The Sign of the Raven

by L. C. Sharp

  A man stood over him holding a magnifying glass, the kind people sometimes used for reading books. This man had dark brown skin. He barely glanced up as they approached the body.

  “And you are?” he queried, going back to his work.

  “Sir Edmund Ashendon from Bow Street. And your name is...”

  The man looked up properly. He straightened and tucked his magnifying glass in one of the large pockets of his red, black-braided coat. His attention briefly went to Juliana, and he pulled the sheet over the lower half of Coddington’s body. “The magistrates. About time. I’ve been assuring Hopkins here that I have no designs on this body, but it is an interesting case. I would love to give a lecture and demonstration of it.”

  He studied them frankly. “You don’t look like a magistrate,” he said to Ash.

  “Probably because I am not a magistrate. I investigate cases for them. Sir Edmund Ashendon.” He held out his hand.

  The doctor took it.

  “Dr. Elmore Parrish. I lecture at the Surgeon’s College, and I have my own practice as well.”

  Ash shook the doctor’s hand, then before he could retract it, so did Juliana. His grasp was warm and strong.

  “I’m Sir Edmund Ashendon, and this is my wife, Lady Juliana.”

  He’d used her rank as the daughter of a marquess rather than the wife of a knight. While she doubted these men bothered themselves with such niceties, Juliana did, and his introduction put her out of sorts. She would explain it to him later. She was his wife, not her father’s daughter.

  “Were you Lord Coddington’s doctor?” she said. “You are not likely to find a cure for this.”

  Dr. Parrish turned his attention back to the body of Lord Coddington, lying between them. The shroud had been used before, she noted. Bloodstains were hard to wash out.

  “No indeed,” the doctor replied. “I am here collecting pauper bodies on behalf of the college. We take turns collecting them. The man I have come for is already on my cart.” He shot a glance at the shrouded body on the other long table. “Though I did wonder about that one.”

  “Why would a college want a dead body?” she asked. She’d never thought about it before.

  “Dissection,” the doctor said. “Students must learn from the real thing, not diagrams and rats. The only way we can get them is to acquire unclaimed bodies, and we have to be quick about it. In a few days, it’s not worth bothering with them.”

  Her shock must have shown.

  “Better than practicing on the living,” Dr. Parrish explained.

  Nobody wanted to dwell on those unfortunate individuals who needed a surgeon’s attention. Many were only half qualified and worked as barbers and bloodletters, but a few sawbones had reached a higher level. And yes, students needed to study. Even if they had no intention of ever severing a limb, they would have to study how the body worked.

  Parrish stared down at Coddington. “This man has nothing to do with me, but I cannot deny that this one interested me. Mr. Hopkins did not have to tell me who it was. The streets are buzzing with the news, and even though this city is a somewhat lawless one, not many men of fashion are shot in the chest while they are going about their business.”

  “In the back,” Ash corrected him.

  Parrish shook his head. “No, sir. From what I can see, he was shot in the chest.”

  “That looks like an exit wound to me,” Ash said.

  “Yes, it does somewhat. But the weapon was about a foot from the victim when it was discharged. Look.” He bent, and without touching Coddington, circled his finger around the wound. “Powder marks.”

  Ash removed his hat and laid it on a nearby chair, which already held the doctor’s headwear. Then he bent and examined the wound. When Hopkins handed him a magnifying glass, he took it without looking away. “Good Lord,” he said after a moment.

  “And if that weren’t enough, if you look into the wound, you’ll see gold threads. I would hazard a guess that they were from his clothing.”

  Juliana recalled what Lord Coddington had been wearing last night. “He wore a fairly plain coat, braided at the edges and pockets, and a gold embroidered waistcoat.”

  “Gentlemen don’t waste money putting gold thread where it can’t be seen,” Dr. Parrish said. “If the bullet had carried threads through from the back, they would be merely fabric, silk most likely. The only way that gold thread could have been carried into the wound is if the shot came from the front.”

  Ash stood and offered her the magnifying glass. Juliana shook her head. While she could bear to enter this place, she did not wish to closely examine a bullet wound.

  “You thought he was shot in the back?” Parrish asked.

  Ash nodded then turned to her. “This puts a new story to work. The light was poor last night, despite the torches the men brought in, and Coddington was dressed.” He glanced back at Parrish, tacitly including him in the conversation. “He was found on his front.”

  The doctor frowned. “I can see that happening.” He nodded. “It would have hit hard. The shot isn’t dead center. It’s just below the heart, so the impact could have spun him around.”

  Juliana let herself see the scene, watch the figures as they squared off. “Then he saw his killer,” she said softly. “The light was poor, but good enough for that.”

  “By God, you’re right,” Ash said. “That gives us a whole new level of motivation. The murderer may have carried a weapon more usual amongst the criminal classes, though.”

  “That could have been a distraction,” she answered. “Or because it was more threatening. You think he could have been one of Coddington’s acquaintances?”

  “Hmm.” Ash went to stroke his chin then dropped his hand by his side. “Another piece of the mechanism slides into place.” He thought some more. “So Coddington could have met his end because he recognized his killer.” He looked at Parrish. “Do you have any more observations?”

  Parrish shrugged. “Not medical ones, except there are a few bruises that must have been incurred shortly before death.”

  “What do they indicate?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I’m not entirely sure, but I believe someone pushed something into his back, a blunt instrument, most likely the pistol he used later, and perhaps gripped his shoulder. It’s hard to say for sure once lividity has established itself. And after death, the blood pools, drawn by gravity to the part of the body nearest to the ground.”

  “I am familiar with the phenomenon,” her husband replied.

  Juliana was not. Her late husband had lost most of the blood in his body by the time she’d woken up and discovered him. In any case, she’d been in no case to calmly assess matters. But the fact was an interesting one, and she put it away in her growing store of knowledge about the dead.

  “Where are his clothes?” They would most likely give some kind of indication. She looked up, to where Hopkins stood by the door, hands clasped behind his back. He watched them cautiously. “What have you done with them?”

  “His widow has them, madam,” the undertaker said. “She is delivering a fresh set more appropriate for his lordship later today.”

  “Ah.” Juliana turned her attention to Ash. “Perhaps she would let me see them.”

  He regarded her, a slight smile curling his lips. “Perhaps she would.”

  “A pity we can’t see them now. Perhaps the attacker wanted information. Only when Lord Coddington turned around and recognized who was threatening him, did it become necessary to kill him.”

  Ash frowned. “Or something else happened. Perhaps someone interrupted them. As you say, the fireworks are an anomaly. Why would anyone intending to kill Coddington bother to threaten him with fireworks? Would a pistol not be enough of a threat?”

  That was why Ash solved more cases than the authorities. They had no time to think about the details and w
ork out the sequence of events. If a perpetrator was found, that was enough for them.

  “The scene was not as clean as I originally thought,” Ash mused as he pondered the conundrum. “I thought this case was a simple murder, perhaps by a thief, or someone with a grudge against his lordship. Then it would merely have been a matter of discovering the murderer. Now I suspect something deeper.”

  Nobody spoke. After a full minute, he drew a deep breath and lifted his head. “We need to know more before we can be sure.”

  He gave Juliana a slight smile. “Enough for now. My lady, I should not keep you here. We have to set out now if we are to get home in time for dinner, and if we do not, we face Amelia’s wrath.”

  Parrish snorted. “Your housekeeper?”

  “My sister,” Ash said. He picked up his hat and settled it back in place. “Back to the ferry, my lady.”

  And the convoluted journey home. “Once they open Westminster Bridge the journey will be far easier,” she remarked. “It seems perfectly traversable now, and I’ve seen a carriage on there before.”

  “The authorities want their grand opening,” Ash said with a smile. “I suspect more bridges will follow, if this one proves a success. The ferrymen will not be pleased.”

  “I could take you, if you like,” Parrish said abruptly. “I have the horse and cart outside. Or do you intend to take a cab? They can be hard to come by this side of the river.”

  “Virtually impossible, I’d say.” Ash turned to Juliana. “What do you say, my lady? Do you care to share a seat on a cart with a dead body? It won’t be the kind of refined vehicle you are used to.”

  She wanted to punch his arm. “I left that life behind, gladly.” She turned to the doctor. “It is indeed a kind offer. Thank you, sir.”

  She’d seen the interest in Ash’s eyes when Dr. Parrish had made his observations. The doctor had noticed something that had escaped everyone’s attention up to now. He could prove useful.

  So she would accept an uncomfortable journey taking the long way around via London Bridge to give her husband a chance to talk to the good doctor.

  * * *

  The cart proved every bit as uncomfortable as Juliana had expected. Stoically settling herself on the side of the vehicle, she was glad of the sturdy rail that provided a barrier between her and the cobbles below.

  Ash, sitting in the middle next to the doctor, gave her an anxious glance. “Are you sure you’ll be comfortable?”

  She smiled wryly. “I wouldn’t go that far, but I’ll manage, and it’s better than waiting for a ferry and then for a cab on the other side of the river. Anything that removes us from that stink is welcome.”

  Ash echoed her smile. “Very well. And you’d rather sit there than in the middle?”

  Good of him to show her such attention, but she thought he could converse with the doctor more easily like that.

  Dr. Parrish swung up to his position. He’d claimed the body he’d come for, and the other one in the mortuary, another corpse without a name. A beggar, Mr. Hopkins had said, due to be picked up by the parish.

  “Well, I am the parish,” the doctor said. “At least as far as he’s concerned. I gave him the documentation he needed. If the parish wants him back, tell it to come to me at the college. I can give them the pieces, after my students are done with him. I try to keep them from treating the dead with any disrespect, although that can be difficult.” He shrugged. “Students can be unkind.”

  She inferred that the dead were not the only people the students treated unkindly.

  The carriage rocked, and the two long boxes stowed behind them groaned and settled.

  A single horse pulled the cart, but it did not seem incapable of the task. It appeared fitter than the average London horse, well fed, its dark coat gleaming with health. The doctor gave it the office and they were off. Not at a spanking pace, it had to be said.

  “Do you practice in the City?” Ash asked. “I have never come across you before, so you do not serve Bow Street.”

  “Indeed I do.” They drew out of the yard at the side of the mortuary and entered the inevitable stream of traffic. “My patients mainly come from the merchants and shopkeepers in the City of London. And a few of the residents. I do have a couple of barons and their families on my list, but I can’t claim to serve the, ah, spring visitors.”

  “You mean the rich and titled?” Ash said bluntly and received a terse nod. “While my wife comes from that strata of society, we don’t count ourselves among them.”

  The doctor guided the horse, the reins bunched effectively but inelegantly in his right hand. He clapped his left hand to his forehead. “I knew I’d heard your name before!” He shot her a curious glance before turning his attention back to the road. “You’re Lady Uppingham!”

  Juliana flinched at the name. “For a few weeks only. Yes, I am—was—that lady. But I am married to Sir Edmund now, and past that episode in my life.” Did that sound dignified enough? She had no desire to dig into that part of her life, especially in front of a stranger.

  Ash put his hand over hers. “Juliana now helps me with my work and lives in my house.” He did not mention the address. He preferred to keep the parts of his life separate, although that was becoming more difficult.

  “And she is your wife. I understand. I meant no offense.” A gap appeared in the traffic as they turned on to the road to London Bridge. Deftly, he urged the horse into the gap. Man and beast worked very well together. This must be his horse, not an animal belonging to the college. “I have a wife. And a daughter.”

  “I had just left my studies,” he continued. “Marriage was inadvisable because neither of us had much money, but we were in love.” He shrugged. “We managed. Fortunately, I’ve prospered since my marriage. People consider it amusing to employ an ex-slave as their doctor.” His tone of derision was entirely understandable. “Once they’ve established my credentials, of course.” He shrugged. “You must have noticed.”

  He clicked to the horse. If anyone seemed put out by the conversation, it was Ash and Juliana, not he.

  “Does this not concern you?”

  “Of course it does, but what can I do about it? I’m a practical man, my lady, and I do not chase after lost causes. It was done. I remember little about it.”

  They slowed again, but he didn’t take his eyes off the road ahead, and the press of traffic.

  “My mother died birthing me on the journey from Africa to Bristol, so the master of the ship took charge of me. Naturally, I remember nothing of it. I do not know which part of Africa I come from or even the name of my father.” He bit his lip. “There is no way I can discover it.”

  So he had tried, then.

  He continued. “I lived in an orphanage until I was five, and then a lady visited, cooed all over me and took me as her page. Bought me.” A note of bitterness entered his voice with the last two words.

  Juliana had often wondered what happened to Black page boys when they grew and lost their novelty for their mistresses. She knew a few were abruptly dismissed and left to starve on the streets. If Dr. Parrish had been of their number, he was a remarkable man indeed to recover from that terrible beginning.

  He continued his story. “Lady Lamb insisted I learned to read and write, so I could read to her, she said, and she did like that. I read her the latest novels, but she declared herself bored and insisted on more educational tomes. I learned along with her, but her taste was eclectic, and she never stayed on one subject for long. When I reached thirteen, she told me I had outlived my usefulness for her as a page boy. I feared for the worst, but at least, since I was literate, I could try to find work in the offices in the City. But she had other ideas for me. She paid a barber surgeon to apprentice me. I can still shave a man closer than almost anyone in the City.” He grinned, and this time the expression was genuine. “Seven years, that was. And by the end of it, I
was doing most of the bloodletting. I had the opportunity to study my trade as I practiced it, and when my apprenticeship had done, I abandoned the barbering and kept the physician part.”

  Juliana was right. This man was indeed remarkable. Having taken the small amounts of luck that came his way, he’d made himself a man to be reckoned with.

  “I met my Mary while I was establishing my practice,” he said. “She was the daughter of the man who ran the chandler’s shop across the road from my house. We saw each other every day, and eventually we fell in love.” He paused. “She was beautiful.” He sighed. “After Carrie was born, she caught a fever and I nearly lost her.”

  “But she’s with you still?”

  A smile curved his mouth.

  “She is.” He clicked his tongue to the horse. They had reached London Bridge by then, and they joined the stream of horses and vehicles crossing it. The only bridge across the mighty Thames, but that would change very soon. The new bridge was almost complete.

  “My practice has grown. I flatter myself that I have done well for myself and my family.”

  * * *

  They trundled across the bridge, waiting for the press of traffic that always formed here to move forward. Plenty of time to talk. He had been kind enough to tell them of his origins. She could do no less. “You no doubt know who I am. Who I was.”

  Juliana sensed Ash’s abrupt move as he turned his head to stare at her, but she kept her attention on Parrish.

  “I read something about it,” he admitted.

  “I am not that person now. I am Lady Ashendon, the wife of a baronet, a lawyer who deals in criminal cases.”

  “Unusual,” Parrish remarked. “The criminal part, I mean.”

  Ash grunted. “I have a solicitor’s practice that takes care of the bills. But it does not interest me, though my colleague thrives on it. I’m fortunate enough to have been born into a competence.”

  But that competence had come at a price.