A Cold-Blooded Scoundrel
by J. S. Cook

The dead man was smiling. He was lying in a narrow defile, a lane joining two filthy East End streets. He had been dead a while, judging by the condition of the body and the colour of his skin: a dusky greyish-green, shading to black where the blood had pooled and settled in his tissues. The eyes were wide open and bulging with the burden of post-mortem gases; the hands were held with the palms facing down at his sides, the fingers clenched. His throat had been cut.

There was something underneath his fingernails, something dark and viscous and oily-looking; all his hair was gone. Devlin bent low to sniff the dead man’s open mouth, steeling himself against the stink of charred flesh.

“What are you doing that for?” Constable Freddie Collins, lately of the London Metropolitan Police and of Pimlico, respectively, hovered over the corpse, keeping well out of the way of Inspector Phillip Devlin, also of the London Metropolitan Police, but rumoured to be living in Brixton.

“Checking for poison. Depending on which one, sometimes you can smell it.” Devlin, absorbed in scraping under the deceased’s fingernails, didn’t look up.

“It’s a bit weird, Inspector.” Freddie tilted his head to one side. “How come he’s smiling?”

“Heat, from the fire.” Devlin deftly extracted a sample from under the fingernails, swiped it on to a small piece of paper. “The heat dries the muscles out and makes them contract. Then again, he might have been poisoned. You never can tell. Bag?”

Freddie snapped open a brown paper bag and put it into Devlin’s outstretched hand. “Bag.” He paused. “But it’s really odd.”

Devlin tucked the paper into the bag and folded the bag carefully. “What’s odd, Constable? The fact that someone’s tried to burn him to a crisp or the fact that they also shoved something up his nostrils?” He pushed Freddie aside none too gently and bent down. There were some in the Yard who laughed at Devlin for his hobbies, but his habit of collecting all the rag-tag bits and bobs from a crime scene had helped out in the past.

“You never know where a man’s nostrils will lead you,” Devlin said comfortably.

“Cripes!” Freddie was hovering again. “That’s . . .”

“Paper and black powder,” Devlin said. “Fireworks.”

“Up his nose?” Freddie shook his head. “Rough way to blow a man’s nose.”

“Constable,” Devlin said.

“Sorry, Sir.”

Devlin pulled back the unbuttoned shirt. “Take a look.” In the middle of the dead man’s chest there was a thumbprint. In blood.

“Must have been done after he was already dead,” Freddie said. “Has to be. Who’d stand still and let someone do that to them? Unless he did it himself.”

“He wasn’t killed here, that’s for sure. There’s no blood on the wall. So his throat was cut elsewhere, and the killer brought the body here.” Devlin dragged his eyes away from the thumbprint. “He’s come back again.”

Freddie understood. “But he’s . . .”

“We never made it stick. He was free to go.” Devlin got up, wincing as his knee joints popped.

“He wouldn’t dare.”

Devlin shook his head. “Wouldn’t he? The last I heard he’d emigrated to Australia. Going to make his fortune in the gold mines.” He tapped Freddie’s arm. “Go round to the pub and fetch the constables back.” Devlin had sent them away on the pretext of fetching him a jar of gin. He didn’t actually drink gin, but he’d rather that than three or four large-footed Peelers stomping all over his crime. “It’s better if Mr Whoever isn’t exposed to the scrutiny of the popular press.”

He waited till Freddie had gone, then bent low over the body and stared hard at the thumbprint.

It never got any easier.