William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

to steady her.
    They both looked down at the mottled gray-white flesh of the face. It was coarse-featured, with fleshy cheeks and jaw. The large eyes were now closed, but the sockets suggested their shape. His hair was receding, wavy, a dark gingery gold. He was obviously a large man, heavy-chested, thick-armed. It was difficult to judge his height, but probably close to six feet.
    The hardest thing was to imagine life and color in the features, to think what they would have been like animated by intelligence. And yet presumably to have built a company like Baltimore and Sons he must have had skill, imagination and immense drive.
    “Thank you,” Margaret whispered. “He . . . he looks so peaceful. How did he die?”
    “We do our best,” the attendant said, as if she had passed him a compliment.
    “How?” she repeated, her voice rasping in her throat.
    “Dunno. P’lice say as ’e likely fell down stairs. Yer can’t see ’ere ’ow broke up ’e is inside. An’ o’ course we clean ’em up.”
    “Thank you,” Margaret repeated, struggling to get her breath. The cold and the smell of carbolic were almost overcoming her.
    Hester stared at the form on the table. She had seen so many dead men, although most of them not as neatly and clinically laid out as this one. But even without touching him or moving anything, she noticed a certain crookedness in the way he was positioned. Cleaned up or not, she guessed many of his bones had been broken or joints dislocated. It must have been a very hard fall. And staring at his head she noticed fine scratches on the neck stretching under the left ear down to the front of the throat, then starting up again on the front of the breastbone. Fingernails? They were scratches, not cuts, and the edges were new and raw, bloodless of course now, but the skin had a ragged look as if it had had no chance to heal.
    “Yer seen enough?” the attendant asked, looking at Margaret and beginning to frown.
    “Yes . . . yes, thank you,” Margaret replied. “I . . . I should like to leave now. I have done my duty. Poor Uncle Nolan. Thank you so much for your . . .” She tailed off, unable to keep her composure and finish.
    Hester realized that Margaret was at the end of her strength. This was probably the first time she had seen a dead man, although one woman had died in the house in Coldbath, but that was different, full of emotion, pity, and in the end some kind of peace. This was simply freezing cold and smelling of stone and carbolic. And it was old death, days old.
    She put her arm around Margaret’s shoulders and walked with her out into the passage again, crushing down her disappointment. At least she had a picture in her mind to try to put into words.
    At the entrance they thanked the attendant again, then went as quickly as was even remotely decent out into the street and the gently falling rain.
    “Tea!” Margaret gasped. “And somewhere to sit down, somewhere dry!”
    “Wouldn’t you rather get back to Coldbath?” Hester said in concern. “I’m not sure what sort of a place around here would offer—”
    “I want to draw him before I forget!” Margaret hissed at her. “I can’t do that standing up in the rain!”
    Hester was taken completely aback. “Can you . . . I mean, could . . .”
    “Of course I can! If I do it while he’s still sharp in my mind! Which right now I feel will be forever, but common sense and profound hope say it will not.” Margaret stared around and started to walk more briskly in an effort to reach just such a place, and Hester had to skip a couple of steps to catch up with her, and then seize her by the arm to stop her from bumping into a peddler who was hoping for a sale of bootlaces.
    Eventually they found a tavern where they settled for a table in the corner, two half pints of cider and two hot pies. As soon as they were served, Margaret took out the paper and pencil and began to draw. Every now and then she sipped from her glass, but she ignored the pie. Perhaps the thought of eating while she saw the face of a dead man was too much for her.
    Hester was suddenly profoundly hungry. In her case, relief outweighed more delicate feelings, and all she could think of was how clever Margaret was to bring character and life into a representation created out of lines on paper. In front of her, Nolan Baltimore’s face took shape until she felt as if she must have known him.
    “That’s marvelous!” she said with deep respect, wiping her