Anatomy of Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

personal knowledge, so knew only what the world knew: that the man was known for his expertise on the marks left on a body by violence; known for his wealth and eccentricity; known for having a father murdered and brother hung for the killing, for having refused his rightful title and seat in the Lords to instead sell his estate and study the science of anatomy in obscurity, till Mrs Westerman plucked him free and made him help her save the lives and fortunes of young Lord Thornleigh and his sister. Mr Palmer had read the pamphlets and listened to the gossip and drawn his own conclusions.

    He stepped forward.

I.2

    J OCASTA BLIGH PUMPED the handle and filled her pail in the centre of Arnold’s Yard. Her arms were strong and she took some pleasure in the work, even on a morning as grey as this, twitching with the winter to come. As the water reached the brim of her bucket she became aware of a presence over her shoulder, a hopeful shadow. Without turning, she spoke.font>

    ‘Give us it here, Hopps.’ Then, putting her own bucket to one side, she took another from the old man who had arrived behind her. He was a shrunken, wasted-looking thing, his teeth all memory and wearing hardly more than rags. ‘Why don’t you get a girl in to do for you mornings, Hopps?’ she said, working the pump again. ‘I’d swear you have the blunt to do it, what with the rent we pays you, and I know you ain’t spending it all on your fancy clothes.’

    Hopps looked down at his ragged linen and laughed a laugh that sounded like rocks dragged over gravel. His breath hit the back of her neck with the smell of rotted onions. ‘Oh, Mrs Bligh! Why waste the money on some young thing, when you have strong arms still. Gives a man pleasure, it do, to see you working that thing!’

    She turned and passed over the bucket a little quick so he panted a bit as he took the weight.

    ‘Most obliged, madam,’ he said, looking a little sorry. ‘But are you not singing today? It is how I know that the day has begun when I hear the pump going and you crooning some tune from the north. I should have thought a stranger in the yard till I looked through the window and saw your skirts.’

    Jocasta was famous round the yard for many things, among them her patchwork skirts, voluminous, multi-coloured, constantly reworked and visible a dozen yards off. No one could say if she had many or few; they changed little by little like the foliage on the pear tree that hung over the pump. You could hardly say they changed one day to the next, till a moment came and you looked and saw gold where all had been green before.

    Crossing her broad arms over her chest, the woman looked down at her dried-up wisp of a landlord.

    ‘Here I am though, and as for the singing, we all have dreams from time to time that leave us quiet in the morning.’

    ‘Every day I have them, Mrs Bligh. And always worse to come when I wake.’

    Jocasta made no reply, but took up her own pail and hauled it back to her own door, shoving it open with her thigh and growling at the little rust-coloured terrier that yapped about her. Every morning she fetched water from the pump in Arnold’s Yard for boiling or washing, and every morning it was the same. Boyo thought it was a game and jumped at the swing bucket and bounced around her ankles and skirts till the water splashed and her stockings were soaked. There, now the step into the hallway was wet and she could hear Hopps’s laugh from the courtyard, enjoying the show.

    ‘Dog, will you settle?’

    She kicked the door to, got the pail to its place and dipped in a jug to fill the kettle. Her thick knees clicked like knitting needles and as the enamel tapped the wooden side of the bucket she sat back her bulk on her heels. Time flowed round her like water; some more years would pass and then she too would struggle to fetch her water. The dream she’d dreamed in the night whispered through her head and away; she tilted her head as if to pour it