LITMIR.BIZ

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as he uttered the words, Hawkwood knew the description was a poor one as it probably covered half the molls in London; a fact mirrored by Eleanor Rain’s less than engaged expression.

      “And how did she die?”

      “Painfully. Beaten and throttled, then tied in a sack.”

       No point in mentioning the mutilation. It was always best to hold something back.

      For the first time a look of genuine shock distorted her features. “Murdered,” she said softly.

      “I doubt it was suicide.”

      She coloured. “No, of course not. Forgive me, it’s …”

      Returning the cup and saucer to the tray and placing her hands together on her lap, in a more composed voice, she said, “My apologies. It is difficult to gather one’s thoughts after being told of such a thing.” She drew herself up. “I can assure you, however, that all my ladies are accounted for.”

      Hawkwood nodded. “I’m relieved to hear it. Though ladies do come and go, do they not?”

      She frowned, as if the idea had not occurred to her. “They do, but surely I cannot be expected to account for the whereabouts of those who might have chosen to leave my employ.”

      “That’s true. So has anyone flown the nest recently?”

      “They have not.”

      The answer came sharply but then she took another breath and in a considered tone said, “May one enquire when the killing took place?”

      “We believe death occurred a day ago; perhaps two.”

      “Where?”

      “That we don’t yet know. I can tell you where she was found: in a grave, in St George the Martyr’s burying ground.”

      “A grave?” she said, puzzled. “Then how …?”

      “An open grave.”

      Hawkwood watched her as the image ran through her mind.

      “And she has lain there unseen until now?”

      “Yes.”

      “All that time? How terrible.”

      “Murder usually is,” Hawkwood said.

      Her chin lifted. Then, fixing him with a conciliatory look, she said, “And it is your task to discover who was responsible?”

      “It is.”

      She nodded. “Could the perpetrator strike again?”

      “It’s possible, yes.”

      “So until you find him, we are all of us at risk.”

      “I can’t say you won’t be. We don’t yet know his motive.”

      “You’re saying she could have been killed for who she was, rather than for what you think she was?”

      “Yes.”

      “And a rose is not an uncommon adornment. She could just as easily be a washerwoman as a whore.”

      “She could.”

      Her eyes clouded. In that instant Hawkwood caught his second glimpse of the woman behind the mask; a woman who, by force of will, had managed to haul herself out of the gutter and into the privileged ranks of society, all the while knowing and resenting the fact that there were elements of her previous life still buried deep within her that she would never be able to erase.

      There was fear there, too, he suspected; fear that, one day, someone would confront her and remind her of her former existence. It was the most vulnerable chink in her armour and she was wondering if this was the moment that weakness was about to be exploited. The sudden flare in her eyes was a warning sign that she would defend her reputation to the hilt if she felt it was about to be challenged.

      “Which is why we need to confirm her identity,” Hawkwood said, and watched as the fire died away.

      “Because, whatever their reasoning, the sooner you find the person who killed her, the safer we all will be?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then I am sorry I’ve kept you from your task and that your journey here has been wasted.”

      “Not at all. All enquiries are useful.”

      Acknowledging Hawkwood’s response with a small – possibly appreciative – nod, she said, “I will, of course, enquire of my ladies if they have heard of or know of anything that could assist your investigation.”

      “That would be most helpful. Thank you.”

      “It is the least I can do.” She paused again and said, “And if I should come into possession of information which might be relevant, how may I notify you?”

      “Through Bow Street Magistrate’s Court.”

      “Yes, of course.”

      As if in need of some activity to fill the subsequent pause in the conversation, she retrieved her cup and took an exploratory sip. Finding the brew had grown cold, she wrinkled her nose and returned both cup and saucer to the tray, leaving a faint smear of pink lip salve along the cup’s rim.

      Hawkwood judged this the opportune moment to take his leave, but as he turned to go she said suddenly, “When Thomas announced you were from the Public Office, I confess, you are not what I was expecting. I apologize if my manner was less than courteous. You are a Principal Officer … what they call a Runner, yes?”

      Hawkwood wondered where this was going. “We prefer the former, but yes.”

      She permitted herself a smile. “Duly noted. It has been my experience that most Public Office employees look incapable of breaking into a brisk walk, let alone a run, whereas you look, if I may say so, rather more … capable. You have the air of a military man. Would I be right in thinking you have fought in the service of the king?”

      “I was in the army.”

      “I thought as much. I made a small wager with myself when I saw the scars on your face and the cut of your coat. It is military-issue, is it not?”

      “It is.”

      “You look surprised. Did you think I was uninformed about such matters? If I were to name every colonel who sought sanctuary within these walls, we would be here until Easter. I believe I could also name not only every regiment in the British Army, but every fourth-rater in his majesty’s navy, given the number of admirals that have raised their flags in my establishment. Not to mention magistrates, ambassadors, assorted aristocrats, clergymen and all but two of Lord Liverpool’s cabinet. You were an officer, yes?”

      Hawkwood didn’t get a chance to respond.

      The smile remained in place. “In this profession, if you learn one thing, it is how to read men. Your attire betrays you. Your outer wear may have seen better days, but your boots are of good quality, as are your jacket and your waistcoat, from what I can see of them. It is also in the way you carry yourself.”

      The blue eyes narrowed. “You would not have moved from colonel to constable – my apologies, to Principal Officer. That would be too far a step down, I think. Too old for a lieutenant, so you were either a captain or a major.”

      Tilting her head, she went on: “You look like a man who is used to command and yet you have little respect for authority. I suspect you came up through the ranks and proved yourself in some engagement, therefore I choose the former. You were a captain. Am I right?”

      “And there was I, thinking I hadn’t made a good impression,” Hawkwood said.

      The frown returned. “Yes, well, in that you are not wrong. Your manners could certainly use improvement. An officer you may have been, but you display the attitude of a ruffian. Has anyone ever told you that?”

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