” She was rail thin and ragged enough for a street dweller. Though her face and hands had been washed recently, the dirt began at her wrists and disappeared into the sleeves of her filthy dress. At one time this dress had been a fine gown, but by the cut of it Suzanne could tell that had been decades before. Now the thing was reduced to a threadbare and baggy drape that had faded to a dull pinkish from what might have once been rich crimson. Raw, hemless edges at neck and wrists suggested lace had been removed from the dress and sold. Probably long before it came into the Weaver woman’s hands.
    She said, “I were down here a-washin’, and I seen this here boy all shoved up under the bridge. They’s lots of things that gets hung up down here, and at first I thought it were only a dress someone had lost or thrown in. That’s an awfully pretty dress, sez me, and I thought I could get it and keep it or sell it. But when I seen its owner was still a-wearin’ it, I hurried straightaway to find the authorities.” She nodded in the direction of the constable.
    Suzanne nodded. “Who brought the boy from the water?”
    Two men behind the constable raised their hands. One of them, with an oar in his hand, said, “When this woman came screaming bloody murder up to the church, St. Olave over here”—he nodded toward the spot just downstream from the stairs, where the tops of graveyard monuments could be seen in the churchyard—“we got our boat and went for a look-see. He were dead, all right. Couldn’t hardly get him over the side, as stiff as he were. His legs was all awkward-like, and that dress all filled with water. We nearly tipped over the boat and drowned ourselves in the current.”
    “When you pulled him from the water, did you tear the front of his dress? Be honest. I don’t care whether you did; I only need to know what happened to the boy.”
    The boatman shook his head. “No, the dress was like that when we turned him over.” He hurried to add, as if he thought he would be accused of the murder, “And the cut in his throat as well. That were there before we got here.”
    Suzanne nodded. “I am sure you didn’t cut a dead boy’s throat.”
    The boatman and his partner seemed relieved to be off that particular hook.
    Mistress Weaver said, “Do you think he’ll be needing that there dress anymore?”
    Suzanne was inclined to tell her she was out of luck, and saw Pepper was about to say something ugly to that effect, so she said quickly to cut him short, “Wait a week, then come to the constable’s office and perhaps the dress can be yours. A reward for your diligence in summoning the constable so quickly.”
    The boatman said, “And how about us, for pulling the body out of the water as we did?”
    Disgust rose. Suzanne replied, “You’ve a use for a torn dress? Or the shift? Perhaps we