Heart of Brass by Kate Cross

damp pavement.
    It had begun to rain since she left the house—and this time Mrs. Bird hadn’t thought to make her take her umbrella. At least her cape would save her gown from ruin. She slipped the hood up over her head and trotted after the officer who guided her to where Inspector Grant waited. She had to dodge puddles already forming on the uneven cobblestones.
    She didn’t know where she was exactly. Given the direction in which they’d traveled and the smell, she guessed they were near the docks. Daylight was a sliver of gray on the horizon, but already there was activity around a few of the warehouses. The workers and middle classes were coming to life just as the upper and lower levels of society were going to bed.
    Or being yanked out of them whilst still somewhat inebriated, as the case might be.
    “Lady Huntley,” the inspector said, doffing his hat. “My apologies for the hour, but we have a situation much like what we had at Hammond’s, and I need your expertise.”
    Arden met his gaze from beneath her hood. “You want to know if it’s the same man.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    She straightened her shoulders as rain pelted her back. Her cloak would be covered with dots of grime when it dried—the air down here was thick and sticky with coal dust, coal being a cheaper method of generating the heat needed to create steam than the gas and oil used in better neighborhoods. “You’d better take me to her then, Inspector Grant.” Her stomach recoiled at the thought, but duty took precedence over the fact that she’d felt compelled to drink herself stupid over Alastair’s kiss and declaration.
    He led her to a narrow alley between two ancient buildings that seemed to have nothing more than spite holding them upright. There, on the worn stones, lay the body of a woman, already wet with her own blood. The rain and filth of the alley only served to spread the crimson stain throughout her clothing and skin.
    It was not as bad as the girl at the factory, but bad enough. This woman—and she was just barely one at that—had been slit from belly to throat, her petticoats thrown up around her thighs.
    Her stockings had been mended more times than Arden could count, and her petticoats—a dull gray beneath the faded, and too-short blue gown—were patched and frayed. Whatever sorrows and trials life had thrown her, poverty was not one Arden knew except by sight. It was a fact for which she was entirely grateful. How sad to have to sell oneself and still not have enough to purchase tooth powder or a bar of soap.
    She crouched beside the body to get a better look, lifted the petticoats with one gloved hand, and saw a glint of thick moisture on the girl’s thigh. Men were so free with the stuff. She’d seen it all manner of surprising places and locales. How unfortunate that there wasn’t a way to trace the ejaculate to the man. They’d take care where they left it then.
    “Did you rearrange her clothing, Inspector?” she asked, darting a quick glance at Grant.
    He bobbed his head in a curt nod. “She may have been a dollymop, but she deserves a bit of dignity.”
    “You dear man.” Obviously she was still a little drunk, but the compliment was deserved no matter how much it embarrassed either of them. “He used her then, before he killed her.”
    “I hope it was before,” one of the younger officers commented.
    Grant chastised the boy for speaking so in front of Arden, but she called him off. “I hope so, too,” she agreed, before turning her attention back to Grant. “Did Dr. Stone deduce that there had been sexual congress with the Lynbourne girl?”
    The older man gave a curt nod, his sharp gaze on the young officer. The poor thing was going to get a serious talking-to later, Arden suspected.
    “No wonder you asked for me. The murder is very similar to that at Hammond’s.”
    “Except this poor thing was a far cry from a debutante,” Grant added.
    “Indeed. Well, let’s find out, shall we?”