“Now, Martha!”
Her head dipped. Regret rose to his throat, as real as the burn of that spiced kidney pie.
“Yer right,” she murmured. “It weren’t a pot or pan. Pardon the delicate topic, but…well…I ne’er shoulda put on my nightgown so soon after ironing the high collar last night.” She lifted her face, her blue gaze meeting his. “But it didn’t blister, and I should be right as rain by the end of the day.”
As much as he didn’t want to, he studied her, trying to detect deception—the pinch of her lips, a wayward gaze, eye blocking—but he spied nothing of import. Either she was as accomplished as Kit or she really was telling the truth. And what did he know of women’s nightwear anyway? Maybe such a gown really did have a high collar. He opened his lips to ask, then clamped them shut. Asking this woman about such an intimate garment hefted another log onto the fire in his gut.
“Now, then.” She peeled away from his hold and straightened her bonnet. “Thank ye for the escort, Mr. Baggett. Don’t be late tonight. Ham and beans is yer favourite. See you then.”
She strolled off. He didn’t. He stood like a dazed badger having been whapped over the head with a stick, wondering if he ought to trust her story or the police instinct screaming in his head. More than anything he wanted to believe her. Heneededto believe her.
Because if he didn’t and someone really had tried to choke her, he’d be the one locked behind bars for murder.
The stink of London in the summer could be surpassed only by the stench of a deadhouse—even with corpses preserved on ice. And on this August afternoon, the parish mortuary of Westminster was a real belly turner. But Kit was too enthralled with the body in front of her to bother with pressing her handkerchief to her nose. The coroner, Mr. Mortis, was far too entertaining.
He was a whippet of a fellow, with his abnormally small head and long snout. A distinct curvature of the spine swelled out the back of his lab coat, which might be a defect from birth but was more likely from spending hours on end bent over cadavers on slabs. How his spindly legs continued to hold him up was anybody’s guess.
But looks aside, the man’s theatrics were the true attraction. He swept up the grey arm of the dead Mr. Blade, flourishing his free hand in the air just above as if pointing out the merits of a Degas painting. “As you see by the lacerations on the palms and wrists, thus and thus”—he made a stabbing motion towards the brownish-black lines sliced into the skin—“Mr. Blade tried to fight off his attackers. Yes, I say attackers because I believe there were two involved. Clearly one of them committed a frontal assault with a very sharp—yet small—blade from close range. Likely lured the poor soul into the alley immediately after he exited the pub. Probably concocted some tale of woe or another.”
Perhaps. Or could be Mr. Blade somehow knew the brigands. Either way, he’d made a fatal error of trust. She glanced at Mr. Mortis. “And you say this alley is just ’round the corner from the Two Chairmen’s pub?”
He dropped the dead man’s arm and held out both of his own as wide as they’d go. His lips twisted as he looked from finger to finger and back again, several times. “Yes, yes, I should think three times this distance plus the measure of a long-legged stride.” He flopped his hands back to his sides, a satisfied grin stretching his mouth. “Twenty-five paces at most, Mrs. Forge. I’d say that qualifies asjust ’round the corner,wouldn’t you?”
“Indeed, but what makes you think he was lured? Maybe Mr. Blade was merely drunk and stumbled in there to relieve himself, becoming a victim of chance instead of something premeditated. A pickled mind loses all possibility of keen thinking, as you well know.”
“Could have done. But that is neither here nor there as the fact remains that for whatever reason he did indeed go into the alley, for that is where he was found. Now if you will notice here on his skull—” He stepped to the head of the table then whipped a comb out of his pocket. Ever so gently, he parted Mr. Blade’s hair, snagging it now and then on flakes of dried blood.
Taking care to keep her hem lifted lest the putrid liquids on the floor soak into the fabric, Kit joined the coroner’s side—the side not next to the flick of his comb as he shook it out.
He tapped the utensil against the man’s cranium. “There is breakage of skin here and fracture of bone. It is my belief this gentleman suffered a cerebral hemorrhage induced by blunt force, delivered from an assailant he may never have seen closing in behind him, being so distracted by the knife-wielding villain. This is why I conclude there were two brigands involved. And it is this very head wound that is the true cause of death, though I own it does not account for the discoloration of his organs.”
No doubt. That sort of head basher could take down a horse. Still, something in her gut warned that such a simple solution might be too good to be true. She peered at Mr. Mortis. “Mind if I examine him?”
“Oh, Mrs. Forge! You are a woman after my own heart. Yes, yes, dear lady.” He stepped back and dipped a formal bow. “Please, be my guest.”
Holding her breath, she crouched eye level with the corpse. There was no denying that caved-in depression had broken bone. A mighty swipe with a stocking full of rocks could do such damage. So could a lead pipe. But who knew? Could’ve been just about anything. “What were you saying about his organs, Mr. Mortis?” she murmured.
“Ahh, yes. A bluish tinge to them all, liver, lungs, kidneys…almost as if his air had been cut off, yet there are no other indications of asphyxiation. I suspect he may have suffered from malaria and recently been treated with the new remedy on the market…methylene blue.”
Ever so gingerly, she pressed her fingers to the cold head and lifted it to see if any more swipes had caused damage or if that one strike had done the trick. Nothing more marred the man’s head. In fact, he must’ve recently been to a barber—unless Mr. Mortis spent his time dressing every corpse’s hair—for the dark locks were closely shorn at the nape. Well, maybe this was a simple mugging after all. Unusual for that particular neighbourhood, but still—hold on.
She leaned closer. There, just at the hairline slightly behind the ear, was a small puncture wound, the size of a sharp pencil lead or a very thick needle. Odd, that. She glanced over her shoulder. “Look here, Mr. Mortis. Did you notice this?” She leaned aside so he could stoop next to her. “Or did you by chance happen to inject the body with anything?”
“By Jove, Mrs. Forge. What a find!” He shoved her out of the way as he went nose to neck with the dead man.
Kit grabbed on to the table to keep from tumbling into the nastiness on the floor. “This methylene blue you spoke of, could that be the injection site?”
“No, it is administered orally as a pill or dissolved in water. I’ve not seen such a wound as this since my time as an army surgeon. The Labbai Muhammadans in southern India left such a mark when using their blow darts to take down an enemy.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you think there’s a chance Mr. Blade may have been poisoned before he was mugged?”
“Why, I…I will have to reexamine. Such a folly!” he wailed. “Such a great and grand debacle.”
Pulling back, he made a sweeping motion towards the door. “I shall have to ask you to leave now, Mrs. Forge. There is much to be done. This body will have to be reassessed. I can hardly believe I have committed such a grievous error.”
“Please calm yourself.” She pressed her hand to his sleeve. “I’d have not noticed it myself had I not been so close.”
“You are a true saint, dear lady, but now make haste. I’ve not a moment to spare if I’m to reexamine Mr. Blade by closing time.”
