Pitt turned back to the body and started to look more
carefully at the extraordinary clothes the man was wearing.
The green dress was torn in several places. It was
impossible to tell if it had happened recently or not. The
silk velvet of the bodice was ripped across the shoulders
and down the seams of the arms. The flimsy skirt was torn
up the front.
There were several garlands of artificial flowers strewn
around. One of them sat askew across his chest.
Pitt looked at the manacle on the man's right wrist, and
moved it slightly. There was no bruising or grazing on the
skin. He examined the other wrist, and then both ankles.
They also were unmarked.
"Did they kill him first?" he asked.
"Either that, or he put them on willingly," the surgeon
replied. "If you want my opinion, I don't know. If a guess
will do, I'd say after death."
"And the clothes?"
"No idea. But if he put them on himself, he was pretty
rough about it."
"How long do you think he's been dead?" Pitt had little
hope of a definite answer. He was not disappointed.
"No idea beyond what you can probably deduce for yourself.
Some time last night, from the rigor. Can't have been
floating around the river for long like this. Even a bargee
would notice this a little odd."
He was right. Pitt had concluded it would have to have been
after dark. There had been no mist on the river yesterday
evening, and on a fine day, even up to dusk, there would be
people out in pleasure boats, or strolling along the
embankment.
"Any signs of struggle?" he asked.
"Nothing I can see sofar." The surgeon straightened up and
made his way back to the steps. Nothing on his hands, but I
dare say you saw that. Sorry, Pitt. I'll look at him more
closely, of course, but so far you've got an ugly situation
which I am only going to make even uglier, I imagine. Good
day to you." And without waiting for a reply, he climbed up
the steps to the top of the Embankment where already a
small crowd had gathered, peering curiously over the edge.
Tellman looked at the punt, his face puckered with
incomprehension and contempt. He pulled his jacket a little
tighter around himself. "French, is he?" he said darkly,
his tone suggesting that that explained everything.
"Possibly, " Pitt answered. "Poor devil. But whoever did
this to him could be as English as you are."
Tellman's head came up sharply and he glared at Pitt.
Pitt smiled back at him innocently.
Tellman's mouth tightened and the turned and looked up the
river at the light flashing silver on the wide stretches
clear of mist and the dark shadows of barges materializing
from beyond. It was going to be a beautiful day. "I'd
better find the river police, " Tellman said grimly. "See
how far he would have drifted since he was put in."
"Don't know when that was," Pitt replied. "There's very
little blood here. Wound like that to the head must have
bled quite a lot. Unless there was some kind of blanket or
sail here which was removed after, or he was killed
somewhere else, and then put here."
"Dressed like that?" Tellman said incredulously. "Some kind
of a party, Chelsea sort of way? Some—thing—went too far,
and they had to get rid of him? Heaven help us, this is
going to be ugly!"
"Yes sir, " Tellman said with alacrity. That was something
he was willing to do, and a great deal better than waiting
around for anyone from the French Embassy. "I'll find out
everything I can." And with an air of busyness he set off,
taking the steps two at a time, at considerable risk, given
the slipperiness of the wet stone.
Pitt returned his attention to the punt and its cargo. He
examined the boat itself more closely. It was lying low in
the water and he had not until then wondered why. Now he
realized on handling and touching the wood that it was old
and many of the outer boards were rotted and waterlogged.
It had foundered against the stairs rather than simply
caught against them. It was obviously not a pleasure boat
which anyone currently used on the river. It must have lain
idle somewhere for a considerable time.
Pitt looked again at the body with its manacled wrists and
chained ankles, its grotesque position. An overriding
passion had driven his murderer, a love, or hate, a terror
or need, had made this disposition of the corpse as much
part of his crime as the killing itself. It must have been
a tremendous risk to wait long enough to take off whatever
clothes the dead man was wearing, dress him in this torn
silk and velvet gown and chain him onto the punt in this
obscene position, then set the boat adrift out in the
water, getting himself wet in the process. Why had anyone
bothered?
The answer to that might be the answer to everything.