The Photograph

The photograph slid across my desk in all its black-and-white gore. A young woman, her face calm in death, eye closed. One hand in a pool of blood, languid. She looked like she was sleeping, except for the huge cut up through her stomach, the flash of white bone at her ribs.

I already hated this case.

Jones indicated the photo with a tilt of his head. "A Miss Emma Walker-Price, of Narrow Street."

I met his eyes, surprised. "That's Limehouse. People get offed all the time there, and none of them are even breathed about to the likes of us. What makes her different?"

"'Cause she weren't killed in Limehouse. Got found lying in the middle of the street, pretty as you please, right outside the old Rose place."

I whistled, scanning the photo again. "Far from home."

Jones leaned on the corner of my desk. "Should've seen the butler, he was a wreck, he was. In pieces."

"He bring you in on this?"

Jones nodded.

"Why?"

"'Dunno. Said she was often a visitor to the place recently, askin' after Master Peter. Maybe he wanted to make sure he wasn't a suspect." He grinned. "Y'know, on the radio. 'S always the butler's done it."

I ignored him, picking up the photo. "Knifed, y'think?"

"If so, a dull one. Looks torn more than cut. Besides, here's the odd part." He shakes his head. "That ain't how she died."

"What?"

"That tear in her, that ain't what killed her."

I examined the photo. "What did, then? I see no other marks..."

"She choked. The killer must've given 'er something, 'cause there weren't any marks, then extracted whatever it was and torn her up the middle."

"But...why?"

Jones looked at me, grey eyes serious. "That's why I brought this to you. Y'see, this ain't an act of revenge, it's no petty crime. This was done with a purpose." He took the photo from my fingers. "Her dress was removed down to her waist, unbuttoned. Her mouth is clean, so we don't know what choked her. And...they took her heart."

I mulled this over. "You think this was a studied thing, a planned thing, and you think it had somethin' to do with the arcane."

Jones nodded. "Why else steal a woman's heart?"

I raised an eyebrow at him.

"Literally, I mean."

"Well, if you're just plain mad...But you're right, the rest of the crime doesn't speak of madness."

"You'll take the case, then?"

"Will I be payed?"

"The butler promised, either for coverin' it up or solvin' it, whatever we wanted. HE wanted assurance that neither he nor any of his household would be suspected in the matter."

"I can't promise that. The girl'd been asking for Lord Peter, and he's an odd one. A very odd one."

Jones shrugged. "Then I can't promise you'll be payed. You'll take it?"

I stared at the photo, at the woman's face, framed by her dark hair, and sighed. "Dammit, Jones. You knew I would when you walked in here."

He flashed a grin. "Yeh. But I wanted to see how long you'd last, keepin' it up that you were still decidin'. Anyway, thanks for this." He stands and grabs his hat from the stand.

"You're welcome. You're always welcome."

"Yeah, but this one...it's grisly, and it's a dame. I know you hate seein' 'em dead."

"And yet the murderers keep on offing them." I picked up my own hat, slinging my coat over my shoulder. "See you, Jones."

"Ta."