The Repentant Rake

    Slipping the satchel over his shoulder, he recovered the pistol and dropped it in with the money from Sir Julius. He then picked up the parchment with the drawings on it and smoothed it out reverently. When Mills opened a bloodshot eye, Christopher showed no sympathy for him. He held up the parchment.

    'You shouldn't have creased this,' he said. 'My drawings mean everything to me.'

Chapter Three

    Dead bodies held no fears for Jonathan Bale. He had looked on too many of them to be either shocked or revolted. Those dragged out of the River Thames were the worst, grotesque parodies of human beings, bloated out of all recognition and, when first hauled from the dark water, giving off a fearsome stink. The corpse that lay on the stone slab in the morgue was neither grossly misshapen nor especially malodorous. Wounds were minimal and the herbs liberally scattered in the cold chamber helped to smother the stench of death. Jonathan watched over the shoulder of the surgeon as he examined the body that had been found at Paul's Wharf on the previous night. He was struck by how peaceful the face of the deceased looked, less like that of a murder victim than someone who had passed gently away in his own bed.

    'Interesting,' said the surgeon, peering at the cadaver's neck.

    'What have you found sir?' asked Jonathan.

    'I'm not sure.'

    'He's so young to die.'

    'Still in his twenties, I'd say Young, healthy and well muscled.'

    Jonathan nodded. 'What a cruel waste of a life!'

    Ecclestone continued his detailed inspection by the light of the candles. He was a small, thin, agitated man in his fifties with colourless eyes and a skin so pale that he might have climbed off one of the slabs in the morgue. A chamber of death was his natural milieu and he had divined most of its secrets. While the surgeon shifted his attention to the naked chest, Jonathan made his own appraisal. The young man had been undeniably handsome in life, the long brown hair well groomed and the carefully trimmed beard hinting at vanity. Smooth hands and clean fingernails confirmed that he was a stranger to any manual labour. There was an ugly red weal around his neck and bruising beneath his left ear. What looked like more bruises showed on the chest and stomach. Only one puncture wound was visible, close to the heart. The man's head lolled to one side. His cheeks had a ruddy complexion.

    After a thorough examination, Ecclestone stood back and clicked his tongue.

    'Well?' said Jonathan.

    'He was strangled to death, Mr Bale.'

    'I thought he was stabbed through the heart.'

    'He was,' agreed Ecclestone, 'but only after he was dead. That's why there was so little blood. When death occurs, the circulation of the blood ceases.'

    'Why stab a dead man?'

    'To make absolutely sure that he was dead, I imagine.'

    'The murderer took no chances,' noted Jonathan gruffly. 'He not only strangled and stabbed the poor fellow, he beat him about the body for good measure.'

    'What makes you think that, Mr Bale?'

    'Look at those bruises, sir.'

    'That's exactly what I have done.' He squinted up at the constable. 'You were one of the men who found him, I understand.'

    'That is so.'

    'Then I'll warrant he was face down at the time.'

    Jonathan was impressed. 'Why, so he was.'

    'And had been for a little while, if my guess is correct.' He pointed a stick-like finger. 'Those are not bruises you can see, Mr Bale. When the blood stops being pumped around by the heart, it gradually sinks to the blood vessels in the lowest part of the torso. In this case, to the chest and stomach, which have a livid hue. After a certain amount of time, the purplish stains become fixed and take on the appearance of large bruises. I've seen it happen so often. No,' decided Ecclestone, gazing down at the corpse once more, 'I suspect that death was swift, if brutal. Someone took him unawares and strangled him from behind, putting a knee into the small of his back as he did so. If you turned him over, as I did before you came in, you'd see the genuine bruise that's been left there.'

    'I take your word for it, sir.'

    Ecclestone was brisk. 'So, the cause of death has been established. My work is done. It's up to others to discover the motive behind the murder.'

    'It could hardly be gain,' argued Jonathan. 'There were valuable rings on his fingers and money in his purse.'

    'It was fortunate that you came along before anyone else found him.'

    'I know.'

    'Do you have any notion who he might be?'

    'None, sir. There was no means of identification on him.'

    'Hardly an habitue of Paul's Wharf, that's for sure.'

    'Quite,' said Jonathan. 'You won't find a suit of clothes as costly as that being worn in a warehouse. He's a gentleman of sorts with a family and friends who'll miss him before long. Someone may soon come forward.'

    'And if they don't?'

    'Then we'll have to track his identity down by other means.'

    'Do you have any witnesses?'

    'Not so far, sir. My colleague, Tom Warburton, is making enquiries near the murder scene this morning. When I spoke to him on my way here, he had had no success. It was late when we found the body. The wharf was deserted at that time of night. We are unlikely to find witnesses.'

    'What was a man like this doing in such a place?'

    'I don't think that he went there of his own accord, sir,' said Jonathan solemnly. 'I begin to wonder if he was killed elsewhere then dumped near that warehouse.'

    'Why do you say that?'

    'Because of the state of his apparel. When we found him last night, the back of his coat was covered in dirt, as if he'd been dragged along the ground by someone. There were a few stones caught up in the garment.' He took them from his pocket to show them to the surgeon. 'Do you see how small and bright they are, sir? You won't find any stones like this in the vicinity of the warehouse.'

    'You've a sharp eye, Mr Bale.'

    Jonathan put the stones away again. 'These may turn out to be useful clues.'

    'I hope so. Well,' said Ecclestone, pulling the shroud over the corpse, 'I've told you what I've seen. A young man cut down in his prime by a sly assailant. A powerful one, too. The deceased would have fought for his life. Even with the element of surprise in his favour, only a strong attacker could have got the better of him.'

    'Unless he was groggy with drink.'

    'I detected no smell of alcohol in his mouth.'

    'Oh.'

    'You can rule that out.' The surgeon turned and walked out of the morgue. Jonathan followed him, glad to quit the dank and depressing chamber. When they stepped out into the fresh air, he took several deep breaths. Ecclestone paused to stare up at him.

    'Is there anything else that I can tell you, Mr Bale?' he asked.

    'No thank you, sir. You've been very helpful.'

    'This was no random murder.'

    'What do you mean?'

    'It did not happen by accident on the spur of the moment. If you or I wished to strangle someone, we'd never do it as quickly and efficiently as that. Do you hear what I'm saying, Mr Bale?'