Secret Lament by Roz Southey Page A

by.”
    “Taking the air,” he confessed, as if it was a mortal sin. “Trying to stop my head spinning.”
    I squinted at him. I was not so drunk now. Fresh air was not a convincing excuse; had he been following me? But why the devil should he?
    I stumbled; he slipped my arm over his shoulder – I protested but only for form’s sake.
    “Where to?” he asked.
    “The High Bridge.”
    “You’ll have to show me where that is.”
    I nearly collapsed as we moved off; there was a stabbing pain in my back that wanted to double me up. As we limped along, I noticed that Corelli was keeping a sharp eye out for trouble. I ought
to be doing that, if only I could think straight.
    I couldn’t remember if I had thanked him; I said, “I owe you…”
    “Nothing,” he said, firmly. “This is payment for all your free advice about my fencing school.”
    I couldn’t remember talking about his fencing school. I couldn’t remember anything we’d talked about. Everything was hazy. I limped on – and came to an abrupt halt as
Corelli stood stock still.
    He was looking down Amen Corner, the street that runs round the back of St Nicholas. In the middle of the cobbles, just before the street turns a corner to the right, was a white heap.
    We looked at it for a long moment.
    “A sack,” I said, finally. “Or abandoned copies of the Courant .”
    We both knew it was not. Corelli left me clinging to the railings and went quickly down the street. I hobbled after him. My head throbbed, my back ached and it didn’t matter. All that
mattered was that pale heap abandoned on the cobbles.
    It was a white bundle of muslin and lace and ribbons. As I reached the place, Corelli was lifting a layer of cloth and revealing what lay beneath. A pale face, frozen in death.
    I had been wrong. No one had murdered John Mazzanti. They had taken his daughter instead.

10
    We must not close our eyes to the dangers of life.
    [ Instructions to a Son newly come of Age , Revd. Peter Morgan (London: published for the Author, 1691)]
    Aches and pains forgotten, I bent to tweak away a further inch or two of fabric. The light was poor – the nearest of two or three lanterns that burned in Amen Corner was
twenty yards away – but the bruises on the girl’s neck were very visible. The dark marks of fingers.
    “Strangled,” Corelli said. I glanced at him. One of the lights was behind him; he was a dark shape squatting down beside me, his face hidden by the shadows. But I heard his fury in
his voice.
    Julia Mazzanti lay face down on the hard cobbles, her left cheek pressed into the ground, her once pretty features distorted. Blood was matted in her hair at the left temple and stained the
length of looped ribbon that tied up the long blonde strands. Some of the hair trailed free, stiff with blood. Her hands were by her neck as if they had been raised to prise away her
murderer’s hands; scratches from her nails marked the fair skin by the bruises.
    I drew back to take in the full slight length of her – and saw blood on the white muslin. I was beginning to feel a fury as great as that which obviously possessed Corelli.
    “I’d lay odds she’s been raped.”
    I was scanning the surrounding area of cobbles to see whether the attacker had left some clue as to his identity – a button, a scrap of torn cloth, even a dropped piece of paper –
when I heard Corelli’s shocked whisper. He had drawn back slightly and the light fell across his horrified face. Dear God, he had the air of a man of the world; he must know the injuries men
are capable of doing each other. But he stared numbly at the girl’s body as if this was the last thing he had imagined might happen.
    “Corelli!” I raised my voice and spoke loudly. There is no point in being sympathetic on occasions like this – only brisk efficiency stops people falling apart. “We must
alert the constable, Bedwalters. You must go for him – I’d take half the night to get across town with this sore