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Simon shakes his head. “What’s wrong with this one, Cat?”
Besides the fact that she’s stiff and cold?
When I don’t answer, he glances to Juliane. “What’s different?”
“She’s lying on her side, up against the wall,” she says. “And she was covered.”
“Yes.” Simon moves sideways up to the woman’s torso, lifting loose hair away from her face.
“She still has her hair and eyes,” I say before Juliane can answer. “And her throat is cut, but there’s not very much blood.”
“Bruises,” adds Juliane. “All around her neck.” They blossom against the waxy white of the woman’s skin, like a gruesome row of violets.
Without touching the dead woman, Simon extends his fingers over the purple marks to show how they match the shape of his hand, though not the size. “These happened before she died, which means she was strangled.”
He rises to his feet. “Her throat was cut after death, that’s why there’s almost no blood.” He pauses. “Conclusion?”
None of it quite matches the other two. This woman was strangled, dragged here, and then had her throat cut. Her body was covered, as though to hide what had been done or prevent discovery—unlike how Perrete and Ysabel were left. “We’re meant to think this is our murderer,” I say. “But it isn’t.”
“Very good.” Simon doesn’t smile, but the sentiment is genuine. “Now. Who did this?”
Juliane frowns. “You already know it was her husband.”
“Yes, but we must be able to prove it,” replies Simon.
“His hands,” I say, thinking how Simon’s didn’t quite line up. “They’ll match the marks on her neck.”
Simon holds up his own hand. “Show me yours. Put it against mine.”
I press my palm to his and align our fingers. It’s the first time we’ve deliberately touched since that night on the Sanctum. Heat spreads up my arm from the contact, meeting a similar warmth expanding from my middle. Simon bends the tips of his fingers slightly over mine. “Your hands are about the same size as the ones that killed this woman,” he says.
Embarrassed for more than one reason, I drop my arm.
Simon clears his throat and looks away. “Hand size can eliminate suspects, but it won’t be enough to absolutely connect someone to her murder. What else?”
“He’s a grain merchant,” I say, twisting my fingers in my skirt as I avoid Juliane’s eyes. “That parchment previously had a list of grains on it, and it was hurriedly scraped. That’s evidence that he wrote the note left on the Sanctum.”
Simon nods in approval. “Another good connection, but one that could also be argued as mere coincidence.”
“The handwriting on the note may match the merchant’s,” says Juliane.
“Maybe, but I doubt it. He’s not that stupid.” Simon pauses thoughtfully. “Though it’s obvious he thinks the real killer must be, to have written it as he did.”
“The man immediately claimed his wife was murdered,” I say, remembering how Remi had scoffed that the merchant should’ve checked her mother’s or sister’s houses. “That’s quite an assumption, especially considering the other two were prostitutes from Pleasure Road.”
My insides warm further when Simon smiles. “These are excellent thoughts, but not actual evidence. We need something that showshewas the one who killed and dragged her here.”
“The cover she was under?” Juliane asks, and I kick myself for not saying that very thing. “Can we prove it belonged to him?”
Simon shakes his head. “It looks like it’s been in this alley since at least the last time it rained, and even if we could connect it to him, all he has to do is say he threw it out. But.” He holds up a finger. “That shewascovered is significant. The murderer was ashamed or regretful about what he’d done. As Cat pointed out the other day, our killer is definitely not trying to hide. This one is.” He nods at me. “Let’s keep thinking.”
I feel like I’m failing him as I reexamine the body and its surroundings. The tracks don’t go all the way back to the house, so that doesn’t help. Any signs of struggle in the home itself will have been cleaned up by now. The couple’s neighbors may have heard them fighting, but the man has already admitted that. Maybe we could trace the knife that cut her throat to one the merchant has. But knives are common. So are nails, as Remi pointed out.
Then I see it. “Her shoes.”
Simon studies the woman’s feet. “What’s wrong with them?”
“They’re laced tight at the top but loose along the bottom,” I say eagerly. “She would have rolled an ankle trying to walk in those. Someone put her shoes on her feet but only tied them enough to keep them from falling off.”
