It drizzled without stop, noise, nor warning.
The rain hadn't let up since I got here minutes ago. It slithered down gutters like cigarette ash swirling in dishwater. Every droplet that hit the road were louder than it should've been. Maybe it was the hour or probably just me. It's rhythm seemed to have changed as if a pianist had tapped out different moods on the same black and white keys. The droplets this time were different, it felt enlightening unlike the dreary rain that passed by minutes ago.
My coat had dried slightly at the edges. The wool, however, still clung to my spine like forgotten regret. I strolled back to the scene along with the officer I enjoyed a good laugh with earlier. His voice trailed off each time he looked into me whenever he caught my pupils staring too long.
"I hate to admit it... I'm glad you're here now more than ever, really." His left palm lightly tapped my back twice, then covering his face with the hat using his other hand.
What? Why? Was it because I left for a moment? Although, it did feel like he was referring to the actual Inspector Everard.
Before I could get myself to respond even with a simple nod or smile, we had already arrived at the scene. I heaved a sigh right where l stood in the middle of the sidewalk. I then stepped closer, still unprepared for what I was about to involve myself with.
They had now set up lamps by the cordon. It could've been gas or kerosene, I had no way to tell which one it was. All I know is they hissed with life like little dragons breathing fire for the first time. Well, I meant the noises I heard on more modern animated dragon films is my time is what I used as reference.
Gaslight flickered against damp stone and glinted off the brass buttons of the uniforms swarming the scene. The body laid crumpled near the curb, framed by a crooked metal fence and low murmur of a growing crowd hidden beneath umbrellas. Her outline was faint and so were the trails of red on and around the corpse, it was already being claimed by the weather.
I slipped past the barricade, while my coat dragged the weight of another man's reputation. The air smelled of rain, wet iron, and something floral struggling not to decay. Even with all these foreign scents, the only thing I could taste was the pressure setting deep within me.
"Everard, the rain hadn't halted at all tonight but my men did their best to keep the scene intact at most." Explained the man on my right—Lestrade, or the local equivalent of the name at the very least. Not the real deal, of course, but the nickname had stuck the moment he laughed at my accidental Sherlock comment.
I nodded out of pure survival instinct, hoping not to ruin the real inspector's reputation as much as possible.
Now, what's the first step when trying to solve cases? Observing the facts of the issue at hand. Let's pretend that this is another investing company that requires an analysis at the soonest possible time. That means I have to observe the dead body right...?
I bent down, moving closer towards the woman's corpse.
The corpse still laid in the same pose as she did earlier before I took a quick break. It was a woman, probably in her mid-30s. She was well-dressed, but with scuffed heels she most definitely loved wearing. Her head was tilted at an unnatural angle, her throat opened horizontally. It was a clean cut with no visible hesitance in the doer's perspective. One of her gloves was missing, yet the pair she's wearing has a slight tear. Her lipstick was lightly smeared as well.
"Her name's Margaret Henderson," Lestrade said, flipping through his leather-bound notebook. "Worked full-time at a publishing house a few blocks north. She lived alone. Neighbors say she kept to herself most of the time, but was often amicable."
"She had no identification on her." I uttered, glancing around the dead woman's body. It didn't look like her wallet was there, moreover a calling card.
"That's right," he turned to me. His brow furrowed, seemingly impressed by my comment. "A bit early to pull that out, though. I didn't even get to that part yet."
I didn't reply. They wanted me to be a genius? Fine, I'll feed them brilliance.
My eyes wandered around before landing behind me, to the direction of the crowd past the cordon, then I heard murmurs.
"Does she not live only three blocks up ahead?"
"Poor child, she worked different jobs just to earn a penny to aid her brother since this past year."
"Oh, dear. To imagine that she'll meet her demise this way is plenty tragic."
These individuals might be unnecessarily loud and nosy oftentimes, but they provide good information when needed at critical moments such as this. I should ask the officers more of what they've garnered from the onlookers later.
"I assume they talked a lot 'bout her. The popular type, hm?" It felt somewhat natural to add the comment like some know-it-all.
Rain hissed against the cobblestones, trying to erase the scene before I could come to understand it. I then stood motionless as officers shifted like dark phantoms around the body, moving without much noise as though their boots feared disrespecting the dead.
The officer, who called when I arrived here, wearing the same stiff collar and gloves twisted aside the body. "This was in her coat pocket, sir. The name isn't hers."
I blinked as I stared at the piece of coupon. Ration book, of course. This wasn't just the past, it was post-war rationing. The texture of the timeline settled heavier in my chest. This woman had stood in queues. Even probably traded a her riches for sugar. I can't bear to imagine the hardships during this era that I'll soon get to see for myself soon.
This must be the killer's then since it doesn't belong to her—is what I want to say but there's absolutely no way this'll be that simple, right? I might be overestimating the case, however, it's better to be cautious than not.
Think.
I have to think as if I'm playing one of those detective games on my phone except the fact that I might actually bear a huge responsibility if I get even a single word wrong. Now, could the wrong ration book be a clue... like maybe she was carrying someone else's on purpose?
A thought suddenly occurred to mind.
"She was delivering something," I said aloud.
"Pardon?" The officer's brows furrowed, his posture straightened.
"She was in transit. The missing glove, the ration book that isn't hers, the scuffed heels… someone stopped her before she reached her destination." My mouth moved faster than I had anticipated. The words were simply speculation based on the things I observed but it felt right speaking it. It seems as if my body had agreed with the explanation I just uttered.
"Bloody hell. You're back to form aren't you?" Lestrade then stared at me.
Back to form, huh. Inspector Everard must've really been something before this.
I turned away from the corpse. A flash of pain ran through my head. It felt like my mind was caught in a trapdoor I'd fallen through. I know to myself that I am scared deep to my soul, yet my bones seem to have little to no ounce of nervousness amidst the pressure of the scene. My body's owner must have enjoyed his job.
"I… need a moment," I muttered.
They gave me space.
I paced to the edge of the alley. Letting the fog wrap around me like a curtain. My hands trembled again. Unlike last time due to fear and confusion, I didn't know what caused it. It felt like the kind that came from looking at an equation and knowing the answer before reading the question.
An hours ago, I was simply a business student with caffeine addiction and an unhealthy relationship with deadlines. So what was this?
Possession, madness, or… muscle memory of a body that isn't mine?
The wind's blow had changed ever-so-slightly, I was sure of it. I turned back to the scene.
Lestrade was pointing something out to the uniformed officers. Their flashbulbs sparked, reporters were gathering like wolves just out of leash range. Their notepads bobbed with impatience, hats soggy with rain. Somewhere in that crowd, I caught the side-eye of a plainly clothed man, a younger man with good posture and neat shoes. His gaze lingered on me a little longer than it should have.
"Anything else, Inspector?" my head shifted to the source of the voice that called.
Nothing, am I allowed to say that?
"That's enough, let the man have his rest. What he said was plenty helpful already." Lestrade shifted his gaze towards me. "I'll have remaining information we'll find sent to your office."
Well, I don't have any other choice but agree, do I?