The Blue Girl by Alex Grecian Page A

were closed. A tear of canal water rolled down her cheek and disappeared into the tendrils of her hair.
    The men floated her across the water, barely touching her, and her hand slid from the milfoil as she drifted toward shore. More onlookers waded in and gently took the blue girl’s arms and legs and guided her in. A large angry-looking man with a fine ginger beard stooped and lifted her and she came free of the water’s surface. He turned and carried her to land, where an old woman laid a blanket on the ground. The big man set his burden down and stepped back. More blankets were produced for the dripping men as they emerged from the canal. Some of the women in the crowd made the sign of the cross, moving their fingers quickly from their foreheads to their lips and then their chests as they looked down on the dead girl.
    Kingsley held out a handful of pennies to the men, but none of them took their payment or even looked at him. Then the crowd broke and the onlookers began to drift away, disappearing in the morning fog, one after another, moving off to their homes and churches, and perhaps they had been changed. Kingsley, Fiona, and I were left alone with the dead girl.
    Her features were plain and her limp, dark hair splayed across the blanket, hanks of it falling across her forehead. Her sodden white gown did little to disguise the shape of her body, the darkness at the tips of her breasts and between her legs.
    “She’s lost a shoe,” I said.
    “Pardon?”
    “She’s only got one shoe.”
    It was true, the girl’s left foot was bare, but Kingsley shrugged off my observation. It was probably irrelevant. Kingsley’s daughter Fiona set her tablet on a patch of dewy grass and knelt by the body. She reached out and removed the shoe from the girl’s other foot. She pushed the soft pale legs together and pulled the girl’s dress down to cover her knees. I averted my eyes and found myself looking at the sketch on Fiona’s tablet. Despite the speed with which I’d seen her draw it, the likeness was incredible; the position of each limb sketched out accurately, but with a sort of loose poetry of movement, as if the dead girl were dancing in air rather than floating. It seemed to me that Fiona had casually captured the girl’s absent soul.
    Fiona saw me staring at the tablet. She snatched it up and stood, clutching the tablet to her chest, hiding the sketch from view. She handed the girl’s shoe to her father and then looked away over the water, into the fog.
    Kingsley took the shoe and frowned at it. He shook it and turned it over and a small silver coin fell into his palm. I craned my neck to see. On the coin was a raised portrait of the young Queen Victoria. He turned it over. The words “six pence” were surrounded by a garland and topped with a crown.
    “A silver sixpence,” Kingsley said.
    “She was robbed,” I said. “She hid her sixpence away in her shoe so the thief wouldn’t get it, but he killed her anyway.”
    “That is a possibility.”
    “No,” Fiona said. She was still looking away from us, toward the muddy canal. “She was getting married. Silver sixpence in her shoe. It’s a superstition meant to bring good luck on her wedding day.”
    “Oh, of course,” I said. “I’ve heard that before.”
    “If she was a new bride,” Kingsley said, “that may give you a clue in trying to identify her, mightn’t it, Constable?”
    “It’s not much of a clue, but it’ll have to do, I suppose.”
    “It’s Sunday,” Fiona said.
    “Yes?”
    “If she got married yesterday, she’s already had all her bad luck at once.”
    “Whatever do you mean?”
    “The rhyme. The one about the days of the week. Saturday’s bad luck for a wedding.”
    “Luck is for people who don’t know any better,” Kingsley said. “We’ll need to transport this poor girl’s body to my laboratory.”
    “I’ll have some of the boys bring her around,” I said.
    “Please take care when moving her.”
    “Of