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members of the watch had arrived to help move the body, and Digby had suggested carrying the body to the dead man’s house on New Bond Street, Taylor had spoken sharply to him as though the suggestion was disgusting.
    For Digby, it was simple, almost a matter of housekeeping; Renard was to be taken where he belonged. He couldn’t understand Taylor’s anger. He had also found it hard to shake off, and had been obliged to take home Cissie, who normally plied her trade on Piccadilly’s side streets, so that he might have a little company. She had been most disconcerted when he had asked her only to lie alongside him, and put her arms around him.
    Even now Digby found it hard to shrug off the look of angry disgust Taylor had cast him. In an attempt to divert himself he dwelt on Cissie’s embrace, and reflected on the fact that he could have told the good doctor a thing or two about women. Like: it was a bad idea, an exceptionally bad idea, to take the corpse to the Taylor house, and leave its blood darkening Mrs Taylor’s kitchen table. It was no excuse that he was seeking to spare Mrs Renard’s delicate nature. Just thinking of it made him chuckle under his breath. Mrs Taylor was the kind of woman who wrapped her hair in bindings then slept still, untouched, like an effigy on a tomb in one of the old churches. The idea of her stumbling across a corpse in her kitchen was the funniest thing he’d thought of all week.
    In its coffin the silversmith’s body looked as lifeless and sallow as wax, a model in a show. But Digby saw the coroner was avoiding looking at it. It had never happened before, but Taylor seemed to be acting like a squeamish old bird. Still, what could you expect from a man who turned a profit from dealing with ladies’ privates?
    Eventually the doctor called the other men to attention. An expectant silence fell on the company, which became tinged with embarrassment when he fought to control his voice, clearing his throat several times. Eventually, he began. ‘We are, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘called to enquire into the death of Pierre Renard, Esquire, of Bond Street, a fine Christian gentleman, who was regrettably killed in Berkeley Square.’
    A murmur passed through the company. Digby folded his arms and looked on with interest. Pierre Renard was no Esquire, he knew, despite his pretensions. Henry Maynard stepped forwards, hat in hand, but with a sour expression on his face. He gave his condolences to Dr Taylor ‘on the sad loss of his friend,
Mister
Renard. We should be exact, for the record.’
    Taylor nodded in acknowledgement of the correction. A suggestion of a smile flitted across his face. ‘He was rising in the world,’ he said to the other man, as though they were alone in the room. Maynard looked unimpressed, and Digby admired the sardonic way he raised his eyebrows in response. ‘As I say, exactness,’ he murmured.
    Regaining his composure, Taylor brusquely called Digby as a witness. Digby came forwards slowly, with measured steps. When he reached the table, he looked evenly around at the faces observing him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. The acoustics of the room made his voice resonate in a particularly agreeable way.
    ‘Will you tell us what you have to say?’ said Taylor. His voice had a harsh ring to it. Still angry, thought Digby, and for no reason. There, there, Doctor; calm your temper, now.
    Digby recounted his discovery of Renard, although he left out the kick he’d dealt the body. He concluded by saying that Renard’s watch chain had been hanging, loose and empty, when he turned the body over, and that his pockets had been emptied. ‘I think it must have been theft, Dr Taylor,’ he said, and murmurs broke from the circle of jurors. ‘Theft,’ he said again, for good measure. ‘And a bloody job the killer made of it, for the gore had soaked the ground for several feet around.’
    ‘Enough,’ said Taylor harshly. There was an uncomfortable hiatus as the coroner stared at