The Blue Girl by Alex Grecian Page B

course. What do you think did her?”
    “Well, it wasn’t only bad luck. Take a look at her throat.”
    I looked and saw deep purple marks in the translucent flesh. “Strangled?”
    “Indeed. It looks as though someone choked her and threw her away.”
    “She wasn’t an especially pretty girl, was she? For a bride, I mean.”
    “Every bride is special, Constable. This one is no exception.”
    I nodded and looked away at the tendrils of milfoil on the canal. Asinine comments about defenseless women are a particular specialty of mine.
    •   •   •
    Let me be clear: I have no illusions that I’m a good man, or a good policeman. I joined the Metropolitan Police Force in order to impress the sort of girl who likes a man in uniform. I’m not a bad-looking fellow, charming enough and, if there is work to be done, I prefer to shirk it. I generally get away with ducking responsibility through the judicious use of a wink and a smile. I’m doing my best to be a better person. When it occurs to me. I suppose I’m very much like everybody else in England, but at least I’m honest about myself.
    The murder of the girl in the canal bothered me for reasons I didn’t entirely understand. Perhaps it was the funerary atmosphere that had surrounded the discovery of her body. Maybe it was the mixture of pity and disgust I had felt while looking down at her body. Whatever the reason, I felt an unfamiliar sense of duty.
    I sent a runner to the Yard, but no one was available to help me. There had been six other murders in London the previous night and a dead girl in the water was too common a sight to warrant pulling an inspector off another job. Two men were sent from the workhouse instead. It was evident that neither of them had shaved in days and they both smelled of stale beer. I would not have used their jackets to polish my shoes. The men lifted the blue girl onto a stretcher and bore it away for delivery to Dr Kingsley’s laboratory at University College Hospital. I accompanied them to ensure that no liberties were taken with the body during transport.
    Fiona was waiting for me at her father’s laboratory.
    “Father’s had to go out again. The other bodies.”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Have them put her on one of the empty tables.”
    “Which one?”
    “It doesn’t matter. Wait right here, I have something for you.”
    She scurried through a door on the other side of the room. The two men tipped the stretcher and toppled the blue girl onto a table near the wall. One of them touched the brim of his hat, nodded at me, and they were gone.
    I looked around the room. It was large, but the space was filled with a dozen long wooden tables, their surfaces burnished and copper colored with use. Each table had a hole in the middle and the floor gently sloped to a drain. Corpses already rested on five of the tables. Now six. I tried not to think about what went on in that room. My stomach has never been strong.
    I looked at the blue girl. But for the pallor of her skin and the terrible bruise on her throat, she might have been napping. The laborers had left her in an awkward pose and I eased her onto her back, smoothed her sodden white dress, and crossed her hands over her chest. I concentrated on posing her. I only knew that I didn’t want to look up and see the rest of those bodies again. One was missing a head.
    “That’s kind of you.”
    I turned and smiled at Fiona. She brushed a pale strand of hair away from her face and looked at the floor. Her tablet of paper was gone and in its place she clutched a small, well-worn book to her chest.
    “Idle hands,” I said. “I thought I might make her more comfortable. That’s ridiculous, I know, but . . .”
    “Not at all. My father says that the way we treat the dead is an indication of how we treat the living.”
    “Respect, you mean?”
    “Perhaps. Sometimes I only half listen to the things my father says.”
    I chuckled. “I should be going. My shift ended long