I had immediately contacted Mr. Brimley, the chemist at the shop in the East End who had assisted us previously when it came to inspecting a body. He was to join us at the mortuary.
It was short notice to be certain. It had been two full days since young Huntingdon’s death with his body to be sent to his parents’ residence for the usual lying-in period.
I wasn’t at all certain what Brodie hoped to find, but we were to meet Mr. Brimley at the mortuary St. James’s at Westminster at one o’clock.
We arrived in good time and Mr. Brimley joined us shortly after. He had brought a leather carry bag that usually contained the instruments one might find in a physician’s bag.
He had attended medical school in London. Instead of setting up a medical practice afterward, he chose to open his shop where he provided medicine and care for those in the East End who could not afford medical care.
He had taken care of more than one victim in the course of our inquiry cases, including myself.
He nodded good naturedly as if we were about to set off to market rather than enter a mortuary.
“Shall we get on with it, then?” Mr. Brimley inquired.
I supposed that all morgues were the same, very much like the one I had visited in a recent case in the East End. However, it was obvious that the “clientele” served here were of a far different class.
The entrance was much like a business office with fine furnishings, a carpet underfoot, and an attendant who greeted us in a very dignified tone.
“We were informed that you would be calling on us this afternoon,” he acknowledged.
We were asked to wait while the attendant announced our arrival to a gentleman by the name of Hiram Bascomb, the mortician. It seemed that the private “grieving” salon was presently occupied.
“Is there a school for morticians?” Lily whispered. “Seems a strange profession.”
I had to agree on that.
What would the course of study be? A course in body arrangement? Reattaching a stray body part on behalf of the bereaved? A hand or foot that had been severed? And then cosmetics applied that simply made the deceased appear barely recognizable.
Aunt Antonia had a far better solution to the whole thing with her Viking longboat.
The attendant promptly returned, and we followed a lady in a plain black gown who escorted us to the holding room.
In contrast to the outer office, waiting area, and the hallway that connected the two areas, the room where young Huntingdon had been taken was very much like the holding area for the Metropolitan Police that I had attended in the past.
It was immaculately clean with a half dozen compartments that lined the far wall, an examination table with a side table that contained the tools of the trade, as it were. Mr. Bascomb greeted us with somber propriety.
“I was informed of your request. Somewhat unusual I must say.”
“We appreciate yer assistance on behalf of Sir Huntingdon and his family,” Brodie replied.
“Of course,” Mr. Bascomb replied with a faint smile that immediately disappeared as he turned and went to that far wall, opened one of the chambers, and then rolled out an examination table with young Huntingdon’s body.
“A cold box?” Lily whispered. “Like Mrs. Ryan taking a partridge out for supper.”
Yes, well, I couldn’t fault her for that comparison.
“I was told to expect two of you,” Mr. Bascomb sniffed with obvious disapproval.
“Mr. Brimley is an expert in such matters,” Brodie explained. “The young lady is an associate of ours.” Then added, “And thank ye for your assistance, sir.”
When he had gone, Mr. Brimley set his bag on the steel cart nearby, then approached the examination table.
“Bruising about the neck,” he began. “That would be consistent with the fall you described.” He had donned rubber gloves, then continued, gently moving the head about.
“Neck broken in the fall as you can see by the odd angle.” He then pulled back the sheet to the young man’s waist and continued with his examination.
I glanced over at Lily. If she was shocked, I didn’t see it.
