The magistrate remained seated but extended a hand. “His condition has not improved, then,” he said.
“The wound itself is not bad, but there is still some suppuration.”
“I must keep this room cleaner,” muttered Barton, admonishing himself. “Nigel, please begin drawing. This is the infamous Guy Evans. We shall open him once Al and the others arrive. Begin with a detailed illustration of his external appearance.”
“Mr. Hart,” said Sir John. “Is the cause of death apparent to you?”
“Without dissecting the cadaver, I cannot say with certainty, but its appearance suggests suffocation. The eyes are bulging, the tongue is visible. The congestion of blood in the face is unmistakable, with petechiae on the epidermis, palpebrae, conjunctiva, and oral mucosa. Traces of blood can be seen around the nostrils, suggesting a nosebleed. Someone may have wiped the rest off.”
“Ah, that would be Dr. Osborne—” began Anne, before falling silent at the magistrate’s raised finger.
“No ligature furrows or marks except a pale band around the neck. It runs more or less horizontally, indicating that something wide and soft was wrapped there. Dissection will confirm this, but the thyroid cartilage feels broken. All in all, it appears to be death by strangulation. Unlike hanging, strangulation is exceedingly difficult to effect on one’s own person. Eight or nine times out of ten, it means murder. If the victim struggled, scrapings of the assailant’s skin may be found under the fingernails, but this cadaver has no traces of it. From this we may surmise that the victim was unconscious before being killed. However, there are no signs of blunt trauma, and volatile ether is usually impractical for the uncooperative; a weak victim can be forced to inhale it, but this seems unlikely with a full-grown man like this. Accordingly, I imagine he was given laudanum or some such in his drink.”
“Brilliant,” said the magistrate, applauding briefly.
“My pupils are exceptional,” said Barton.
“Mr. Hart, shy and retiring as you may seem, you are quite eloquent on your own. The equal in brain-power of your friend Turner, I should say.”
“Oh, no,” said Nigel, his usual diffidence returning in his voice.
“I would test your powers of observation and deduction further, if I may. Pray examine this.” He offered him the cravat.
“There is blood on it.”
“From a nosebleed, apparently. This was the murder weapon.”
“That would explain the strong transverse creasing, then.”
“It would. Do you notice anything else?”
“Nothing in particular… .”
“I noticed it by feel alone,” said Sir John. “You are sighted; it will surely come to you.”
“There are other creases beside the transverse ones. As if the cravat had been crumpled in a fist. They are concentrated in an area of roughly ten inches at one end of the cravat, and three at the other end. Perhaps they were made when the cravat was gripped to perform the crime… . But no, that cannot be. If that were the case, the extent of the creasing at both ends would be identical.”
After a pause, he went on.
“I believe that this end was tied to something… . The arm of a chair, perhaps, or a table leg. The creases were made by the knot. Having anchored one end, the murderer gripped the other and wrapped it around the neck of the victim, pulling it as tight as he could.”
The magistrate nodded deeply. “I came to the same conclusion,” he said. “I would hire you as another assistant if I could. Anne, do not take offence. Your position is secure.”
“When I found the body,” said Anne, “the end of the cravat was not tied to anything.”
“The killer would have untied it before escaping.”
“Why should he bother?”
“Mr. Hart, your opinion?”
“Let me think.” After a moment’s consideration, he quietly spoke again. “It may be that leaving the cravat tied to the chair—or whatever it was—would have pointed to the killer’s identity. Someone of little strength… a woman, perhaps, or—”
Anne gasped. “Robert Barton’s right hand was injured,” she recalled.
“Robert!?” cried Barton. “Surely my brother would not—Evans, too!? Of course he might wish the man dead, but…”
“His hand was injured? That was not in your report.”
“I forgot to include it, thinking it of little importance.” She explained about Robert’s injury on the staircase at the Tom Queen. “If he were unable to use the full strength of his right hand…”
“Sir John.” Barton broke in again, sounding despondent. “Do you think it was my brother?… But… it is not inconceivable… . If he really did kill two others at Evans’s request in exchange for forgiveness of his debt… and Evans then refused to keep to the bargain, and retained the IOU…”
Sir John heard a wheezy puff of breath from him.
“Dr. Barton was summoned to the magistrate’s office and questioned on several matters,” Anne said. “My assistant and I followed him afterwards. He first went to a coffee-house called Jonathan’s, where he wrote a note and dispatched it to Evans by messenger boy. Acting on the instructions in Evans’s reply, he then proceeded to the Tom Queen—an inn—and entered a room on the second floor. Abbott and I waited outside the door, but when Dr. Barton did not emerge after an hour, we forced our way in to find no one inside but the deceased Evans. Circumstances indicated that the murderer had escaped through the window.”
“However, it is possible that Evans was already dead when Robert went into the room,” said Sir John. “This is why, as I mentioned earlier, I wish to know the exact time of death.”
“A precisely observed record of the changes in the body after death does not yet exist,” said Barton. “The climate, the place it occurred—many things affect developments. Which is why we need more—”
Sir John forestalled Barton’s customary appeal with a raised hand. “The extent of current knowledge will suffice,” he said.
“Mr. Barton is now feeling the cadaver from head to toe.”
“Miss Moore, how rigid was the corpse when you discovered it?” asked Barton. “The lower jaw in particular.”
“I cannot say, as the cravat was wrapped around his neck. I thought it wiser not to remove it before the autopsy… .”
“A shame. Rigidity becomes quite noticeable in the jaw after two hours or so.”
“Two hours or so,” Sir John reflected. “In other words, if Evans had been dead some time before Dr. Barton entered the room, a rigid jaw might have revealed that at once. A missed opportunity.”
Anne did not reply. Her mood had probably taken a turn for the worse.
If Evans had died two hours before the discovery of his corpse, Sir John realized, he would not have received Robert’s initial message at all.
“Mr. Barton has gestured at Nigel Hart to begin examining the cadaver,” Anne reported.
“Rigidity has spread as far as the upper limbs,” Nigel said. “I estimate a time of death between three and five hours ago. The rest of the body is still pli—”
He trailed off suddenly.
“Nigel!”
“Mr. Hart!”
“My apologies. A bout of slight dizziness.”
“We need your drawings of the dissection. Perhaps you should rest upstairs for a time?”
“By your leave, I shall.”
“Can you climb the stairs unaided?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Sir John heard his footsteps disappearing upstairs.
“Such a pity that his constitution does not match his ability,” Barton declared.
“Three to five hours since death. That range is too wide.”
“Then too wide it must be. I myself cannot propose a narrower one.”
Just then, the other three pupils tramped in,
raising the level of energy in the room.
“What is this about, then?” asked Clarence, speaking for the other two as the loudest. “‘Professor’s orders, everybody in,’ was all old Bent-nose would tell us. Good job I had finished my supper. Sir John, from your presence I deduce that it is a criminal matter.”
Al was peering at the dead body. “Strangulation, was it?”
“You know at a glance?”
“External appearances clearly indicate as much. The body must be checked for other injuries, of course.”
“Mr. Hart impressed me with his perception, but I see that you, Mr. Wood, have similar gifts.”
“Your hearing is a far greater marvel, Sir John,” he replied. “We have barely exchanged more than a handful of words, yet you recognize my voice already.”
“I know all your voices by now.”
“So, who is the deceased?”
“Guy Evans,” said Barton. Sir John heard in-drawn breaths.
“And the murderer?”
“Still under investigation.”
“Prepare for dissection,” Barton told them.
There was the clink of metal on metal as tools were being laid out. Someone was humming along with the sound. Clarence. Then he began to sing.
A was an Artery filled with injection;
B was a Beldam of awful complexion.
Ben took up a part as well. His voice was good; with some instruction, he might have sung professionally.
C was some Cartilage, that apple of Adam’s;
D was the Diaphragm, prone to its spasms.
Lol de rol…
“The ‘Dissection Song,’” said Barton apologetically. “Jointly composed by my pupils. They sing when they drink.”
Today it seemed the three pupils were under the influence of Evans’s demise.
“They have got as far as Y, I believe.” Barton chuckled. “Z still has them stumped.”
“The dog is restless,” said Anne.
“That is just his way,” said Clarence. “Nothing to worry about.” The singing continued.
G was for Gaiety, all free to share it;
H was a Headache from far too much claret.
Even the usually reserved Al joined in the chorus. Belying his ordinary speaking voice, his singing was painfully off-key, which he seemed to realize.
M was a Muscle—cold, flabby, and red;
And N was a Nerve, like a bit of white thread.
“Ready!” declared Clarence, now slightly overexcited.
“Wait,” said Barton. “Nigel has not returned yet. Clarence, go and inquire. He had a dizzy spell earlier.”
“Yes, sir,” said Clarence. He went up the stairs singing: “O was some Opium, a fool chose to take it; P was Profane, like our pet and his bucket. Lol de rol…” His voice grew fainter and died away.
“May I make the incision?” asked Al.
“Yes, I suppose so,” Barton replied. “But just the incision line. We shall not open him until Nigel comes down.”
Sir John heard the clatter of someone running down the stairs. “Professor, Edward—Edward is—” said Clarence.
“Edward is what?”
“Out of his mind!” he cried.
Chapter 16
Arched pedestrian alcoves lined the sides of London Bridge in matched sets, left and right. There were eighteen pairs in all: one above each of the piles.
When Professor Barton had first come to London from Scotland, the bridge had been dense with makeshift houses and shops, but in 1758 a four-year renovation project had begun.
The stone alcoves had been made once the way was clear. Each was like a small dome sliced in half, with narrow benches against the walls inside. Vagrants frequently made homes of them, only to be chased away by night-watchmen.
He remembered a day five years ago.
The Thames had thawed, but the weather was unchanged from the depth of winter. It was barely afternoon but murkier than twilight thanks to a heavy sky. Flakes of soot whirled in the air, too, like bits of a funeral shroud.
Barton was crossing the bridge on his way to a consultation. Looking down, he saw a reckless group in a boat near one of the bridge’s piles. They appeared to be students.
The gaps between the piles were narrow, creating fast currents and eddies in the river. It was dangerous to pass through by boat—even the ferrymen preferred to avoid it. Most passengers disembarked just before the bridge, walked to the next wharf, and boarded another craft.
But for some young people, it was like running the gauntlet.
The game could easily go wrong. Onlookers gathered on the riverbank and the bridge above to wager on the outcome. When a boat disappeared under the bridge, they would run to the other side. Some vessels capsized; their occupants almost drowned. Ones that passed cleanly through were greeted with cheers.
Barton leaned over the railing and watched.
A boy who looked about sixteen or seventeen was standing on the wharf. He was dressed in black, as if for a funeral. The students in the boat goaded him with some remark. The boy climbed into one of the rowing boats at the wharf, untied its rope, dipped an oar into the water, and began to travel with the current. Tossed by the rapids, he soon disappeared under the bridge.
“Would you care to wager?” asked a fairly respectable-looking man watching the proceedings. “I think he will fail.”
“Then I shall back him to succeed,” replied Barton obstinately.
They moved to the other side and leaned over.
The prow came into view first. The little boat got caught in an eddy and very nearly went bow-first underwater, but managed to right itself in time. Then it veered towards a pile, only escaping disaster when the boy pushed it away with an oar, though so much water spilled on board that they were barely afloat when they arrived at a wharf downriver.
Barton pocketed a coin from his reluctant betting partner.
A dingy rain was falling when, after diagnosing and treating the patient, he returned to the bridge. He ducked into an alcove for shelter, but got his breeches wet when he sat down on the bench.
Someone was lying on a bench in the alcove opposite. It was the boy who had passed under the bridge earlier.
Holding his bag over his head, he ran across the bridge to the other alcove. The boy’s clothes were wet through, and he seemed feverish. Barton took him home with him by carriage.
When they ate together for the first time after the boy recovered, Barton placed a coin on the table. “You won me this shilling,” he said. “It was the first wager I ever won in my life.”
His guest explained that he had just buried his mother, and that he had been chased out of their former home for not paying the rent. Charlie laid his muzzle on the boy’s leg as he talked.
And that was how Edward Turner moved in with Daniel Barton to become his first apprentice.
“I killed Evans,” said Edward, sitting up in his bed.
Barton, looking shaken, told him not to be ridiculous.
The room was filled with the smell of wine, coming from a puddle on the floor with a broken bottle at its centre. Nigel crouched to pick up the bits of glass. Barton watched anxiously, hoping that his pupil would not cut his fingers.
As Al, Clarence, and Ben had been told to stay downstairs, the only other people there were Anne and Sir John.
“I killed Evans,” repeated Edward, determination in his voice.
“Where and how did you do so?” asked the magistrate sternly.
“Sir John, he is feverish and babbling.”
“I used his cravat to strangle him,” said Edward. “My wound weakened me, so I tied one end to a chair, wrapped the cravat around his neck, and pulled the other end tight.”
“Edward, you heard that from Nigel,” said Barton with an unconvincing laugh
. “Nigel deduced it all from examining the cadaver before he came upstairs. You told him afterwards, did you, Nigel? Sir John, pay him no heed. He has been here in bed since his injury. His fever has made him muddled, mixing dreams with reality. This is quite common in such cases.”
“It happened at an inn called the Tom Queen,” Edward went on.
Barton saw from Anne and Sir John’s faces that he had the right location.
No doubt foreseeing a long conversation, Anne moved a chair to Edward’s bedside and helped the blind man sit down.
“How did you know Evans was in the Tom Queen?” Sir John asked, taking Edward’s hand between his own.
Edward pulled it back. “I do not like to be touched by strangers.”
“You have no right to refuse, Mr. Turner,” Anne told him. “Sir John holds people’s hands because he cannot see them.”
“But that is to help him detect an offender, is it not? I am confessing to the crime myself.”
“Your confession may be a lie,” said Anne.
“What reason have I to lie?”
She paused. “To protect someone, perhaps,” she said finally.
“Who?”
“Mr. Turner, answer me this, if you would,” said Sir John. “How did you know that Evans was in the Tom Queen? Were you and he in communication?”
“That question I cannot answer.”
“Why?”
“I cannot answer.”
“That casts some doubt on your credibility.”
“Your staff have been known to extract confessions by force. I am offering mine voluntarily. You should be grateful.”
“Edward, careful how you speak to the magistrate,” Barton warned him.
“I am told that your father was hanged for a crime of which he was innocent,” said Anne.
The look he gave her was hostile. “It happens to be true.”
“Is this your revenge, then? To make a mockery of the law? Disavow your confession in court and produce evidence of your innocence?”
“I killed Evans.”
The Resurrection Fireplace Page 27
