Raven Part Three

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 by 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 territory. 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 tattered mixture of velvet and silk, 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, yet to rot. 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 an excited 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 in glee.
“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 did he say?”
“Well, I think we have a suspect.”

***

“No family records, no mother, no father. It’s like she never existed.”
Charles glares at the various papers littering the desk, his brow furrowed in frustration. Looking for the elusive ‘Badger’ was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. We knew she was connected to the murder, and I had a theory as to how, but I hadn’t shared it with anyone. I wanted to see the chief inspector’s face when I finally solved the puzzle. Then I could get promoted to inspector. I savour that thought, dreaming about my future, my career. Charles awakens me from this hazy, dream-like reality with a cough. I glare at him. His office is messy, filled with clutter and rubbish. A photo of him and a woman lies on the floor, covered in red ink, ripped in two. A whisper of a love-filled past, lost to winds of time and sorrow. He continues to flick through the files, and I stand up, walking over to the bookcase. ‘Famous detectives’, ‘London’s crime’ and ‘Crime in Britain’ are some of the novels that take residence on the dark wood shelves.
“Got something! Just my luck, it’s the last file in the box!” He beckons me over, pupils wide in excitement.
“What does it say?”
“She was caught stealing apples from a stand in the market. Um… She was 13 then, so about she’s about 15 now. Her name is Poppy Donohoe, comes from a long line of pickpockets but it doesn’t say where she lives. Apparently, she said she was in a relationship with this guy called… Phillip Sherrat.”
“No she wasn’t. Phillip loved Isadora.”
“But…”
We both stare at each other, realisation dawning. He grabs his coat from the door; a Cheshire cat grin plastered on his face, and hands me my cloak.
“Right then. Let’s go Badger hunting!”