it.
âMy woman had a birthmark on the inside of her left wrist, pale brown, about the size of a farthing,â I said.
âLeft, was it?â He said it as if that made the thing more serious and came to a decision. âWant to come and have a look at her?â
I nodded, heart sinking. He signalled to another constable standing on the corner to come and take his place and pointed to the church of St Magnus the Martyr at the bottom of the hill.
âThatâs where we took her.â
As we walked, I tried to steel myself. It wouldnât be the first time Iâd had to look at a dead body, but it seemed to be harder rather than easier with repetition.
âThe thing is . . .â the constable said, and hesitated. âThe thing is, her left arm got torn off. It must have caught on the railings as she came down.â
We stopped at a side door of the church.
âIf you liked, I could go in and have a look first,â he said. âThen if she hasnât got the mark on her wrist, you wonât have to see her, will you.â
Cravenly, I thanked him and waited outside for what seemed like a long time. He came out, shaking his head.
âNo mark there. Was your friend married?â
âNo.â (Not unless sheâd married in the past week.)
âThis oneâs got a ring on her wedding finger.â
âIs it very new?â
âMight be. Funny looking thing for a wedding ring. Any road, we had a good look, me and the beadle, and thereâs no birthmark inside her left wrist or anywhere near it. So whoever she is, sheâs not your friend.â
We walked back to the Monument, where Tabby was chatting to a workman. He had a chisel in his hand and his jacket was grey with stone dust.
âHe found her,â she said.
The workman nodded. âI was on my way in to work. Nearly fell over her.â
âDoes anybody know when she climbed up there?â I said.
The workman glanced towards the entrance to the Monument, where the attendant seemed to be refusing to let more people in.
âI reckon she spent the night up there. Mr Jenkins says he always checks the top gallery . . .â
âMr Jenkins being the attendant?â
âThatâs right. Says he looked as usual before he locked up and she wasnât there, only he would say that, wouldnât he?â
âSo you think she hid up there and waited?â
âCanât see otherwise.â
Waited for what, I wondered. For the streets to be quiet? For the first glint of light on the cold Thames?
âWhat time did you find her?â
âHalf past six.â
âAnd nobody heard her fall?â
âNot that I know of. It must have been after midnight, because a man I work with was going home this way from the public house, and she wasnât there then.â
I wished him good afternoon and walked away, Tabby trailing after me.
âArenât you going to ask anybody any more questions?â
âThereâs no point,â I said. âSheâs not Miss Tilbury. Sheâs too tall and her hairâs the wrong colour and thereâs no birthmark on her wrist.â
âYou saw her then?â She sounded envious.
âI didnât need to. The police constable told me.â
âOh them.â
A vagrantâs contempt for the police in her voice, I sensed that my apprentice had found me wanting, so I spoke severely. âWe do the work weâre paid to do. Whatever happened with that poor woman is no business of ours.â
But as we walked away I couldnât help looking back at the Monument and its bright coronet of flames against a grey sky. There seemed something indecently triumphalist about it â as if it were exulting over another victim. I thought of the girl, alone and high up in the dark, hearing voices and seeing lamplight as people went on with their lives below, but her no longer being a part of their world any