* **
“Auch, you had better be prepared to buy me a very ample breakfast—and a bottle of whisky to fortify my coffee.” Henning’s irascible grumble echoed within the slivered alleyway.
“Why is it all my friends think my purse is ripe for the plucking?” retorted Wrexford, pausing to peer through the swirls of silvery mist floating up from the muck beneath their boots.
“Because it is,” replied the surgeon. He shifted his leather satchel from hand to hand, setting off asnick-snickof metal.
“Sssshhh,” warned the earl.
“And be advised, I’ll expect a generous donation to the clinic in return for rousing me out of bed at this ungodly hour.” Henning ran a hand over his unshaven jaw. “Is there a reason we’re slithering through the night like a pair of feral rats?”
“At this hour, the morgue’s guard is likely slumbering off his midnight gin. I’d prefer he remain in the Land of Nod while we make our little visit.”
A raspy chuckle stirred the air. “Tsk, tsk. You mean to say we don’t have official permission?”
Wrexford ignored the sarcasm. Henning was happiest when he could thumb his nose at Society’s rules. “This way,” he whispered, leading the way across a narrow rutted cart track to the back of the stone building. Double doors, wide enough to allow the mortuary wagons’ entrance, were set in the center of the grimy brick.
The earl drew a thin-bladed knife from his boot and made quick work of the lock.
Once inside, they moved quickly over the stone-flagged unloading bay and slipped into an unlit corridor. Up ahead, a lone candle was framed in an open doorway, its flame fluttering wildly in the gasp-and-wheeze rhythm of rattling snores.
Henning tapped his shoulder and silently signaled for them to turn down a connecting passageway. The sickly-sweet stench of decay grew more pronounced as they came to a weighty door ofiron-banded oak. Setting his shoulder to the rough planks, the surgeon gave a hard shove.
It swung half open with a mournful groan.
Wrexford reeled back a step as a fresh wave of smells assaulted his nostrils.
“The perfume of death takes some getting used to,” murmured Henning as he slipped inside the morgue.
Shallowing his breathing, the earl followed.
“Close the door.”
He heard the surgeon fumbling around inside his satchel. A moment later, sparks flew as flint struck steel and the wick of a small metal lantern flared to life. Henning opened the shutter and handed it over before lighting a second one.
The beams illuminated a row of stone slabs, each draped with a length of stained canvas. Light and shadow slid over the heavy cloth, accentuating the macabre contours beneath the shroud.
Seemingly oblivious to the clammy cold, Henning removed his coat—the earl wasn’t sure why, seeing as it was already spotted with a number of noxious-looking substances.
“Thank God we know what we’re looking for,” quipped the surgeon as he rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Faces can bloat and twist out of recognition, but I daresay there will only be one poor sod with a cod cut off.”
After a quick look under the first covering, Henning moved on to the next slab. “Keep up with me, laddie. I’ll need the extra light when we find our man.”
Wrexford shuffled closer.
“Seeing as you wish to keep our visit a secret, it would be best not to spill your guts.”
“You needn’t worry. I’ve a strong stomach,” shot back the earl, though the mingled fumes of putrefaction and carbolic acid were enough to turn a cast-iron pot upside down.
“Hell’s bells, I hope you guessed right and they brought the body here,” muttered Henning after checking under another shroud.
“So do I,” said Wrexford, taking care to breathe through his mouth. The stench was appalling.
The surgeon’s shuffling steps sounded unnaturally loud in the cryptlike silence. Somewhere close by, the steady drip of liquid splashed against stone.
“Ah. Eureka.”Henning peeled back the canvas and let it slip from his fingers. It slithered to the floor with a flaccid sigh. “Bring your lantern closer. Let’s not linger here any longer than necessary.”
Death was not a pretty picture, mused Wrexford as the beam fell on Chittenden’s face. It robbed a man not only of his soul, but also of his dignity. The young man’s once-handsome features were distorted, and decay was already ravaging the flesh. If Locke were the murderer, he ought to be made to confront the ghastly portrait of what he, too, would look like when the Grim Reaper came for him.
