Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [106]
The cab ran smartly along the streets, horses’ hooves ringing on the ice-cold stones, the cabby bundled so high in clothes he could hardly see. When they stopped at the Deptford police station, Pitt got out, already stiff with cold from sitting still. He paid the cabbie and dismissed him. He might be a long time; he wanted to know far more than the identity—if this was indeed Albie.
Inside there was a potbellied stove burning, with a kettle on it, and a uniformed constable sat near the stove with a mug of tea in his hand. He recognized Pitt and stood up.
“Morning, Mr. Pitt, sir. You come to look at that corpse we got? Like a cup o’ tea first? Not a nice sight, and a wicked cold day, sir.”
“No, thanks—see it first, then I’d like one. Talk about it a bit—if it’s the bloke I know.”
“Poor little beggar.” The constable shook his head. “Still maybe ’e’s best out of it. Lived longer than some of ’em. We’ve still got ’im ’ere, out the back. No hurry for the morgue on a day like this.” He shivered. “Reckon as we could keep ’em froze right ’ere for a week!”
Pitt was inclined to agree. He nodded at the constable and shuddered in sympathy.
“Fancy keeping a morgue, do you?”
“Well, they’d ’ave to be less trouble ’n the live ones.” The constable was a philosopher. “And don’t need no feedin’!” He led the way through a narrow corridor whistling with drafts, down some stone steps, and up into a bare room where a sheet covered a lumpy outline on a wooden table.
“There you are, sir. ’E the one wot you knows?”
Pitt pulled the sheet off the head and looked down. The river had made its mark. There was mud and a little slimy weed on the hair, the skin was smudged, but it was Albie Frobisher.
He looked farther down, at the neck. There was no need to ask how he had died; there were finger marks, bruised and dark, on the flesh. He had probably been dead before he hit the water. Pitt moved the sheet off the rest of him, automatically. He would be careless to overlook anything else, if there was anything.
The body was even thinner than he had expected, younger than it had seemed with clothes on. The bones were so slight and the skin still had the blemishless, translucent quality of childhood. Perhaps that had been part of his stock in trade, his success.
“Is that ’im?” the constable said from just behind him.
“Yes.” Pitt put the sheet back over him. “Yes, that’s Albie Frobisher. Do you know anything about it?”
“Not much to know,” the constable said grimly. “We get ’em out of the river every week, sometimes every day in the winter. Some of ’em we recognize, a lot we never know. You finished ’ere?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Then come back and ’ave that cup o’ tea.” He led the way back to the potbellied stove and the kettle. They both sat down with steaming mugs.
“He was strangled,” Pitt said unnecessarily. “You’ll be treating it as murder?”
“Oh, yes.” The constable pulled a face. “Not that I suppose it’ll make much difference. ’Oo knows ’oo killed the poor little beggar? Could ’ave bin anyone, couldn’t it? ’Oo was ’e anyway?”
“Albert Frobisher,” Pitt replied, aware of the irony of such a name. “At least that’s how we knew him. He was a male prostitute.”
“Oh—the one wot gave evidence in the Waybourne case—poor little swine. Didn’t last long, did ’e? Killed to do with that, was ’e?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well—” The constable finished the last of his tea and set the mug down. “Could ’ave bin, couldn’t it? Then again, in that sort o’ trade you can get killed for lots o’ different reasons. All comes to the same in the end, don’t it? Want ’im, I suppose? Shall I send ’im up to your station?”
“Yes, please.” Pitt stood up. “We’d better tidy it up. It may have nothing to do with the Waybourne case, but he comes from Bluegate Fields anyway. Thanks for the tea.” He handed the mug back.
“Welcome, sir, I’m sure. I’ll send ’im along as soon as my sergeant gives the word. It’ll be this afternoon, though. No point in ’anging around.”
“Thank you. Good day, Constable.”
“ ’Day, sir.”
Pitt walked toward the shining stretch of the river. It was slack tide,