So here we were, and I couldn’t help but wish a Viking send-off for Charlotte Mallory—off in a blaze of glory, so to speak, no weeping, whispering melodrama with mirrors draped in black.
The surgeon cordially greeted us, however he frowned when he greeted Mr. Brimley—professional disdain, no doubt.
Mr. Brimley had attended King’s College medical school, yet chose to administer to the poor in the East End as well as his scientific endeavors. I would have trusted him with my life. In fact, I had previously. The narrow-eyed surgeon sniffed his greeting as if Mr. Brimley was beneath him, as he began his own inspection of the body.
He drew back the sheet over Charlotte Mallory’s body. She was still clothed. He pointed out the stain on the front of her gown.
“As you can well see, the manner of death was a single wound here, with a blade. The location and the amount of blood lost indicates that the knife severed a major vessel or organ, with death very soon after.”
“Was there any indication of any other disturbance to the body?” I asked, even though Mr. Burke’s newspaper article had provided that information. By that, I thought it important to know if she had been intimately assaulted.
The surgeon frowned. “There were no indications of any other assault, Miss Forsythe,” he bit off rather sharply.
“We’ll not keep ye longer, sir,” Brodie informed him. “We’ll make our observations, then be on our way.”
Clearly dismissed, the surgeon sniffed again. Perhaps a cold or some other misery with the wintry weather that had set in?
After he had gone, Mr. Brimley set about making his observations as well, while I set about taking down notes.
Brodie frowned as he made his own inspection of the body, gently easing Charlotte Mallory’s head back and turning back the collar of her gown.
“No bruises,” he commented. “What have ye found, Mr. Brimley?”
“A single wound with great force and most definitely the cause of death. The person was substantially taller by the angle of the wound as you can see here, and the slight bruising just above where the blade penetrated,” Mr. Brimley indicated. “That would indicate that he was forced to lever the blade up when he struck, rather than straightaway. And the force of it that severed internal organs was most likely made by a man.”
He proceeded to make other observations as I made notes.
“Hmmm, yes perhaps,” he commented more to himself as he inspected one of the young woman’s hands. He then took a vial of liquid from inside his coat.
“Something I came across that might tell us more,” he explained.
He proceeded to scrape under the fingernails of both hands with a small knife then wiped the blade on a towel he retrieved from a cart beside the examination table. He then doused the towel with the grayish liquid.
“It would seem that she either didn’t fight her attacker, or had no opportunity.” Mr. Brimley looked up. “The chemical causes a reaction when it comes into contact with blood. It turns blue. There is no indication of it here as I would have expected.”
“What else can ye tell us, Mr. Brimley?”
“The nails are not broken, which could mean as the surgeon indicated, that it was all over very quickly with no time for her to struggle against the murderer. However, there is what appears to be a thread just here.” He indicated the nail of a finger on her other hand.
“I will need to look at it under a microscope.” He retrieved the thread and tucked it into an envelope that he always carried.
Fascinating, I thought as I made additional notes.
“And there are scuff marks on her boots,” Brodie added.
As I knew, that might or might not mean anything. However, Charlotte had been from a well-placed family and it seemed unlikely that her boots would be so badly scuffed, as opposed to someone who lived on the streets.
It did seem that Mr. Burke mightnothave been quite so thorough in his observations for that newspaper article. There had been no mention of scuff marks.
It appeared that our observations were at an end as a young constable appeared at the entrance to the holding room.
“A representative for the family has arrived for the body.”
“Of course,” Brodie replied. “We are quite through.”
“What are ye thinkin’?” he asked as I stood in front of the chalkboard after we returned to the office on the Strand.
Only Brodie would ask what I thought.
