A reminder that we are, for all our hubris, ultimately food for the flies and maggots.
“Shift the light,” ordered Henning, indicating a spot on the baron’s chest. Crouching down, he pulled a magnifying lens from his satchel and carefully examined the flesh.
“Hmmph.” The surgeon moved methodically over the corpse’s torso, pausing here and there to palpate a spot, though Wrexford was finding it hard to discern any injuries from the overall mottling.
Sliding a hand over the left side of the rib cage, Henning let out another grunt and reached for a pair of tweezers. “Well, well, what have we here?” he muttered, withdrawing a tiny fragment from a small incision between the bones.
“What is it?” demanded Wrexford.
“I’ve not a clue,” replied Henning as he dropped it into a tiny glass vial from his bag and replaced the cork. “I’ll need to look at it more closely at my surgery.”
After another few pokes and prods at the discolored flesh,Henning shifted his attention down to where the baron’s scrotum had been severed.
The earl gave a pained wince. “Must you?” he muttered, averting his gaze as a primordial shudder snaked down his spine.
“Since when have you developed such delicate sensibilities?” Angling his head, Henning leaned in even closer. “It’s not out of ghoulish interest. I’m looking at how the cut was made.” Lamplight winked off the magnifying lens. “Hmmph. It was done with precision, and the blade was razor-sharp . . .” He finally looked up. “I’m wondering whether the Bloody Butcher’s other victims showed the same style. It’s a question worth asking.”
“Very clever,” conceded Wrexford.
“Which means I shall feel free to order a beefsteak to go along with broiled kidneys at breakfast,” came Henning’s cheerful reply. Looking satisfied, he set aside the lenses and rose.
“Help me turn him over.”
Together, they managed to reverse Chittenden’s deadweight.
A muffled sound caught Wrexford’s ear. He spun around and listened for a moment. “We better hurry,” he murmured. “I think I hear the sound of a cart entering the back courtyard.”
“Hold your water, laddie. We won’t have another chance with His Lordship, and I imagine you’d prefer that I don’t miss anything.”
Wrexford shuffled his feet in impatience, but kept his mouth shut.
Finally, after several long moments had slid by, a rough growl rumbled against the stone. “There’s nothing else of interest. Let’s put everything back in order.”
Thump-thud.The body rolled back in place—and not a moment too soon. There were voices coming from somewhere in the building, and they were getting louder.
Wrexford snatched up the canvas. “Damnation, stop fiddling with his privates and snuff out your light.”
“We need to leave him as we found him,” retorted the surgeon. He finished arranging the body parts, then signaled for the earl to throw on the shroud. As Wrexford extinguished his lantern, Henning grabbed up his satchel and they both hurried through the darkness for the door.
Too late.Just as the earl caught hold of the latch, the clatter of hobnailed boots came to a halt on the other side of the age-dark oak. In another instant . . .
Grabbing Henning’s arm, he bolted to his left, praying that the jog in the wall he had noticed earlier would afford enough of a hiding place.
* * *
Leaning back against the warehouse wall, Charlotte closed her eyes and tilted her face to the clouded sky. The rough bricks dug into her shoulder blades, but the pain felt good. Perhaps it would rouse her from the strange somnambulant fugue that was holding her in thrall. Her rush of restlessness had worn itself out in aimless wandering, leaving her aware that she couldn’t keep running and hiding from her demons.
She must face her fears. Cowardice was crippling. It would slowly grind her into dust.
Fortes fortuna adiuvat—fortune favors the bold.
Ah, those aphorisms again. This one tugged a wry quirk to her lips.
“For better or for worse, I seem to have spent my life spitting in the eye of caution.” A few fat drops of rain splashed against her cheeks and ran in chill rivulets down the line of her jaw.
Charlotte started walking again. Still too unsettled to return home, she wove her way through the maze of alleyways toward Lincoln’s Inn Fields, hoping to intercept the boys. Their regular route should bring them along the northern side of the square.
A short while later, from her vantage point within a small copse of trees behind the iron fence, she spotted them, flitting dark-on-dark shapes that would have eluded her eye if she hadn’t known what to be looking for.
