The Winds of Change [antikvár]

1 ihe blood spatter on the little girl's dress mixed with the pattern of bluebells as if someone had thrown a handful of petals across her back. Richard Jury was down on one knee in a gutter of a North London street, at the end of a dingy street called Hester Street, looking at the body, the face to one side, not quite believing it. He studied her—the pale hair, the eyes his hand had closed, the caked rivulet of blood that had run from the right side of her mouth, running down and across her neck and soaking the small white collar of the dress with the bluebells. His torch had made out the color. Even the blood could have looked blue in this difficult light. He thought it again—that the blood spots could have been petals. It all seemed miniaturized as if everything—dress, body, blood— were part of some magical tale that reduced proportions, an Alice in Wonderland sort of story, so that at any moment the little girl would wake, the blood draw back into the mouth like a vapor trail and the dark stains on the dress dissipate, leaving only the flowers. No coat. It was the first day of March and she wore no coat. "A runaway, possibly?" suggested Phyllis Nancy, the police pathologist, who was kneeling beside him.