Kendra’s stomach knotted. She ripped her eyes away from the dead maid to look at Munroe’s grim face and that of his apprentice. “You’ve completed both autopsies, Mr. Barts?”
“Yes. A few minutes ago.”
“What can you tell me?”
Barts waited for Munroe to nod before saying, “I estimate the time of death to be less than twenty-four hours ago, as rigor mortis is still evident. Also, there is no reddish-green discoloration around the head and neck, which normally takes place after twenty-four hours.”
Kendra eyed the apprentice. He was coming across far more confident than she’d expected. “That fits with my assessment of the crime scene,” she said. “What can you tell me about the injuries themselves?”
“Both victims died from having their internal and external jugular veins severed. There were no other injuries on the bodies. The blade itself is relatively small, but extremely sharp. The lacerations indicate . . .” Now he faltered, his eyes flicking again toward Munroe.
“Go on, Mr. Barts,” ordered the anatomist.
Barts nodded. “Yes, well . . . the instrument is a single blade with a slight curvature. Sharp on one side, flat on the other. The blade itself, based on the depth and angle of the injuries, was approximately three inches in length and slightly less than an inch at its widest point before tapering to the tip.”
The apprentice was holding something back. Kendra frowned at Munroe. “What aren’t you telling me, Dr. Munroe?”
Munroe sighed heavily and picked up a scalpel, holding up the blade so the light from the candles glinted off the steel. “This is the instrument used to slice both throats. Exactly like this.”
Kendra said nothing as Munroe set the scalpel down again.
“I would like to point out that anyone with a few coins can buy a scalpel,” Munroe said. His tone was careful, measured. “Also, it wouldn’t be unusual for Lucien to have several scalpels lying about in his study, this particular blade being one of them. The monster could have used whatever was at hand.”
Kendra shook her head. “The crime scene indicates premeditation. If it had been impulsive—something that occurred in a rush of anger—it would have been . . . messier.” She glanced at Barts. “Were there any hesitation marks?”
“Not on the maid. The injury was one single cut—long and deep. However, there were a few lacerations on Dr. Thornton’s throat.”
Kendra reached for the sheet tucked under the physician’s chin, then hesitated, glancing at Munroe. “Do you mind?”
“No, of course not.”
She peeled the sheet away to expose the gaping wound at Thornton’s throat. They’d cleaned up the blood, allowing her to examine the ragged flesh.
“These aren’t hesitation marks,” she said after a moment. Hesitation wounds were usually shallow slashes, a natural repugnance to the act that was being done. She looked at Munroe. “It’s rare to cut someone’s throat when you’re facing them. When it happens, usually there is more than one laceration. They also tend to be shorter in length.”
“Those are the injuries we see here.” Barts pointed out the direction of the slashes. “The wounds are short and angled. Deeper on the left, shallower on the right.”
“Left to right. Our killer is righthanded.”
“Most people use their right hand. It’s the mark of the devil to be left-handed.” Barts flushed when they stared at him. “My brother had a propensity to use his lefthand when he was an infant. Our mother bound his left hand, forcing him to use his right. He’s now quite adept at using both hands, but always favors his right, for fear of the stigma.”
Kendra shook her head. “How does anyone know what hand the devil uses? Has anyone seen the devil?”
Munroe yanked the sheet over Thornton before he turned to the small body on the next slab. Pulling down the linen, he exposed Jenny’s slack face and neck. The slash across the throat was grotesque, and pity surged through Kendra. Her stomach twisted as she remembered another young maid who’d died at the hands of a killer, more than a year ago. Regret tasted like vinegar on her tongue. She’d failed Rose, and now, she felt like she’d failed Jenny too.
“The victim sustained only one injury—a single incision done in a continuous motion,” the apprentice explained, unaware of Kendra’s distress. “Dr. Munroe and I are in agreement that the fiend was behind her when he slashed her throat.”
“From ear to ear,” Kendra said softly. He wasn’t telling her anything that she didn’t already know from her own observation, but now it was official. She let out a weary sigh. “Thornton was the target. Jenny just happened to be there. Our killer isn’t concerned that innocent people die.”
Kendra thought about Edwina. Another innocent. And if she didn’t stop him, the girl would be the next body lying on the slab, if she wasn’t already dead.Where was she?
Munroe cleared his throat, drawing her attention. “The Metamorphosis Club will be meeting tonight at Sir Preston’s. Word has spread about Lucien. We want to pay our respects.”
“Are you inviting me?” Kendra asked.
“Yes.” He let out a long sigh. “I can’t ignore the fact that Lady Westford, and now Lucien and Jenny, may have been murdered by a colleague. Maybe even someone I consider a friend. I hope you’re wrong. But I won’t play the fool any longer.” He drew a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “The details for tonight.”
“I know this is difficult for you, doctor. I appreciate your help.” Kendra hesitated, but there was nothing more to say.
