"I dunno, sir. The more I look at it, the less I know. But there in't no weapon 'ere. If there was one, they took it with them. An' wot's more, there in't no trail o' blood as I can see, so if they was 'urt their selves it weren't nothing like as bad as these two poor souls the doc and the mortuary van took away. I know they was dead, or as near as makes no difference, wot I mean is…”

"I know what you mean," Evan agreed. "It was a very one-sided affair.”

A hansom went by at the far end of the street, closely followed by a wagon piled with old furniture. Somewhere in the distance came the mournful cry of a rag and bone man. A beggar, holding half an old coat around himself, hesitated at the mouth of the alley, then thought better of it and went on his way. Behind the grimy windows there was more movement. Voices were raised. A dog barked.

"You have to hate a man very much to beat him to death," Evan said in little more than a whisper. "Unless you're completely insane.”

"They didn't belong around 'ere," Shotts shook his head. "They were clean… under the surface, well fed, an' their clothes was good.

They was both from somewhere else, up west for certain, or in from the country.”

"City," Evan corrected. "City boots. City skins. Country men would have had more colour.”

"Then up west. They wasn't from any were near 'ere, that's for certain positive. So 'oo around 'ere would know 'em to 'ate 'em that much?”

Evan pushed his hands into his pockets. There were more people passing the end of the alley now, men going to work in factories and warehouses, women to sweat shops and mills. The unknown numbers who worked in the streets themselves were appearing, pedlars, dealers in one thing and another, scavengers, sellers of information, petty thieves and go-betweens.