The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [1]
“Who in God’s name did this to him?” he asked under his breath.
“Dunno, sir,” Shotts answered shakily. “I in’t never seen anyone beat this bad before, even ’ere. Must ’a bin a lunatic, that’s all I can say. Is ’e robbed? I s’pose ’e must ’a bin.”
Evan moved the body very slightly so he could reach into the pockets of the coat. There was nothing in the outside one. He tried the inside and found a handkerchief, clean, folded linen, roll-hemmed, of excellent quality. There was nothing else. He tried the trouser pockets and found a few coppers.
“Button’ ole’s torn,” Shotts observed, staring down at the waistcoat. “Looks like they ripped orff ’is watch an’ chain. Wonder wot ’e was doin’ ’ere. This is a bit rough fer the likes of a gent. Plenty o’ tarts an’ dolly mops no more ’n a mile west. ’Aymarket’s full of ’em, an’ no danger. Take yer pick. W’y come ’ere?”
“I don’t know,” Evan replied unnecessarily. “Perhaps if we can find the reason, we’ll know what happened to him.” He stood up and moved across to the other body. This was a younger man, perhaps barely twenty, although his face also was so badly beaten only the clean line of his jaw and the fine texture of his skin gave any indication. Evan was racked with pity and a terrible, blind anger when he saw the clothes on the lower part of the torso soaked in blood, which still seeped out from under the body onto the cobbles.
“God in heaven,” he said huskily, “what happened here, Shotts? What kind of creature does this?” He did not use the name of deity lightly. He was the son of a country parson, brought up in a small, rural community where everyone knew each other, for better or worse, and the sound of church bells rang out over manor house, farm laborer’s cottage and publican’s inn alike. He knew happiness and tragedy, kindness and all the usual sins of greed and envy.
Shotts, raised near this uglier, darker slum of London, found his imagination less challenged, but he still looked down at the young man with a shiver of compassion and fear for whoever could do this.
“Dunno, sir. But I ’ope we catch the bastard, and then I trust they’ll ’ang ’im. Will if I ’ave anything ter do with it. Mind, catchin’ ’im won’t be that easy. Don’t see nothin’ ter go on so far. An’ we can’t count on much ’elp from them ’round ’ere.”
Evan knelt beside the second body and felt in the pockets to see if there was anything left which might at least identify the victim. His fingers brushed against the man’s neck. He stopped, a shiver of incredulity, almost horror, going through him. It was warm! Was it conceivable he was still alive?
If he was dead, then he had not been so for as long as the older man. He might have lain in this freezing alley bleeding for hours.
“What is it?” Shotts demanded, staring at Evan, his eyes wide.
Evan held his hand in front of the man’s nose and lips. He felt nothing, not the faintest warmth of breath.
Shotts bent and held the lamp closer.
Evan took out his pocket watch, polished the surface clean on the inside of his sleeve, then held it to the man’s lips.
“What is it?” Shotts repeated, his voice high and sharp.
“I think he’s alive,” Evan whispered. He drew the watch away and looked at it under the light. There was the faintest clouding of breath on it. “He is alive!” he said jubilantly. “Look!”
Shotts was a realist. He liked Evan, but he knew he was the son of a parson and he made allowances.
“Maybe ’e jus’ died after the other one,” he said gently. “ ’E’s ’urt pretty dreadful.”
“He’s warm! And he’s still breathing!” Evan insisted, bending closer. “Have you called a doctor? Get an ambulance!”
Shotts shook his head. “You can’t save ’im, Mr. Evan. ’E’s too far gorn. Kinder ter let ’im slip away now, without knowin’ anything about it. I don’t suppose ’e knows ’oo dun ’im anyway.”
Evan did not look up. “I wasn’t thinking of what he could tell us,” he replied, and it was the truth. “If he’s alive we’ve got to do what we can. There’s no choice to make. Find someone to fetch a doctor and an ambulance. Go now.”