The Trouble With Tortoises

by Evelyn James

  “Be with you in a minute. Clara rang to say you would be coming. Take a seat.”

  He would have waved in the direction of some tall wooden stools, but his hands were busy. Tommy nudged Harold and they obediently found places to sit. Tommy had been to the morgue before, though not as often as Clara. The environment held no surprises for him. It was the first time for Harold, however, and he looked around the room with curiosity. The only similar thing in his experience had been the large tents were the dead were placed after a battle during the war. They were behind the lines, near the hospital tents, since most of the dead who would end up in them were those who had perished in a field hospital. It had been a gruesome place. Harold had helped carry bodies into the tent more than once. At busy times they would have to be stacked atop one another, with as much dignity as such a process could afford.

  In winter it was bad enough, the staring, grey-blue faces, all too often familiar to him, were a stark reminder of a world gone mad. In summer it was horrendous, with bodies beginning to decompose before they could be buried and the tent swarming with flies and sometimes rats. It had been utterly grim and no way for a fellow to end up. It was better when they could get mass graves dug swiftly and at least knew their comrades had been decently buried.

  The morgue was completely different. It was clean and smelt of chemicals, not of death. Its zinc surfaces gleamed, its tiles shone and the whole place felt modern, efficient, civilised. Harold reflected that since dying was a process they must all at some time endure, it was only proper that the place where their deserted husks must be temporarily stored should be luxurious, along with practical.

  Dr Deáth finished with the body and carefully covered it with a white sheet. He stowed his needle and thread in an enamel kidney dish and gave the young men a smile as he walked over to the sink.

  “Another of our criminal friends,” he said. “From the raid. He died in hospital early this morning. While the doctors were confident of the causes, it was felt best if I conducted a post-mortem to confirm it. Peritonitis as a consequence of being shot in the stomach, also I found a bullet lodged by his kidney. He had been too ill to operate on, but the bullet was not the real root of the trouble.”

  Tommy and Harold were silent; both had seen their fair share of men with stomach injuries and the complications that often developed from them. When a bullet nicked the intestines, all manner of bacteria was released and very little could usually be done to save a man’s life.

  “You didn’t come about him, however,” Dr Deáth dried his hands on a large towel. “Clara explained you wanted to see Miss Leong and to discuss the angle the bullet entered her head.”

  “That’s right,” Tommy answered. “Harold, here, is rather good at calculating trajectories. We are hoping he can work out where the bullet came from. If we can prove it was not fired from the ground, it’s a good start to determining that Leong was murdered by one of her own people.”

  Dr Deáth walked to a wall of metal cabinets, peered at the labels and then opened a door. He pulled out the body drawer upon which Leong rested.

  “Clara asked if I could extract the bullet and I have done that. I have sent it away to see if the type of gun it was fired from can be determined. It was rather mangled, however.”

  “That’s interesting,” Harold said, walking towards the body. “There are lots of reasons why a bullet deforms when it hits something solid, such as bone. It can be because of what the bullet is made from, but it can also be due to the distance it was fired from. When a bullet travels a long distance before hitting its target, it still has force behind it, but not so much and so it pierces but does not crumple. In contrast, a close distance means the bullet has a lot of thrust behind it and that pressure pushing it forward when it hits something hard acts to crush it out of shape. Though, that does not always hold true, as in all things relating to guns, there is a great deal of variation.”

  “I thought if a bullet was fired close to a person it was more than likely to pass through them?” Tommy asked.

  “That would depend on the type of gun used to fire the bullet,” Dr Deáth explained to him. “I would suggest this was done by a pistol rather than a rifle. Rifles are designed for long distance shooting and that requires a lot of propulsive force. At close range, I would expect a shot from a rifle to do a great deal of damage to the victim.”

  “The police were using pistols, as were the men inside the house,” Tommy answered.

  “An old pistol has less propulsive force and would not necessarily have enough power behind it to send a bullet through the victim,” Harold added. “However, a pistol fired from the ground would have the same result. The bullet would not have the velocity to punch right through the body.”

  “And this bullet went straight into the skull, hitting bone at once,” Dr Deáth tapped the side of his head. “Now, bone takes a lot of power to push through it. Put a gun right up to someone’s head and you would expect the bullet to go clean through, but I have seen instances where it has not, and if the bullet is shot into the back of the head, where the skull is thick, then very often the bullet lodges into the brain.”

  “Does that help us at all?” Tommy asked, feeling confused.

  “Not really,” Harold confessed. “It is just interesting speculation. Doctor, Clara said you have worked out the angle the bullet entered Miss Leong?”

  “I have, bear with me a moment,” Dr Deáth left them to go into his private sitting room. He returned with a notebook filled with his own sketches. He showed them a picture he had done of a skull facing the viewer and with an inked line cutting across it at an angle. “The angle was acute, the bullet had to have been fired up at Miss Leong to achieve this, it was not fired parallel to her head.”

  Harold politely took the notebook and examined the drawing.

  “My immediate thought is that this causes us a problem. The angle potentially suggests the bullet was fired from the ground. What I need is to be able to see the body in situ, so I can determine roughly where Leong was standing when she was shot.”

  “Fortunately, the inspector is wise enough to employ a police photographer,” Tommy said. “There are pictures of the scene we can use.”

  “That will help,” Harold was frowning as he stared at the drawing. “I want to be able to offer Clara a sound answer, I don’t want to leave her with vague possibilities, but right now it is hard to see just what I can say.”

  “Could we see the body of the man who was found outside Leong’s door?” Tommy asked the coroner, hoping that looking at the second victim might offer some clues.

  Dr Deáth restored Leong to her metal chamber and then opened another. He drew out a heftier body and pulled back the cloth from its face.

  “His name was Freddie Humble,” Tommy said as the man was revealed. “Clara found out today.”

  He had been a robust individual in life; Freddie was only in his thirties, with thick black hair and a face only a mother could love. Even if his nose had not been broken more than once and was more of a stubbly smudge on his face than a proper snout, he would have been deemed ugly. He had a round, squat face, close eyes and crooked teeth that might not have been a problem on their own, but joined by a disproportionate jaw and jutting brow contributed to turning the man into someone you would not want to meet on a dark night.

  “Not a looker, is he?” Harold remarked. “Mind you, that hole through his forehead doesn’t help.”

  The hole was a bit broader than the width of a ha’penny and was a messy smudge of ragged edges. The wound had been cleaned up, but it was plain to see small shards of bone protruding and the lacerated edges of flesh.

  “That is the exit wound,” Dr Deáth pointed out. “But you probably knew that. I imagine when it comes to bullet wounds you two could teach me a thing or two.”

  The coroner’s comment was said with due sympathy, it was not a jest or a compliment, it was an acknowledgement of what Tommy and Harold had endured and survived.

&nbs
p; “The bullet was fired at close range, I would suggest the barrel of the gun was almost resting against the victim’s skull,” Dr Deáth turned Freddie’s head to the side and revealed the entry wound.

  In comparison to the messy explosion of the exit wound, the bullet’s entry was marked by a small, circular hole. Rather neat and tidy. There were also scorch marks to the skin beneath Freddie’s hair. The coroner had shaved the area immediately around the bullet hole to give a better view and the burn marks were obvious.

  “This fellow was executed,” Harold said solemnly. “I have seen that a few too many times as well.”

  “There is no doubt about how this man died,” Dr Deáth agreed. “Someone came up behind him and shot him through the back of the skull.”

  “Seems to me he knew who that person was,” Tommy said. “To get that close to him without arousing alarm he must have been a comrade. I’ve been in that house and that corridor is not easy to sneak up on someone, the floor creaks for a start.”

  “Was the bullet that shot this man found?” Harold asked.

  “It was not brought to me,” Dr Deáth replied. “But that does not mean it is not in the police evidence store. Though, I have my doubts about it.”

  “The Chief Constable was not inclined to expend resources on this matter,” Tommy elaborated. “I doubt the area was searched and the bullet retrieved.”

  “Then we must find it,” Harold insisted. “This could be very important. If the bullet that shot this man matches the bullet that shot Leong, we shall know that they were killed by the same person.”

  “Can two bullets be matched?” Tommy was puzzled.

  “In theory,” Dr Deáth answered. “I have read about such things, though I doubt it is done often. You see, a gun’s barrelling has a unique rifling pattern from when it was manufactured. When a bullet is fired it whizzes down the barrel and is scratched by those same striations, forming microscopic marks on the metal. These are like a fingerprint and can link a bullet to a gun. But to achieve that would need someone who has a keen eye and a strong microscope.”

  “I could do it,” Harold said firmly. “I have read about it too and I know how the idea works. It requires a lot of patience, but I would be willing to attempt it.”

  “You know, if you could find the gun you think was used and fired a fresh bullet from it, then you could compare that bullet to the two used in the murders,” the coroner was growing excited. “You could say for certain that a specific gun killed these people.”

  “That gun has probably been chucked off the pier by now,” Tommy brought them back to earth. “And while I think it would be interesting to see if the bullet that killed Freddie was fired from the same gun as that which shot and killed Leong, I am not sure it helps with Clara’s case. It doesn’t prove who fired the gun, only that it was shot from inside. It could be argued that a soldier or policeman did it as they rushed into the house to mop up suspects.

  “Maybe the bodyguard was taken by surprise, that would explain why he did not turn. In the heat of the moment, the culprit might have shot first, asked questions later.”

  “The police were sent in to arrest people only,” Dr Deáth corrected him calmly. “All the men downstairs were arrested. None were shot after the house was entered. Why would a policeman or a soldier shoot two people upstairs instead of arresting them? Especially when one was unarmed?”

  “I am not saying that is what happened,” Tommy quickly reassured him. “I am certain it was an inside job. I am just pointing out that the evidence is not conclusive, and it needs to be conclusive if we are to convince Chang the police are not responsible.”

  Dr Deáth nodded his head and then drew the sheet back over Freddie’s face.

  “What if Mr Chang has no intention of being convinced it was not the police’s fault?” He proposed.

  “I try not to think like that,” Tommy said.

  “We can only do our best with our limited methods,” the coroner explained to him gently.

  “Then maybe we need to do better than our best,” Tommy replied ominously.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Annie peered out of the parlour window with an anxious look on her face. She pulled back the edge of the curtain and looked as far out into the road as she was able. Clara was sitting in an armchair, working through the pamphlet on tortoise care Mr Cobb had given her. She was learning a great deal about the creatures, though she was not sure any of it would actually help her in locating poor Jeremiah. She noticed Annie’s odd behaviour.

  “What is the matter?” She asked. “Not like you to curtain twitch.”

  Annie turned around.

  “Tommy and Captain Laker went to see Dr Deáth while you were out. They have not returned, and that snow is getting very heavy.”

  Outside the window, the world was a swirl of white as snow fell thickly from the sky. It was tricky to see across the road clearly, as the wind was blowing hard and sweeping the white flakes into a blinding haze. It was not a time to be outdoors.

  “Tommy is sensible,” Clara reminded Annie. “Far more so than I. I expect he is waiting out the worst at the morgue. Dr Deáth will look after him and, once things improve, he can come home.”

  Annie did not look entirely convinced, but she came away from the window.

  “I hate this weather. I think of all the poor souls who have no coal for the fire, or food for the table, or worse, have no roof over their heads and how they must suffer,” she had become morbid as such thoughts filled her. “It’s when the weather is like this that people freeze to death. I hate it.”

  “Not a lot we can do about it,” Clara said gently. She had been thinking similar thoughts, only hers revolved around a small tortoise and how he was faring in the cold. “Try not to think on it.”

  Annie rose and fussed with the coal on the fire, jabbing it rather fiercely with the poker.

  “You know, you mustn’t…” Clara was halted mid-sentence by seeing a glimpse of something, or rather someone, out of the window. “There is a person coming to our door.”

  “Is it Tommy?”

  “If it is, he must have abandoned Harold somewhere.”

  There was a knock on the door, which resolved the matter – Tommy would have simply entered the house. Annie instantly looked alarmed and Clara could guess she was thinking all manner of terrible things, from Tommy having been caught up in an accident, to him having frozen to death. Annie was so horrified by these ideas, that she was unable to move.

  Clara headed for the hallway and opened the front door herself. The person outside was a lad of about fourteen. He was wearing worn clothes and gloves missing six out of the ten fingers. He blew on his hands as the door swung open, looking miserable with his lot in life.

  “Miss Fitzgerald?” He enquired.

  “I am,” Clara said, wondering what this was all about.

  “Message from Fat Sam,” he added. “Alf is at the pub and he will be keeping him there as long as he can.”

  Clara brightened; this was positive news. Then her good mood faded as she looked out into the swirling snowstorm.

  “Fat Sam said you would pay me sixpence for the message,” the lad said in a surly tone.

  “I’ll do better than that,” Clara smiled at him, not offended. “Come inside and warm up. Alf won’t be going anywhere in this weather.”

  The lad started to protest, not sure he wanted to step into her house and fearful this was some ploy to cost him his sixpence. Clara took his arm and almost dragged him into the parlour.

  “Warm yourself up, or you will catch your death,” she told him, stationing him by the fire.

  He was all skin and bone beneath his tatty clothing; there had been hardly any weight behind him to put up much of a fight when she had dragged him in.

  “Is it about Tommy?” Annie asked as soon as the lad appeared in the room. Her face had gone pale and her mouth pulled down into a grimace of worry.

  “No, it is to do with my other case,” Clara informed
her while she rummaged in her purse and produced a shilling. She handed it to the lad.

  He looked uneasy.

  “It’s too much.”

  “Not at all, that is compensation for coming out in this terrible weather,” Clara told him firmly. “Now, wait here.”

  She disappeared and the lad gave Annie a worried look. She was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to be able to offer him much of a response, but she did smile.

  Clara returned and in her hands were a pair of woollen gloves.

  “I’m sorry they are slightly an uneven match. They were my first attempt,” Clara gave them to him. “Annie has kindly been teaching me how to knit. I have been looking to gift them to someone who would find use for them.”

  The boy held the gloves in his hands, a little startled by the turn of events.

  “Try them on,” Clara insisted. “I hope they are not too small.”

  The lad hesitated for several moments more, then he carefully donned one glove over his old one, as if he was frightened of damaging it and getting into trouble. Once it was on, he closed and unclosed his fist, feeling the new wool on his fingers. His confidence improved, he put on the second glove and then examined his hands with a slight smile gracing his lips.

  “Now, do you feel warmer?” Clara asked him as she grabbed her own coat and gloves.

  The lad glanced up, for a second he was not sure how to respond, then he nodded.

  “Thanks,” he said, not sure if it was what he should say. It was a word he did not have much cause to use.

  “Annie, will you be all right if I nip out?” Clara turned to her friend.

  “In this weather?” Annie looked appalled. “It is still snowing.”

  “I know, but I can’t risk losing Alf Martin now I finally have a chance to speak to him.”

  “Well, you are a fool, that is all I can say,” Annie was aggrieved. “This weather is not fit for a dog to be out in.”