Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [2]
He blanked from his mind what was inside it and knelt to examine it, turning it over gingerly when he had seen all he could from the top. It was thick paper, a little shiny on the inside, two layers of it. He had often seen such paper used for tying parcels of linen. It was strong and usually crackled a little if touched—only this was wet with blood and made no sound, even when he turned it. Inside the brown paper was clear, greased kitchen paper, another two layers, the sort butchers sometimes use. Whoever had wrapped this hideous thing must have imagined it would hold the blood.
The string was unusual—coarse, hairy twine, yellow rather than white, wrapped lengthways and widthways twice and knotted at each join, and finally tied with a loop and two raw ends about an inch and a half long.
He took out his notebook and wrote it down, though it was all something he would like to forget—wipe totally from his memory. If he could.
Stripe was coming back, awkwardly, embarrassed by his loss of composure. He did not know what to say.
Pitt said it for him. “There must be more. We’d better organize a search.”
Stripe cleared his throat. “More ... Yes, Mr. Pitt. But where should we start? Could be anywhere!”
“Won’t be very far.” Pitt stood up, knees stiff. “You don’t carry that sort of thing longer than you have to. Certainly not further than you can walk. Even a lunatic doesn’t get into a hansom or a public omnibus with a bundle like that under his arm. Should be within a radius of a mile at the outside.”
Stripe’s brows went up. “Would ’e walk a mile, sir? I wouldn’t. More like five ’undred yards, if that.”
“Five hundred in each direction,” Pitt answered. “Somewhere five hundred yards from here.” He waved his arm round the compass.
“In each ...” Stripe’s blue eyes were confused.
Pitt put the thought into words. “Must be a whole body altogether. That’s about six parcels, roughly this size. He couldn’t carry them all at once, unless he used a barrow. And I doubt he’d draw attention to himself by doing that. He certainly wouldn’t be likely to borrow one, and who owns barrows except tradesmen and costers? But we’ll check for any seen in this area, either yesterday or today.”
“Yes, sir.” Stripe was intensely relieved to have something to do. Anything was better than standing there helplessly while the flies buzzed round the appalling heap in the grass.
“Send a message back to the station that we need half a dozen constables. And the mortuary cart, and the surgeon.”
“Yes, sir.” Stripe forced himself to look down once more, perhaps because he felt somehow callous disregarding the enormity of it, walking away without some acknowledgment. It was the same instinct that makes one take off one’s hat at the sight of a hearse passing in the street, even though one has no idea who is dead.
Pitt walked between the gravestones, curled and decorated, marred by weeds, and came to the graveled entrance to the church. The door was open and it was cool inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and the hazy colored splashes on the stones from the stained glass. A large woman was collapsed, half prostrate, on a wooden seat, her hat on the floor beside her, the neck of her dress undone. The sexton’s wife, holding a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of ammonia smelling salts in the other, was muttering something comforting. They both looked round, startled, as Pitt’s footsteps sounded on the floor. A ginger-colored Pekingese dog was asleep in the doorway in the sun and ignored him completely.
“Mrs. Peabody?”
She stared at him with a mixture of suspicion and anticipation.