The attendant stopped by one of the tables and pulled the sheet off slowly, uncovering the body of a middle-aged, slightly plump man of average height. Riley had cleaned him up very little, perhaps so Evan could make his own deductions. But with his clothes absent it was possible to see the terrible extent of his injuries. His entire torso was covered in contusions, black and dull purple where they had bled internally while he was still alive. On some the skin was torn. From the misshapen ribs, several of them were obviously broken.

"Poor devil," the attendant repeated between his teeth. "Put up one 'ell of a fight afore they got 'im.”

Evan looked down at the hand nearer him. The knuckles were burst open and at least two fingers were dislocated. All but one of the nails were torn.

"Other 'and's the same," the attendant offered.

Evan leaned over and picked it up gently. The attendant was correct.

That was the right hand and, if anything, it was worse.

"Will you be wanting to see his clothes?" the attendant asked after a moment.

"Yes, please." They might tell him something, possibly something he could not already guess. Most of all he wanted to know the man's name.

He must have family, perhaps a wife, wondering what had happened to him. Would they have any idea where he had gone, or why? Probably not. He would have the wretched duty not only of informing them of his death, and the dreadful manner in which it had happened, but where he had been at the time.

"Ere they are, sir." The attendant turned and walked towards a bench at the farther end of the room. "All kept for yer, but otherwise just as we took 'em orff 'im. Good quality, they are. But you'll see that for yerself." He picked up underwear, socks, then a shirt which had originally been white, but was now heavily soiled with blood and mud and effluent from the gutter in the alley. The smell of it was noticeable, even here. The jacket and trousers were worse.

Evan undid them and laid them out on the bench. He searched them carefully, taking his time. He explored pockets, folds, seams, cuffs.

The fabric was wool, not the best quality, but one he would have been happy to wear himself. It was warm, a rather loose weave, a nondescript brown, just what a gentleman might have chosen in which to conduct an expedition into an unseemly quarter of the city not, perhaps, one as dangerous as St. Giles. No doubt for his normal business he wore something better. The linen of the shirt would suggest that both his taste and his pocket allowed a greater indulgence.

All that told him was that the man was exactly what he thought, from somewhere else, seeking either pleasure, or a dishonest business in one of London's worst slums.

The suit had been damaged on the knees, presumably when he had fallen during the fight. One knee was actually torn, the threads raw; the other only pulled out of shape, a few fibres broken. There was also a badly scuffed patch on the seat and it was still wet from the gutter and deeply stained. The jacket was worse. Both elbows were torn, one almost completely gone. There was a rent in the left side and a pocket all but ripped off. However, even the most thorough search, inch by inch, revealed no damage which could have been done by a knife or a bullet. There was a considerable amount of blood, far more than was accounted for by the nature of the injuries to the dead man. Anyway, it appeared to come from someone else, being darker and wetter on the outside of the garment and having barely soaked through to the inside.

At least one of his assailants must have been pretty badly hurt.

"D'yer know wot 'appened?" the attendant asked.

"No," Evan said miserably. "No idea, so far.”

The attendant grunted. "Come in from St. Giles, didn't 'e? Reckon as yer'll never find out, then. Nobody from there says nothin' on their own. Poor devil. "Ad a few ga rotters in from there. "E must 'a crossed someone proper ter get beat like that. Don't need ter do that ter no one just ter rob 'im. Gambler maybe.”

"Maybe." The name of the tailor was on the inside of the jacket. He had made a note of that, and the address. It might be sufficient to identify him. "Where is Dr. Riley?”

"Up on the wards, I spec, if 'e in't bin called out again. Fair make use of 'im, you rozzers do.”

"Not of my choice, I promise you," Evan said wearily. "I'd much rather not have the need.”

The attendant sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He said nothing.

Evan went up the stairs and along the corridors, asking, until he found Riley coming out of one of the operating theatres, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, his arms spattered with blood.

"Just taken out a bullet," he said cheerfully. "Damn fool accident.

Marvellous thing this new anaesthetic. Never saw anything like it in my youth. Best thing to happen in medicine since… I don't know what! Maybe it's just the best thing straight and simple. I suppose you've come about your corpse from St. Giles?" He shoved his hands into his pockets. He looked tired. There were fine lines crisscrossing his face, and a smear of blood over his brow and another on his cheek where he had rubbed his hand without realising it.

Evan nodded.

A medical student walked past them, whistling between his teeth until he recognised Riley, then he stopped and straightened his shoulders.

"Beaten to death," Riley said, pursing his lips. "No wound with any weapon… unless you count fists and boots as weapons. No knife, no gun, no cudgel as far as I can judge. Nothing to the head more than a flat concussion from falling on to the cobbles. Wouldn't have killed him, probably not even knocked him senseless. Probably just stunned and a little dizzy. Died of internal haemorrhage. Ruptured organs.

Sorry.”

"Could one man alone have done that to him?”

Riley thought for quite a long time before he replied, standing still in the middle of the passage, oblivious of blocking the way for others.

"Hard to say. Wouldn't like to commit myself. Taking that body alone, without considering the circumstances, I'd guess more than one assailant. If it was only one man, then he was a raving lunatic to do that to another man. He must have gone berserk.”

"And with considering the circumstances?" Evan pressed, stepping to one side to allow a nurse to pass with a bundle of laundry.

"Well, the boy's still alive, and if he survives tonight, he might recover," Riley answered. "Too soon to say. But to take on both of them, and do that much damage, I'd say two assailants who were both big and well used to violence, or possibly even three. Or else again, two complete lunatics.”

"Could they have fought each other?”

Riley looked surprised. "And left themselves damn near dead on the pavement? Not very likely.”

"But possible?" Evan insisted.

Riley shook his head. "Don't think you'll find the answer is that easy, Sergeant. The younger man is taller. The older one was a bit plump, he was well muscled, quite powerful. He'd have taken a lot of beating, considering he was fighting for his life. And there was no weapon to give the advantage.”

"Can you tell if the wounds were made attacking or defending?”

"Mostly defending, as well as I can judge, but it's only a deduction made from their position, on forearms, as if he were putting up his arms to protect his head. He may have begun by attacking. He certainly landed a few blows, judging from his knuckles. Someone else is going to be badly marked, whether it is anywhere that shows or not.”

"There was blood on the outside of his clothes," Evan told him.

"Someone else's blood." He watched Riley's face closely.

Riley shrugged. "Could be the younger man's, could be someone else's.

I've no way of knowing.”

"What condition is he in now, the younger man? What are his injuries?”