A Cowardice of Crows Page 2

  I slipped down the servant’s staircase as the nearby church chimed the half-hour. Watkins was waiting and with his usual efficiency took me to the mortuary. Normally I would’ve been nosy, but today, I was too preoccupied with the case to waste time contemplating the view from the window. Besides, it was raining; that driving rain that makes you want to be inside with a good book, or a willing woman. To take my mind off my current willing woman, Serena, and her increasingly shrewish behaviour, I reached into my Gladstone and took out the foolscap document my cousin CC sent me. Turning to the page containing the doctor’s findings, I read his spidery scrawl over and over again, until the cab pulled up outside an unprepossessing brick building some ten minutes later.

  “We’re here, guv.” Watkins was the only one of my staff to have “gone civilian” as Bertie put it – after one extraordinarily boozy dinner. To everyone’s surprise including his, Watkins embraced civilian life so well that it was hard to believe that he and Sampson joined up together. A devotee of politics, Watkins read widely and followed the teachings of the Marxists slavishly. Thus, I was ‘guv’ on a good day, and ‘imperialist bastard’ on a bad. CC said I should deal with his insubordination. His Royal Highness said it added to my eccentricities. Bertie – as heir to the throne – won that round, and Watkins, who tended to tell it like it was, became the memento mori of my entourage.

  “Thank you, Watkins. Don’t wait. Just make sure you’re back in time for me to make dinner with His Royal Highness.”

  “OK, guv. Will do.” Watkins not only watched me pack the documents back into the bag but gave me time to consult my little black notebook before he braved the driving rain to open the cab door. Then with a cheery wave, he got back in the vehicle and left.

  Although it was only a short distance between the cab and the door, I pulled up the collar of my overcoat and tugged at the brim of my hat in a vague attempt to give me some protection from the elements. I was moderately successful, reaching the black metal door without succumbing to the biting Brighton wind. I put the bag down, sounded the bell for precisely three seconds, and waited – at ease – watching as droplets of rain dripped from the front of my hat.

  Fortunately, CC warned me I’d be kept waiting. McGregor was old-school. He disliked interruptions to his routine and had been known to keep visitors to his mortuary waiting up to half an hour for admittance. Had I not been forewarned I would have been irritated. As it was, I was stoic and glad of the lingering warmth of the whisky.

  When the door finally opened, the stench of bleach and formaldehyde, which exploded onto the street, was overwhelming. Unable to help myself, I wrinkled my nose against the smell and took a step back. Such actions earned me a mild rebuke from the dour-looking man in his sixties who (in addition to having one shoulder slightly higher than the other) was wearing a white coat over the top of a serviceable black and white ensemble.

  “The name’s Byrd. I’m expected.”

  He subjected me to an eagle-like stare. “This is highly irregular my lord.” His voice was not welcoming in the slightest.

  “My credentials.” Equally brusque, I handed over my wallet. The Scotsman took it without a smile; brought the paper close to his eyes, in a way that suggested I was unworthy of spectacles, before spending an inordinate amount of time deciding whether to let me in.

  “Step this way,” he said eventually.

  From the doctor’s attitude, it was clear I’d been investigated prior to arrival, and found wanting: a man on a jolly. He was correct to assume that of course. For the last eleven years that was the image I cultivated. My evenings with the Prince; my liaison with Serena; the parties, the booze; the racehorses; not to mention the whirlwind lifestyle – played out in the columns of the daily press. But as I followed the grey-haired Scot towards the mortuary room, I regretted the decisions I made as I steamed across the Indian Ocean during the summer of ‘89. The decisions a man tends to make when he’s weary of life and facing a destiny he never wanted.

  There was something about the set of the doctor’s shoulders and his firm, measured tread down the corridor, which transported me to childhood. Suddenly, I was following Grandfather’s butler to the Duke’s study. In trouble, and about to be sent to boarding school as a way of curbing my habit of showing up my tutors.

  At boarding school things got worse, until rescuing me from a savage birthday beating, William Sampson, eight years older than me and on leave from the army, delivered two lessons. One to the bullies, and one that a sensible, intelligent lad would’ve been a fool not to take. “Play the clown,” Sampson told me as he cleaned my wounds and bandaged my chest. “Give them what they think they want ... not who you really are.”

  So, I did.

  And by becoming the class clown, I created a character I returned to over the years.

  Much to Grandfather’s disgust, I took the colours at seventeen and joined CC and the redoubtable Sergeant Sampson in India. It was the happiest time of my life, only ending when news reached us of CC’s father’s death.

  Knowing his mother’s propensity to cause trouble, my cousin went home immediately. With business in Sikkim to attend to, and not relishing the idea of having to revert to the role of class clown, I waited a further six months before returning, with Sampson as my valet and factotum. And by the time I reached Southampton, CC was a newly married policeman, with a baby on the way. His mother had been bought off by my grandfather; and the earldom turned out to be a weight around my neck, not my suddenly illegitimate cousin.

  I found my life further defined after a dinner with Lord Salisbury, then three years into his first term as Prime Minister. Not really sure how he talked me into it, though I suspect copious amounts of champagne and brandy played a large role in the affair, I suddenly found myself aiding the police on a case-by-case basis.

  Until today, I enjoyed the subterfuge that came with my life. But following in McGregor’s wake, it became clear that the good doctor was a serious fellow. My songs and jokes and snatches would not work their magic here. For the first time since Sikkim, I needed to prove my worth to an equal. And strange though it seemed, I so wanted him to change his opinion.

  “Miss Jones is in here, my lord.”

  To the doctor’s surprise, I ignored the coldness of the room, and took my coat off, hanging it over the back of the chair. I put my hat on the open copy of Gray’s Anatomy and idly flicked the pages of William Hunter’s The Anatomy of the Human Gravid Uterus as I waited for the doctor to show me the corpse.

  “D’you always wear that?” McGregor growled suddenly. I assumed he meant the open-necked granddad shirt and ignored him, as I rolled my sleeves far enough up my arm to reveal the St George tattoo, done shortly after joining the Prince’s set.

  “When you’re quite ready.” The Scot’s eyes narrowed into tiny slits of disgust.

  I waited dutifully for the man to lead the way; and then followed at a respectful distance, through the main lab – with its metal tables and big white butler sinks – and into a small, colder room, where a sheeted body lay on one of two tables.

  Battered and bruised beyond recognition, it was all too easy to conclude that Millicent Jones’ killer hated her. “Your report’s thorough,” I said in an attempt to build bridges. It failed. McGregor looked me up and down, wrinkled his patrician nose and said nothing.

  I could tell he watched me closely, waiting for me to make an error that would necessitate my bodily ejection from the building. Realising actions would be far more effective than words, I decided I must walk him through my analysis. Show him I was no clown. I removed my bottle-top glasses from a pocket and put them on right ear first. That done, I leant towards the body and stared intently at the wounds, the discoloured flesh, and everything else in-between.

  After five, maybe ten minutes – having removed the glasses to blink like an owl in daylight – I took a pad from the Gladstone, wetted the already sharpened pencil, and began to sketch what I saw. Initially, the doctor crowded me, standin
g – possibly deliberately – in my light. He tried to unnerve me, but when it became clear to the older man that I didn’t intend to fall for his ruse, McGregor pulled back, allowing me to work unhindered. When I finished drawing, I left the sketches next to the body for him to view, returned my glasses to my nose and donned a pair of fine white cotton gloves. Running my hand over the ribs, arm and leg, I resumed my conversation with the doctor. “Did you visit the crime scene?”

  “I did.”

  “How much blood?”

  “Given her injuries ... not enough.”

  “Then she died before she was pushed from the train.”

  “You’ve read the report. You know damn well that’s what happened!” The doctor snapped, his pristine English idiolect smothered by Scottish anger.

  Realising McGregor misunderstood me, I apologised. “I’m sorry. I’m thinking out loud. It’s a terrible habit.” Before he could comment, I changed the subject quickly. “May I examine the cufflink?”

  “If you must!” he snapped. “It’s on my desk.”

  I smiled. “What made you look inside her throat?”

  McGregor didn’t answer, so I ignored him and went to examine the cufflink. “Interesting.” I picked the gold piece up and turned it over a couple of times in my hand. “Well, well, well. What d’you make of that?” I pointed to the back of the item.

  “It’s a scratch man!” the doctor snapped. “No doubt being the fanciful kind, you’ll be tellin’ me it’s a bird. Me having no time for such tomfoolery, know better. The owner was careless.”

  “Perhaps. But aren’t you concerned there’s only one cufflink: not a pair?” I put the item back on the table and, opening my bag, extracted a Sampson Mordan silver tongue depressor and a small glass bottle – attached to a slightly larger metal device by a thin rubber tube. I put this contraption on the second metal table and returned to the bag to extract a box of Bryant and May matches.

  “Based on the carbolic spray used in surgery,” I told McGregor. “My man Sampson created this miniature version following a visit to a tea ceremony with Prince George. See I place the lit candle at the base of the device, light the blue touchpaper so to speak and abracadabra – heat.”

  As if unable to help it, the doctor dragged himself a little closer to see what I was doing.

  “Was the lack of blood the thing which aroused your curiosity? Made you investigate further?”

  The doctor shook his head. “No … not that,” he admitted slowly. “I’m ashamed to say, I decided the poor girl committed suicide the moment I heard the authorities found her in the tunnel.”

  “Then what caused you to look beyond the obvious?” I persisted. “What made you cut her open and search for the trophy?”

  When he didn’t answer, I warmed to my theme. “The bruising? Even for someone who fell from a train Miss Jones here is brutally battered. And yet, that in itself wouldn’t make you examine inside, would it? Your report says the cufflink was wedged quite someway down her throat. Could you see it?”

  “No ... but ...”

  I waved dismissively: “Tell me later, physician of mine. Tell me later.” I decided a change of tactics was required.

  “This calling card as you described it in your report, intrigues me. No. Don’t say a word; don’t utter a peep. Let me see if I can follow your line of reasoning.” I ran my fingers over the jawline; then, with a smile, went back to the bag; rummaging inside, until I found my Ever-Ready tubular flashlight. I put the bottle-tops back on and opened the dead girl’s mouth as wide as I dared, before staring inside.

  “The cufflink went in post-mortem,” I said a few minutes later.

  A bushy eyebrow rose: “Go on.”

  It was said grudgingly, but it was said.

  I snuffed the tea light out and regarded the Scot. “If you look closely, you’ll see the woman’s throat is ripped to pieces. Gagging would leave it red, bruised; sore.”

  “And from that you conclude the cufflink was added post-mortem?” He tutted.

  “No one would swallow something of that size willingly,” I admonished gently. We were making headway, there was nothing to be gained from sarcasm. “And the nails on the hand aren’t ripped enough for Miss Jones to have fought her attacker while he stuffed it down her throat.” I paused. “But, that’s only part of it. Her jaw, it’s not just broken; it’s ripped from its position. Thus, I conclude the breakage was a deliberate act and vicious.”

  To prove my point, I pressed the jaw until the flesh gave way. “Examine the crushed cheek, the haemorrhaging of the eyes. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, physician of mine, this woman’s murderer hated her.” I stopped to stare yet again at the girl; glad she died before – not as a result of – the beating. “After that, and in order to get the calling-card into position, the murderer pulled her jaw apart – as wide as he could.”

  “The work of a crazed madman then?”

  “On the surface, yes,” I confirmed. “And yet ...” I tapped my teeth with a fingernail. “It’s deliberate; a warning maybe? But for whom? And why use a solitary House of Commons cufflink?”

  The doctor snorted. “Surely, my lord, it’s the murderer’s way of showing us how intelligent he is? It’s a needle in a haystack, finding who owned that cufflink.”

  “Or maybe not.” Another tooth tap. “A cat in gloves catches no mice,” I muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Forgive me, good physician, I’m wool-gathering.” Lifting my head, I caught McGregor staring at me in a way that suggested I had finally won the older man over. “May I examine the clothes and her other effects, please?”

  “Of course.”

  McGregor led the way to another side room where a host of items belonging to the dead girl were arranged with obvious care. I could tell I surprised him when, instead of moving directly to the table, I waited in the doorway.

  “Tell me what would you draw my attention to?”

  The Scot put me under his metaphorical microscope again and observed me. This time, liking what he saw, a smile touched the corners of his lips. “Might I suggest, the content of the young lady’s handbag? You can tell me what you notice.”

  I nodded, yet despite the doctor’s instruction, I ignored the brown clutch bag and made a beeline for the girl’s clothes. “The coat’s of reasonable quality, while the cut of the dress is extremely showy.” I turned to the other items. “Likewise, the underwear. Bloodstained though it may be, it’s new and more expensive than the outer clothes. In my experience, the only time a girl wears really expensive undergarments is on honeymoon; or in a line of business that requires her to show them off.”

  McGregor snorted his disapproval and knowing if I looked at him, I stood a good chance of laughing and undoing all my work so far, I turned my attention to the girl’s compact. Turning it over and over in my hands before opening it and holding the object up to the light.

  “Again, a showy piece – possibly French in origin. That would agree with the dress and coat, but not the rest of her clothes – that underwear’s definitely British made.” I returned the compact to the table and picked up the bag. “Did you find it like this?”

  “Empty you mean?”

  I nodded.

  “No. Including the compact, there were three items. They’re on the table. Tell me which ones.”

  A test.

  Any of the smaller items: from the handkerchief, pen, or empty notepad, could have lived in the handbag. But having cast a glance in their direction, my attention was drawn to two pebbles: one small and magenta in colour; the other, slightly larger and most definitely black. “So,” I said, almost to myself, “robbery’s not the motive.”

  One by one, I held the pebbles up to the light before returning them almost reverentially to the table. “Or if it was, then the murderer had no idea what these are.”

  “So, I was right,” McGregor said, walking over to the table and staring at the stones with wide eyes.

  I nodded. “I ne
ed to take them to an expert to be completely certain.”

  The doctor whistled. “Don’t seem much, do they?”

  “Indeed. And therein lies their beauty. You’re a very honest man, McGregor. Either of these uncut gems would keep you in luxury.” I stopped and stared at the police surgeon. “I wonder who owns them?”

  If I am honest, I didn’t expect any response, so the fact I got one was surprising.

  “Be back in a moment, I may just have your answer in my office.”

  I decided to push my luck. “Would it be uncouth to take photos?”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes. But the funeral company are taking the body in the morning. So, that being the case, my lord, take whatever stills you need.” He smiled at me, revealing remarkably white teeth.

  As I got to work, he turned and walked into his office.

  “Shouldn’t be too long. If I can remember where I put it ... Mr Kitts, the local funeral director, originally said the girl’s brother – was going to have her buried here.” His voice carried easily. “But last night I got word from the funeral company. A friend has stepped in and is paying for the body to be returned to London.”

  I heard the sound of drawers being opened and closed as he continued.” Obviously, the Kitts want to prepare the corpse: show a London funeral director they’re just as fancy and capable down here ... I’m not sure what magic they’ll be able to work ...”

  Lost in thought, I moved around to the head and continued to snap away.

  When I looked up, I found McGregor sitting on a nearby stool. He was holding an envelope and a piece of scraggy pink paper in his hand.

  “These two came a day apart,” McGregor said as I finished clearing up. “Both anonymous, which to be honest isn’t unusual. Since the Ripper, we get a lot of mail telling us how to do our job. Normally, we ignore them, but there’s something different about this one.” He tapped the envelope: an action which levelled his shoulders slightly. “It confirmed the first. And less crudely.”