Ashworth Hall

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PITT STARED DOWN at the body of the man lying on the stones of the alley. It was a gray October dusk. A few yards away on Oxford Street the carriages and hansoms were whirling by, wheels hissing on the wet road, horses’ hooves clattering. The lamps were already lit, pale moons in the gathering darkness.

The constable shone his lantern on the dead face.

“ ’E’s one o’ ours, sir,” he said with tight anger straining his voice. “Least ’e used ter be. I know’d ’im. That’s why I sent for you personal, Mr. Pitt. ’E went orff ter summink special. Dunno wot. But ’e were a good man, Denbigh were. I’d swear ter that.”

Pitt bent down to look more closely. The dead man—his name was Denbigh, according to the constable—looked to be about thirty and was fair skinned, dark haired. Death had not marred his features. He looked only slightly surprised.

Pitt took the lantern and shone it slowly over the rest of him. He was dressed in very ordinary cheap fabric trousers, plain cotton collarless shirt and poorly cut jacket. He could have been a laborer or factory worker, or even a young man come in from the country looking for employment. He was a little thin, but his hands were clean, his nails well cut.

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