A Body in Berkeley Square

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At two o'clock in the morning on the fifth of April, 1817, I stood in an elegant bedchamber in Berkeley Square and looked down at the dead body of Mr. Henry Turner.

Mr. Turner was in his twenties. He had brown hair arranged in fashionable, drooping curls and wore a black suit with an ivory and silver waistcoat, elegant pantaloons, and dancing slippers. An emerald stickpin glittered in his cravat, and his collar points were exceedingly high.

Only a slight red gash marred the waistcoat where a knife had gone in to stop his life. Except for the waxen paleness of his face, Mr. Turner might be asleep.

"And he died where?" I asked.

"In a little anteroom off the ballroom downstairs," Milton Pomeroy, my former sergeant, now a Bow Street Runner said. "Right in the middle of a fancy ball with the creme de la creme. Lord Gillis had him brought up here, so the guests would not be disturbed by a dead body, so he said."

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