2 August 2012
I take a deep breath then enter the inn, immediately overwhelmed by the cloud of cheap perfumes, alcohol and cigarette smoke. Noon. Rush hour in all the London inns. The Lion’s Head is packed, barely room for a small child, let alone a grown woman. I squeeze through the crowd, thanking my parents for my small build and the years of malnutrition for my slim waist. Somewhere, Jimmy is waiting. A new lead for a new case. My case. I scan the crowd for a tall, blonde man with a scar on his forehead, holding my breath as I past a drunk teen. When I find him, I rush over, desperate to be rid of the crowd. He smiles a toothless smile, and then pats the seat to his left, gesturing for me to sit next to him. I take his invitation cautiously, carefully not to touch him. He reminds me of Charles, he eyes twinkle in the same way. “You’re Jimmy, right?” I start, waiting for a response. He nods. “I heard you witnessed the murder yesterday night. Can you tell me anything about it?” He glances around, as if scared, then whispers, “Yes. She was running away, really scared I think. Then I heard a scream, she was dead. I walked over and the other girl was gone.” “Did you see anything else?” “No! It was dark okay?! The murderer was a girl, that’s all I know. Okay? Now, give me my reward. Two guineas. That’s what it said on the poster. Two guineas.” Reluctantly, I hand over the money, not wanting to talk to him anymore, and then make a quick exit. Cold air fills my lungs, catching me off-guard and I cough, stumbling. The satchel falls out of my cloak. I pick it up quickly; glancing around, then hide it out of view once more. No one needs know that I have it, this is my case, and therefore this should be my satchel. In fact, now would be a great time to inspect the contents. I slink into an alleyway and spread the items on the cobbles, sliding down the wall onto the floor, exhaustion sinking in. I have not slept for hours. Days even. One by one, I lift up each item, taking care not to break anything, and let the detective find the important details. Empty picture frame. Picture possibly stolen, in a jealous rage. A mousy brown hair, straight not curled, trapped within the frame. Smells of… perfume, this is from the murderer, not the victim. Ceramic pot. Decorative. Stolen, from a rich woman, filled with medicinal herbs, mainly rosemary and sage. Pearl necklace. Also stolen, from a rich woman. The victim was a pickpocket, in a gang. The midnight gang, famed for their habit of stealing jewellery, especially necklaces. I have seen many a pickpocket from this gang dancing around with a beautiful necklace adorning their neck. Muslim bag. Again, filled with medicinal herbs and salts. The victim must have been sickly, struck down with a dangerous disease, on the run. Silver pen. The victim was educated; rich in her early years then throw out onto the streets. She was writing to someone, possibly a relative or lover. Padlock. She had something to hide, a dark secret or a precious item. Oil covers the majority of the lock; she lives near a factory, one that has the largest machines in London. “Smiths and sons.” I look up to see the chief inspector, “That’s the factory.” He glances down at me, and I blush violently, realising that I have been muttering to myself for the past hour. I stand up, brush myself off and stoop down to pick up the contents of the satchel. He chuckles, then speaks again. “We have another witness.”
***
Phillip Sherratt sits at the bar, his dark hair ruffled; his chestnut eyes cast downwards in sorrow. I approach in caution, wary of him. I have not had the best experience with witnesses in the past. He glances up; he looks pained, his features contorted into the very image of despair. He was close to her, loved her, held her tight. Thought that she would never leave him. For some reason, I recognise him, and feel a deep sympathy. He beckons and I smile weakly, joining him at the bar. “Are you Eliza?” He says, voice deep, holding back tears. I nod, and resist the urge to pat hug him, to tell him that everything will work out, that everything will be okay. I clear my throat and begin, “Hello Phillip. Can you tell me anything about the murder on Thursday night?” A single tear slides down his cheek, forming a path through the coal dust pasted onto his face. The sorrow etched into his features shows as he bursts into tears, letting go of any dignity he had. I lean forward and hug him, my eyes glassy and my throat dry. We sit there for what seems like an age, until Phillip breaks away and composes himself. “The victim, she was… Raven. Or Isadora. She never liked her real name, said it reminded her of her family, the people who threw her out. When she joined the gang, nobody would talk to her. Except me. Badger was furious, she told me not to talk to upper class idiots like her, that she would poison our minds. And, yet she let her join the gang. One time, Raven and I went to get our picture taken together, and she bought a red leather frame to put it in. It was a beautiful photo, and she looked stunning in it. That was when I realised that I loved her. When Badger found out she was going to burn it, but Raven managed to get away and hide it at Smiths and Sons, the factory. You see, Badger and I were meant to be together, but I never liked her. She is cruel, heartless and spiteful, a harsh leader who threatens those who oppose her. Like… R-r-Raven…” At the end of this sentence, he starts to cry again, sobbing hysterically. I have never seen anyone cry this much, apart from my mother when she lost her second child. He continues to cry as he whispers; “B-badger threatened to hurt Raven, if she didn’t leave the gang before the 12th. And she didn’t.” I rub him on the arm and put on my most reassuring voice, “Can you tell me Badger’s real name?” Phillip shuffles uncomfortably in his seat, and then speaks again, “I don’t know. No one does. I’m sorry…” “Oh, no, don’t worry. Thank you Phillip, for all of the information you’ve given me. I’ll let you know when we find the murderer, okay. You can leave now.” I watch him traipse out of the inn; head held down, eyes locked on the floor. His heart lays on the floor, broken and bleeding.
Raven Part Two • Opuss № I