“Not drowned, pulled from the water sometime in the wee small hours. Slashed—here.” The desk sergeant paused to draw a finger across his neck. “Big smile across his throat, sir.”
“A Pierrot?”
“I know, peculiar, eh? I reckon what happened was he goes to a party—in fancy dress, obviously—then he gets in a rumpus with someone, they stick the knife in and—voilà!” The desk sergeant had been at Verdun, he relished his few words of café French.
“Thanks for your analysis, Sergeant. You should be a policeman.”
“Very funny, sir. There’s another one of yours downstairs.”
“Mine? A Pierrot?” Frobisher didn’t think he had ever used that word so often, in fact he was not sure that he had ever used it in his life.
The desk sergeant laughed. “No, sir. A girl. Drowned.”
* * *
—
“Another little mermaid for your fleet,” the police doctor, Webb, said. “Or should that be a school of mermaids?”
“I don’t think there is a collective noun for mermaids, Webb, not to mention that they don’t exist.” The man was truly dreadful. Was there a collective noun for Pierrots?, part of his brain wondered. A concert party, perhaps.
“Flotsam,” Webb said.
“Jetsam, I rather think,” Frobisher corrected, although he was not in the mood to spar over vocabulary with Webb. He had worried that the girl might be the one he had seen on Saturday night outside the Amethyst. But here there were no blond ringlets, no silvery dress, this girl was tall and on the plump side, she had been well looked after in her all-too-recent infancy. Too young to die. Webb had allowed her the decency of a sheet, he was glad to see.
“No clothes, only the crucifix she was wearing.” Webb had removed the cross and it was sitting now in a petri dish. “She went with God,” he added cynically. He was a man of science, he didn’t have religion. Neither did Frobisher, of course.
How helpful if this girl’s parents had engraved her name. He would send the crucifix round the Catholic churches, perhaps someone would recognize it.
“And this one’s not a virgin,” Webb said.
“？‘This one’？” Frobisher supposed that being callous went with the territory for Webb.
“Far from it, in fact,” Webb continued blithely. “Signs of an abortion, I’m afraid. Very recent, very botched. The girl’s a mess, massive blood loss. Water in her lungs, though, so I suppose someone thought it better to get rid of her. She would have died anyway.”
“But she was alive when she went in the water?”
“Maybe.”
“Christ,” Frobisher said. He was not usually given to blasphemy but he was struck with horror at what the girl must have suffered.
“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Webb said. He produced a pair of spectacles, the glass of one of the lenses crazed like a spiderweb, the other lens missing. “She was still wearing these,” he said. “It’s a miracle they survived.”
The spectacles joined the crucifix and the locket from the previous week in Frobisher’s pocket. It was a strange collection of mementos he was acquiring. He had been troubled by girls who disappeared into thin air. It seemed even more troubling now that they were reappearing out of it.
* * *
—
He returned to his office and summoned Cobb. His constable’s account of his evening in the Amethyst seemed to contain some holes, in Frobisher’s opinion. There had been a fight, gang members were involved, falling out with each other over something and nothing. Shots were fired but no one was injured, Cobb said. Miss Kelling disappeared in the chaos and he had presumed that she had run from the club. He could find no sign of her outside, but when he tried to return to the Amethyst to look for her there his way was barred by the doormen. “I presumed she was safe,” he added lamely.
“Your only duty was to protect her,” Frobisher said sharply.
Cobb glowered at Frobisher’s astringent tone and said sullenly, “Well, if she had just stayed by my side she would have been quite safe.” He sounded churlish, something Frobisher didn’t like in a policeman, or in anyone, for that matter. Frobisher was disappointed in Cobb, disappointed in himself for misreading the man.
“Have you heard from her?” Cobb asked.
“Miss Kelling?” He disliked Cobb’s impolite “she” and “her,” they were on a par with Webb’s “this one.” A diminishing of a girl, of a woman. “No, I have not heard from her,” he said, “but I am reliably informed that Miss Kelling returned to her hotel at the end of the night.” This was not entirely true. The virago who ran the Warrender hadn’t been able to confirm to him what time Gwendolen Kelling had returned after her visit to the Amethyst, except that she wasn’t in when she had locked up at ten thirty. Where had she gone? He winced at the memory of his visit to the Warrender the day before. He had behaved like any Sunday swain calling on a sweetheart when he had a wife—a grieving wife—at home.