Tom All-Alone's Read Free

thing again. Then he steadies himself and sets off again, and as he comes closer to the light, he can see that the ground about the tree stump has been disturbed. He edges closer and squats down, telling himself to forget the stench and the squalor and concentrate on looking carefully and thinking clearly. That’s what he’s good at: using his eyes and applying his mind – just as he was taught by his great-uncle Maddox, the celebrated thief-taker. His parents had named him Charles in Maddox’s honour, though not without some misgivings: Maddox might have made a lot of money out of his chosen profession, but it was not one well regarded by the middle classes. Not then, when Maddox was practising, in the early years of the century, and certainly not now. But then again, the Victorian bourgeoisie can rely on a properly constituted police force, which is a luxury their grandparents never had. Thief-taking may never have been a particularly respectable occupation, but it was an essential one, nevertheless, and all too often the only bulwark between order and anarchy. ‘Charles Maddox’ he is then, the second of that name, but his parents could hardly have expected he would want to emulate his predecessor in a far more significant way, and take up the same base calling. When he turned seventeen, Charles reluctantly agreed to follow his father into medicine ina last forlorn attempt to salvage their relationship, but he lasted less than a year before giving it up and beginning the world again where his heart really lay – with the Detective.
    The second officer comes up now and stands behind him, watchful but silent. Charles thinks he’s seen him before, but can’t remember his name. Clough, is it, or Cuss? Something like that, anyway. His face is as sharp as a hatchet and his skin as dry as an autumn leaf.
    â€˜So what do you make of it?’ the man says eventually, in the same level tone he might use to buy a brisket or order a beer. Is it indifference – or just an appropriate and commendable detachment? Charles can’t be sure.
    â€˜Can you tell me who found it?’ he asks.
    â€˜Couple of lads, playing where they shouldn’t. I doubt they’ll be back here in a hurry.’
    â€˜And it was like this?’
    â€˜Nothing’s been moved. Not yet.’
    Charles bends down and looks more closely, straining his eyes in the low light. Without a word, the man brings the bull-dog lower, and Charles feels its warmth on his skin. It’s clear to him now what must have happened. Judging by the exposed knots of red yew root, the last week’s rain has washed at least an inch of mud from the surface of the soil. And what it’s revealed is the tiny body of a newborn baby, still wrapped in a dirty blue woollen blanket, a scrap of white cotton tangled about the neck. He may never have completed his medical training, but Charles knows enough to make a pretty shrewd guess how long these bones have been here. In this waterlogged London clay, probably three weeks; certainly no more than four. The eyes are long gone, but wisps of pale hair are still pasted to the skull, and the flesh is largely intact, though almost black with putrefaction and scored with the marks ofteeth and claws. Indeed, the rats seem to have done an unusually efficient job with this one. One hand is completely gone below the wrist, but the fingers of the other are curled as if to a mother’s touch. When Charles lifts the edge of the sodden blanket, the gaping belly is swarming with larvae. But that isn’t the worst of it. Underneath the body he can already see the buried blue of another coverlet, and the broken ribcage of another small child. He glances up at the officer. ‘Do you want to, or shall I?’
    â€˜Be my guest. It’s not a job I particularly relish.’
    Charles takes a pair of gloves from his pocket, and the officer hands him a small trowel. Five minutes’ careful