I believe even the most objective of persons would agree he was a handsome man, with his golden-tan complexion and startling blue eyes. His jaw was square, and his chin firm. He looked as if he were not even twenty, and as he stood there, his hands raised in surrender, I admired his mussed, too-long dark blond hair plastered around the ears and neck.
He wore a red shirt with no opening down the front. Its material made it cling to his chest as if it were wet, even though it wasn't. Strangely, there were large letters painted or sewn on the front of it. I could see enough to make out AEROPOSTA-a French word, which added to my suspicions that he was a foreigner. If there were more letters, they were hidden by an unbuttoned plaid shirt. I'd never seen a man wear a shirt like that, open and unbuttoned. I found it scandalous.
Over the unbuttoned shirt, the intruder wore a jacket of black leather that was much shorter than any other coat I'd seen, ending just at his waist instead of halfway to the knees. The hem of the plaid shirt hung below it. His trousers were just as unfamiliar-made of dark blue denim, like the Levi Strauss pants worn by American laborers. They were frayed a little at the hems and worn in the knees.
And his shoes! I wanted to crouch and examine them, for I couldn't identify the material from which they were made. They laced up the front like a woman's shoe, but without the tiny little buttons that took forever to hook. (My mechanized Shoe-Fastener had broken three weeks ago.) Gray with age, yet decorated with an odd swoop-like design on the sides, they looked as if they were made of rubber.
Despite being worn, his footwear was not blood- or mud-splattered, which was curious because it had been raining today-as was usual for London. It would have been impossible to avoid the muck outside, even on the upper streetwalk levels.
He'd not been outside today.
Curious.
Had he been hiding in the museum since before it had begun to rain at dawn? My eyes narrowed in thought and I exchanged glances with Miss Stoker. I didn't expect her to have followed my train of thought-after all, one must be a trained observer, my uncle always said-but nevertheless, I saw intelligent question in her gaze.
"You claim you didn't move her, that you were trying to help her. But what are you doing here in the museum, in the middle of the night?" I asked.
"I'm-uh-I'm part of the custodial staff," he said. "We were going to wax the floors." His smile was forced, yet I couldn't help but appreciate the attempt at an explanation, regardless of how implausible it was.
"That's absurd," said Miss Stoker. The gun wavered in her hand.
"What? The waxing? Hey, it needs to be done-" He must have noticed my severe expression, for he changed his tack. "Look, I swear I didn't touch her. I just found her lying here. I know I shouldn't be here at night, but it wasn't exactly my fault. Circumstances beyond my control. Really freaking odd circumstances."
"You can explain all of these-erm-odd circumstances to the authorities when they arrive," I said. "But you needn't worry about being arrested for murder. I can attest to the fact that you're innocent of that, at least."
"Well, thank goodness you figured that out," he said, his voice dripping with insincerity.
With a little sniff, I returned to the victim, leaving Miss Stoker to deal with the intruder. It was imperative that I finish my examination before the authorities arrived and disturbed everything.
Face, jaw, and fingers beginning to stiffen-rigor mortis in early stages; dead at least three hours, possibly four or five.
Steeling myself for my first good look at her, I turned the girl onto her back. I couldn't hold back a little shudder. Her sightless eyes stared up into the high ceiling of the gallery. With a catch of breath, I closed them with two fingers, hoping she'd found peace without too much pain first.
Blood stained the front of her shirtwaist and her left sleeve, but only a bit on her right. Slender burn-like marks around her arms, as if a thin cord or wire had been wrapped around them. And a terrible slash along her left wrist. I sniffed her hair. Opium. Faint but unmistakable.
Too little blood on the left sleeve-no splashes of blood on the arm that made the cut? Impossible to be self-inflicted.
"Miss Stoker. Do you recognize this young woman?"
Before she could respond, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps. More than one pair, so it would seem Miss Adler had not only rung for the authorities, but fetched them as well. "Hurry," I said as Miss Stoker moved toward me, still holding the gun pointed at our intruder.
She swallowed audibly. "Yes, I believe that's one of the Ho-"
Whatever she was about to say was cut off by a loud, strange sound. It was perhaps a sort of music, but it was like nothing I'd ever heard before. I spun on my haunches and saw a small silver object sliding across the floor. A colorful light shone from its flat top and the sound-loud, screeching, vibrating-seemed to be coming from it. Miss Stoker jumped out of the way just as one of the large stone statues at the edge of the gallery teetered and began to fall.
"Look out!" I shouted as the bristly-haired stone satyr crashed to the floor.
"Stop there!" ordered a commanding voice as two men and Miss Adler came rushing around the corner from the Roman Gallery.
"He's gone!" hissed Miss Stoker, who still held Miss Adler's gun and was now next to me. She was pointing to where the young man had been moments ago.
Ignoring the shouts from the new arrivals, we dashed over to where the intruder had been standing. Having either taken advantage of or manufactured the distraction, he had slipped into the dark shadows.
"I'll go after him," said Miss Stoker, starting off, but a voice ordered, "You! Miss! Stop there!"
"Drat," I muttered, snatching up the silver object that had presumably belonged to the intruder. Clever to use it as a distraction for us, and convenient that he'd left it behind.
The smooth, flat device had gone silent and dark by now. I shoved it in my trouser pocket to examine later, hoping it wouldn't start screeching again. I turned at last to greet Miss Adler and the two gentlemen: Scotland Yard inspectors. They were out of breath from running along the gallery.
"Ladies, this is Inspector Luckworth." Miss Adler gestured to the older of the two men.
About forty, Luckworth was a man of average height and a spare amount of hair, except for the neat beard and mustache that hid his lips. I gave him a brief examination.
Misbuttoned jacket, shirt half untucked, mismatched boots-dressed hurriedly in dark, likely to keep from waking wife.
Tarnished wedding ring, tight but removable-married at least three years; enjoying wife's home cooking.