Detective Story Thing 3

A bit more of my detective story!...

I resist the urge to shout after Phillip, instead, I sit at the bar, spirits low, heart dead. His sullen expression is imprinted in my mind, a reminder of the reality of life. Everyone dies. Even those you love. I know I shouldn’t be getting caught up in my emotions, shouldn’t let the heart overwhelm the head. I need to think, trust my brain, not my naïve heart. The same heart that broke many years ago. My head screams in protest, I promised myself never to think of those days again, never to think of love, never to think of him. Tears well in my cornflower blue eyes, trickling down my cheeks, taking my sorrow with them. I watch them fall on my lap, puddles of lost hope and broken dreams. I’m not ready for this yet. I’m not ready to be a detective. The inn clears around me, men leaving for work, women leaving for their families. I stare into the empty nothingness, feeling the black hole in my heart open up and slowly devour my soul.

***

Charles smiles as I approach, his sharp features emphasised the way the rain had darkened his hair. The body rests on a long table to the left of the door, ready to be buried. To the right, bookcases of dark wood line the walls from floor to ceiling, drawing in the walls, making the room seem smaller. I walk over to him, cautious, this is his domain. I do not belong here. Just a moment, one single moment to check the body, and then I’m out of here. I repeat this in head, trying to gather some confidence. He gestures over to me, and I follow him to the body; which is covered in a dirty grey blanket. Her black curls spill out onto the table, an ocean of darkness and death. She is still wearing her dress, a beautiful but ripped mixture of velvet and cotton, with a midnight blue sash. Stolen. I despise the fact that the rich have all they want, but children have to steal just to survive. I lift the blanket, to reveal a deep gash, scarring her thin body. Charles passes me some gloves and puts some on his own hands, suddenly personifying the image that I have of a mad scientist. “She has been identified.” He says, calm and collected. I let out a shriek, then cough, looking downwards awkwardly. “Her name is, Isadora Roberts. She was 15 when she died, but we can’t find any family. Not even any close friends. She was alone, no one knew her.” I smile smugly, pleased to know something that he doesn’t.
“Someone did.” I burst out. This time, it is Charles who shrieks.
“Who?! Who?!”
“Phillip Sherratt, Isadora’s… lover, I suppose. He asked to speak to me at The Lost Knight inn, so I went yesterday, and he told me all about her.”
“What? What did he say?”
“Well, I think we have a suspect.”

***