“No,” he said. “It is not possible.”
“But, Professor,” interjected Urban-Smith, “what of your machine? We have seen for ourselves how a man’s DNA can be manipulated to produce a change in physical appearance.”
“Indeed you have, Mr Urban-Smith, but my machine does not alter DNA; it merely allows less dominant genes to be brought to the fore and express their influence. The DNA itself remains unchanged.” The Professor sighed deeply. “I am sorry, gentlemen, but I can be of no further assistance.”
“What of chimeras?” asked Urban-Smith. “Am I not correct in thinking that there are some amongst us who carry more than one strain of cell within them, and that these cells can be genetically distinct?”
“That is true,” conceded the Professor.
“And furthermore,” continued my tenacious companion, “it was only a few years ago that a lady in America almost lost custody of her children when a DNA test showed her to be unrelated to her children. It was only after further tests that she was discovered to carry two sets of genes.”
“That is also true,” agreed the Professor, “but to carry two sets of completely separate DNA is exceedingly rare. Even if we are to suppose that the subject of a DNA test is indeed chimeric, how would they be able to influence which set of genes will be collected?”
“Perhaps the same technology that allows unexpressed genes to become expressed can be used to bring one set to the fore?”
Again the pause and gaze into the far corner of the room, but this time the decision took only a few seconds.
“No, I’m sorry, Mr Urban-Smith. Even with the most advanced facilities, what you propose is years away; perhaps even decades.” He reached for the silver bell upon the table and rang for Bricker. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”
We sat for a few moments waiting for Bricker, the butler, to appear. The few moments passed without incident, and so we waited a few more moments, then a few more, and then more still until the moments had become minutes, and the three of us sat staring at the floor, the table top, the ceiling, at the back of our hands until finally Bricker appeared at the sitting room door, brushing down the front of his tailcoat with a gloved hand.
“I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting, Sirs,” said he. “It is regrettable that your summons came as one was casting Churchill’s reflection.”
Professor de Wolfmann leaned over to retrieve his walking stick and, with some difficulty, hauled himself out of the wicker chair and stomped his way towards the door without bidding us farewell.
“Please drop our guests at the station, Bricker.”
“Very good, Sir.”
*
I was fatigued from the previous night’s exertions with Nell and Clara, and fell asleep well before our destination. I awoke with a start as the train bumped to a halt at Kings Cross Station, and I was still yawning and stretching as Urban-Smith and I crossed the threshold of number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews. In fact, so tired was I, that I eschewed the delicious cold supper that Mrs Denford had left out, and I headed straight for my bedchamber.
Despite my exhaustion, I slept fitfully, for my dreams were filled with visions of howling wolves and long shadows that flitted across me as I scrambled through the thick undergrowth of the Wottenham Wood, and when I awoke in the morning, I felt as if I had not slept at all.
*
6. Bernard Ashman
Friday the 26th
Breakfast was a remarkably peaceful affair, for both Urban-Smith and Gonzáles had elected to lie-in until late, and, despite my tiredness, I arrived at work feeling uncharacteristically jaunty.
At around ten o’clock, there was a knock at my office door, and I looked up to see Urban-Smith lounging in the doorway.
“Good morning, Rupert.”
“Fairfax. What are you doing here?”
He ambled in and began rearranging the clutter upon my desk.
“Danny called me. It seems that your first client of the day may prove of interest.”
“Oh no,” I groaned. “I do hope it’s not another foot.”
“Apparently not. I already asked.”
Thus reassured, I led the way to the mortuary, where Danny, the mortuary attendant, was sat upon a footstool, nose buried in the sports pages.
“Good morning, Danny,” I chirped. “Where is our first case?”
“On the bench,” muttered Danny without looking up.
Upon the bench was a pair of square metal specimen trays, bearing a human forearm. Urban-Smith and I wandered over to take a closer look.
“It’s an arm,” said I, plumbing the very depths of my knowledge of anatomy.
“You’re wasted here, Doc,” offered Danny. “You should be on one of those telly shows.”
Urban-Smith and I donned matching blue aprons and gloves, and examined the arm further. It had been severed just below the elbow, the end scorched and blackened in the same manner as Mr Kevin Ferno’s leg. I picked up the arm and rotated it this way and that.
“What can you say of the victim’s habits and constitution, Rupert?” asked Urban-Smith.
“It’s an arm. It doesn’t have a constitution.” I dropped the arm back onto the trays.
“Come now, Rupert. You know my methods,” he chastised. “There is a wealth of information at your fingertips. You can see all that I see. Why not put your powers of reasoning to the test?”
“Very well,” I grumbled, retrieving the arm once more. “From the hair and musculature, it is clearly a man’s left arm. The fingernails and finger ends have been chewed, indicating a nervous disposition. There is a small amount of callus on the tips of the fingers, but no other injuries or abrasions. Possibly he enjoys some DIY as a hobby. There is something illegible scribbled on the back of the hand in ink. Worn upon the middle finger is a gold ring with a black stone. The ring is scuffed and tarnished; he has owned it for many years. It is too modern a design to be a family heirloom.”
“Can you not deduce anything further, Rupert?” Urban-Smith seemed disappointed, like a teacher whose star pupil has failed an elementary test, and I bristled, for I had not yet become accustomed to being made to feel intellectually inferior.
“Hmm,” I mumbled, holding the arm up to the light and feigning close examination. “Unless I am gravely mistaken, the owner of this arm was educated in a convent, owns at least two bowler hats and has an irrational fear of tinned herring.” I handed the arm to Urban-Smith with a sniff. “Other than that, I can deduce little.”
“Very droll, Rupert.” Urban-Smith placed the arm on the bench. “I cannot comment on his predilection for millinery or tinned seafood, but I can tell you that he was Jewish, a keen cellist, right handed, and that he lost one or both parents in his teens.”
Petulant though it may seem, it took a great deal of self-control for me not to snatch the arm from the bench and slap Urban-Smith about the face with it. “You cannot infer his racial heritage or life story from a severed arm,” I stormed, but clearly I was incorrect.
“That he is right-handed is blatantly obvious from the fact that he has written something on his left hand. The cello playing is indicated by the modest amount of callus upon the fingertips. The callus is very concentrated, showing an excellent fretting technique. It is possible that he plays violin, but I would think cello.”
“Why not the guitar?” I asked.
“Guitar players are prone to more callus and abrasions. In addition, there would be minor trauma further down the fingertip from fretting across multiple strings to play chords.”
I shuffled my feet sulkily. “I suppose so. But what of your other assertions?”
Urban-Smith picked up the arm and with some difficulty managed to remove the ring, which he handed to me.
“This ring is relatively cheap,” he explained, “and if I may say, rather gaudy, yet he continues to wear it. If you look closely, you will observe that it has been enlarged, not once, but twice. The cost of having it adjusted probably exceeds
the value of the item itself. From the original ring size, I would say that he acquired the ring in his early teens, most likely for a Barmitzvah.
“That he still chooses to wear such a tarnished and tasteless ring shows that it still holds sentimental value; it must repel woman like a flame thrower. The most likely explanation is that it was a gift from a lost parent.”
I was not convinced. “I am not convinced,” said I. “This is but wild speculation.”
“And yet it is correct,” spoke a voice from the doorway.
We whirled about in surprise to see Mr Church lurking like a gargoyle just within the entrance to the mortuary. “That arm is all that remains of Bernard Ashman, MP for West Gerbing. According to his file, he was born to Jewish parents, his father died when he was seventeen and he is an accomplished viola player.”
“Another member of Parliament.” Urban-Smith looked grim. “This is extremely grave.”
I concurred. “Danny. Could you please fetch Beefy?”
Dr Carlton “Beefy” Stockford was the senior pathologist for the London Metropolitan Forensic Pathology Unit, and with the death by incineration of two politicians within a very few days, I felt that matters had escalated to the extent that he needed to be informed of the situation.
“From our previous conversation,” said Mr Church, “I gained the impression that neither of you had personally encountered a case of spontaneous human combustion.” Urban-Smith and I indicated that this was correct. “Therefore,” Church continued, “to encounter two possible victims in the same week could be considered extraordinary. Highly improbable even.” Again we signalled our agreement, but Mr Church did not elaborate, for there was no need. The implication was clear; he suspected miscreancy.
Church ambled into the mortuary and came to view the arm, perusing it with calm interest, like a shopper appraising a cut of meat at a butcher’s counter.
“The other day,” said Mr Church, pulling a pair of rubber gloves from their holder upon the wall, “the both of you were discussing Project Tremble and The Fervent Fist with some familiarity, although neither has been mentioned in the popular press.” He pulled on the gloves and flexed his fingers. “We made quite sure of that. Can you advise me how you came to hear of them?”
“During the outbreak of the LOL curse,” replied Urban-Smith, “Dr Harker and I assisted the police with their enquiries.”
“Interesting,” Church muttered, picking up the arm and examining the burnt stump.
“Can you tell us anything of the circumstances surrounding the arm’s discovery?” asked Urban-Smith.
“I can,” replied Church, continuing his inspection. “At around nine o’clock yesterday evening, the smell of burning alerted neighbours to Mr Ashman’s predicament. The fire brigade were summoned, then the police. Mr Ashman’s arm was discovered at the side of his sofa, upon which he had evidently been lounging when he succumbed.
“I have just visited the scene. The sofa is scorched but intact, and the flames appear to have damaged no other items within the flat. The ceiling is coated with a greasy substance, and the smell is utterly appalling. Preliminary examination of the scene shows no signs of arson, incendiary device or forced entry.”
Mr Church returned the arm to its resting place and peeled off his gloves. “It is just like before. The fire appears to have originated in the victim himself.”
“Spontaneous combustion,” murmured Urban-Smith. “Had the victim been drinking alcohol?”
“No alcohol was discovered near the body.”
“Were you able to deduce anything of his personal habits?”
“That is an interesting question, Mr Urban-Smith,” said Mr Church as the two men appraised one another. “What habits do you suspect he may have been cultivating?”
Urban-Smith had already expressed his mistrust of Church, but I was surprised to see that suspicion mirrored in Church’s face. Perhaps his work at MI6 had conditioned him to cautiousness, or perhaps he suspected that we were holding something back. In either case, it was clear that if Urban-Smith wished for further information, then it would have to be quid pro quo.
Urban-Smith had come to the same conclusion. “I suspect that Mr Kevin Ferno had been employing the services of a male escort on the night that he died.”
“Hmmm,” purred Mr Church. “Why did you say nothing of your suspicions the other day?”
Urban-Smith shrugged nonchalantly. “It did not seem relevant at the time, but now that there has been another death, I am not so certain.”
“There was no evidence of another person in Mr Ashman’s flat last night, but there were several pornographic magazines in the vicinity, all of which depicted sexual acts between young men. It would appear that Mr Ashman had been perusing these at the time of his death.”
“Perhaps the friction caused him to burst into flames,” I suggested.
Mr Church opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a cheerful, “what-ho,” from the doorway, indicating the arrival of my senior colleague and Head of the Department, “Beefy” Stockford.
Beefy had been a keen rugby player in his youth, and although age had caused a significant lateral spread of the waistline, he still cut an imposing figure, just a little beneath six feet in height, but broad and brawny, with a neck like a bull’s, and arms as thick as my thighs. His shaved head displayed a week’s growth of greying hair, yet his face was smooth as china, and he presented his broken nose and cauliflower ears with the same pride with which he sported his Eton tie.
“Hello Rupert, hello Fairfax.” He extended his enormous hand to Mr Church. “Dr Stockford, Chief Pathologist.”
Church accepted the proferred hand and the two men shook vigorously, as if each were trying to loosen the other’s shoulder from its moorings.
“Mr Church,” said Mr Church with a slight incline of the head. “MI6.”
“Is that Church with or without a spire?”
“Without.”
“Capital, capital.” Beefy rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “What’s been happening?”
Mr Church briefly outlined the details of the two deaths and Beefy nodded and uh-hmm’d at appropriate intervals until the tale was told.
“This is the fellow over here, is it?” he asked rhetorically. “Remarkable.”
“Have you ever seen a case of spontaneous combustion, Dr Stockford?” asked Church.
“Can’t say that I have. Read about it of course. Utterly fascinating subject.” A look of concern flitted across Beefy’s face. “Very rare though. Two in one week? Both MP’s you say?”
“Correct.”
Beefy nodded sagely. “Not had MI6 in here before. You suspect foul play?”
“Perhaps.”
“I understand.” Beefy tapped the side of his crooked nose. “Mum’s the word, eh?”
“Beefy” said I, “in view of the honourable status of the two victims, I thought it best to defer to your experience.”
“Nonsense,” he roared, outraged. “Shan’t hear of it. This one has your name all over it, Rupert.” He shook his head sternly. “You bat on, dear boy. If you need me, you know where to find me.” He nodded to the three of us in turn. “Gentlemen.”
And with that, Beefy made good his escape.
“So, Mr Urban-Smith,” said Mr Church, “would you be willing to come and examine Mr Ashman’s flat?”
“Absolutely,” said Urban-Smith. “Coming, Rupert?”
“Sorry,” I replied, “but I have other autopsies this morning. Perhaps you can tell me about it tonight?”
“Will do,” he said, discarding his gloves and apron. “Tell Danny I said cheerio.” He turned to Mr Church. “Ready when you are.”
So, off they toddled, leaving me to attend to the late Mr Bernard Ashman, Member of Parliament, viola player and connoisseur of manly erotica.
“And then there was one,” I grumbled to myself, lifting his remains from the trays.
“Well; one and an eighth,” I conceded.
That afternoon, I received by e-mail a pdf copy of the late Henry Muntjac’s autopsy report along with several photographs of the body.
Muntjac had been travelling at considerable speed when his progress had been halted by a pine tree, and his injuries were quite appalling (although not so appalling as those ghastly frosted tips). His body was massively bruised, he had sustained compound fractures to the right lower leg and left forearm, and his neck was broken. His head hung at a jaunty angle, his bloated blue tongue lolled from between his lips, and while his left eye pointed to the heavens, the right one was staring fixedly at a point on the end of his flattened nose.
There were about a dozen pictures of his external injuries, but the pathologist had also included some of his traumatised innards, including some corkers of his ruptured aorta and a most impressive splenic tear that traversed almost the entire organ.
It was plain that Henry Muntjac had died from massive blunt-force trauma, acquiring a broken neck (at the level of the 3rd vertebra, completely severing the spinal cord), haemorrhage in and around the brain, rupture of the aorta, spleen and diaphragm, the aforementioned broken limbs and a fractured skull. His diamond earring, surprisingly, remained stubbornly in situ, strangely incongruous against its backdrop of pulped and bloody flesh.
“Even without the accident, somebody would surely have murdered him soon enough,” reflected Urban-Smith as he perused the pictures on my laptop, “just to rid the world of that heinous coiffure.”
I murmured agreeably. “Perhaps the tree stepped into his path by way of a public service.”
“Ha-ha. Bravo, Rupert.” He opened the autopsy report file and began skim-reading it. “It’s all in doctor-speak. Would you be so kind as to translate, please?”
I turned the laptop towards me, scrolled down to the summary of the report and explained the nature of Muntjac’s injuries.
“All compatible with striking a tree at thirty to forty miles per hour,” I confirmed. “Even though it was midmorning, he had a modest level of alcohol in his blood.”
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