From the personal diary of Constable Colin Pringle, October 1889.
The girl’s skin was a delicate shade of blue, the color of a robin’s egg. Her white dress rippled and her outstretched arms and legs spread out over the canal’s surface, one of her hands resting on a furry pale frond of milfoil that stretched up from the bottom of the canal seeking the hidden sun.
It was a grey Sunday morning and fog had settled everywhere like dust. Even from the canal’s edge, and even through the mist, I could see that the blue girl’s eyes were open, staring up at the indifferent sky. She could not have been older than eighteen. A crew of ditchdiggers, interrupted on their way to some public project, stood nearby leaning on their shovels, their hats in their hands.
I waited on the east bank, shifting from foot to foot, dancing awkwardly with the cold. When Dr Bernard Kingsley finally arrived, pushing through the onlookers, his black bag swinging like a cudgel, I let out a sigh of relief. Kingsley paused to take the arm of a young girl who had followed him through the crowd. She nodded at him and folded back the cardboard cover of a large tablet of paper. I watched as she produced a chunk of charcoal and began sketching the scene.
“I sent for you an hour ago,” I said.
“I’m busy,” Kingsley said. “Why haven’t you got the body out of there yet?”
“I thought you’d want to see where she was in relation to . . .” I stopped and looked around, gestured at the water, the high muddy banks, even the people standing above the girl, looking down on her. “You know, the area.”
“What I would have liked to see is in this mud we’re standing on. If there were footprints here, shoe prints, they’ve been obliterated by you lot of bloody herd animals.”
“Most of these people were here when I arrived. There was nothing I could have done.”
“Perhaps. But your first duty, when there is a murder, is to preserve everything so that the detectives and I may observe what there is to see.”
I nodded, but said nothing. I thought I
had
been preserving things, but I didn’t want to argue the point. I could feel my cheeks growing warmer, but Kingsley seemed not to notice. I picked up a long stick from the bank and shoved it out into the water. I pulled it back up and frowned at the water that dripped from the end of it.
“Fiona?” Kingsley said.
“I’m finished here, Father,” the girl said.
Kingsley nodded and gestured to the water. “Then let’s get her out of there, Constable,” he said.
“I can’t,” I said.
“Why can’t you?”
“My shoes will be ruined.”
“Your shoes?”
“Yes, they’re new.”
“Take them off.”
“I would, but then the hems of my trousers would be ruined.”
“Why are you wearing new shoes and trousers on duty if you’re so concerned about them?”
“What else would I wear?”
Kingsley shook his head and ran a hand through his prematurely grey hair. “Is there another policeman we might persuade to wade into this canal?”
“Inspector Tiffany was here, but he’s gone. Between the strike at the docks and the other murders last night . . .”
“Other murders?”
“They seem to be unrelated to this one. Only the usual crime.”
“More bodies for me to deal with today.”
“I suppose so.”
“No matter. There are always bodies. You’re alone here?”
“To guard the scene, yes sir.”
Kingsley sighed and looked around at the crowded bank. He pointed to the ditchdiggers. “You there, would any of you be willing to get wet for a penny a man?”
Without a word, three of the men set down their shovels and lowered themselves carefully down to the water’s edge. They moved out into the frigid canal as if in a trance, their legs invisible beneath the brackish surface. They stopped when they reached the girl. They stood at her side for a long moment, unmoving, until one of them reached out and touched her face. When he drew his hand back, her eyes
The girl’s skin was a delicate shade of blue, the color of a robin’s egg. Her white dress rippled and her outstretched arms and legs spread out over the canal’s surface, one of her hands resting on a furry pale frond of milfoil that stretched up from the bottom of the canal seeking the hidden sun.
It was a grey Sunday morning and fog had settled everywhere like dust. Even from the canal’s edge, and even through the mist, I could see that the blue girl’s eyes were open, staring up at the indifferent sky. She could not have been older than eighteen. A crew of ditchdiggers, interrupted on their way to some public project, stood nearby leaning on their shovels, their hats in their hands.
I waited on the east bank, shifting from foot to foot, dancing awkwardly with the cold. When Dr Bernard Kingsley finally arrived, pushing through the onlookers, his black bag swinging like a cudgel, I let out a sigh of relief. Kingsley paused to take the arm of a young girl who had followed him through the crowd. She nodded at him and folded back the cardboard cover of a large tablet of paper. I watched as she produced a chunk of charcoal and began sketching the scene.
“I sent for you an hour ago,” I said.
“I’m busy,” Kingsley said. “Why haven’t you got the body out of there yet?”
“I thought you’d want to see where she was in relation to . . .” I stopped and looked around, gestured at the water, the high muddy banks, even the people standing above the girl, looking down on her. “You know, the area.”
“What I would have liked to see is in this mud we’re standing on. If there were footprints here, shoe prints, they’ve been obliterated by you lot of bloody herd animals.”
“Most of these people were here when I arrived. There was nothing I could have done.”
“Perhaps. But your first duty, when there is a murder, is to preserve everything so that the detectives and I may observe what there is to see.”
I nodded, but said nothing. I thought I
had
been preserving things, but I didn’t want to argue the point. I could feel my cheeks growing warmer, but Kingsley seemed not to notice. I picked up a long stick from the bank and shoved it out into the water. I pulled it back up and frowned at the water that dripped from the end of it.
“Fiona?” Kingsley said.
“I’m finished here, Father,” the girl said.
Kingsley nodded and gestured to the water. “Then let’s get her out of there, Constable,” he said.
“I can’t,” I said.
“Why can’t you?”
“My shoes will be ruined.”
“Your shoes?”
“Yes, they’re new.”
“Take them off.”
“I would, but then the hems of my trousers would be ruined.”
“Why are you wearing new shoes and trousers on duty if you’re so concerned about them?”
“What else would I wear?”
Kingsley shook his head and ran a hand through his prematurely grey hair. “Is there another policeman we might persuade to wade into this canal?”
“Inspector Tiffany was here, but he’s gone. Between the strike at the docks and the other murders last night . . .”
“Other murders?”
“They seem to be unrelated to this one. Only the usual crime.”
“More bodies for me to deal with today.”
“I suppose so.”
“No matter. There are always bodies. You’re alone here?”
“To guard the scene, yes sir.”
Kingsley sighed and looked around at the crowded bank. He pointed to the ditchdiggers. “You there, would any of you be willing to get wet for a penny a man?”
Without a word, three of the men set down their shovels and lowered themselves carefully down to the water’s edge. They moved out into the frigid canal as if in a trance, their legs invisible beneath the brackish surface. They stopped when they reached the girl. They stood at her side for a long moment, unmoving, until one of them reached out and touched her face. When he drew his hand back, her eyes
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