It was not until the following morning that I saw Urban-Smith, who had been visiting late with Kenneth and Thelma Badgerton, and had not returned until almost midnight. Kenneth Badgerton, as you may recall, was a leading amateur expert on conspiracy theory. A retired history teacher, during the twilight of his career, Kenneth had started to notice patterns and cycles in the events that he had taught for so many years. He had analysed and studied and collated, and now was utterly convinced that recent history was not a random and dissociated series of events, but a carefully orchestrated and overseen sequence of strategic moves towards a single outcome; the formation of a New World Order.
As little as a year ago, I would have considered him deluded, psychotic even, but now I had seen for myself how a determined organisation such as The Fervent Fist could manipulate events on a national, or even global, scale. The Twin Towers, The LOL Curse, the creation of the Third Reich; all links in a chain, binding the past to the future, but what future? What is a New World Order?
Urban-Smith believed that the answers lay within the Apple of Eden, Hitler’s secret archive, a treasure trove of arcane and atrocious knowledge now in the grip of Dr Saxon Schwarzkröte and The Fervent Fist.
From one murderous lunatic to another, I reflected as I trundled down for breakfast. Urban-Smith was at the breakfast table immersed in The Scrump, while Mrs Denford bubbled and skittered about the kitchen, preparing our full English. Gonzáles had retired to the living room in order to growl at next door’s black and white cat, Hugo, who was sitting in the rear courtyard, cleaning his paws.
“Did you hear about that business at the BBC?” he asked me as I took my seat at the table.
“You mean Chris Peabody?” I unfolded my napkin and placed it in readiness upon my lap. “I examined the body.”
“Really?” Urban-Smith lowered his paper. “The Scrump reports that he perished in a fire.”
“Of a sort,” I conceded. “He was the fire.”
“Another one?” he gasped. “Can it be? What was left of the poor man?”
“All of him, actually,” I replied, nodding gratefully to Mrs Denford as she placed a pot of fresh tea before us. “Quite a mess though. Not the best topic of conversation over a meal.”
Urban-Smith’s eyes widened and The Scrump slipped from his grasp and slid to the floor. “You mean to say that he was intact? How so?”
“He set off the fire sprinklers.”
“Rupert,” he gasped. “Do you know what this means? You may be the first pathologist to perform a full autopsy on a verified victim of spontaneous human combustion.”
“The thought had occurred to me,” I agreed, “although with the chap being so famous, I will have to give first dibs to Beefy.”
“My word!” he said, retrieving his paper. “This becomes thicker by the day.”
“Very true,” said I. “A third victim of such a rare phenomenon in but a few days can be no coincidence. Any theories?”
“Many, Rupert. Kenneth believes that an outbreak of spontaneous combustion could herald an invasion by alien marauders. I personally subscribe to the idea of demonic possession by a fire elemental.”
“Or perhaps,” I replied, getting into the spirit of things, “it is the ghost of Elvis Presley come to wreak bloody vengeance.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Rupert.” Urban-Smith tutted and returned to his newspaper. “How can one have an Earthly ghost when one is alive and well and living on the moon?”
*
After breakfast, I summoned a taxicab to fetch Urban-Smith and myself to St Clifford’s. We were collected by a study Eastern European gentleman with an equally sturdy handlebar moustache, and a nasty scar above his left eye.
“Wszystkim chcę na Boże Narodzenie to moje dwa przednie zęby (all I want for Christmas is my two front teeth),” he assured us as he ushered us into the rear of the taxi. With a mighty bellow, he sent his vehicle screeching away down Chuffnell Mews, almost dislodging a chimney sweep from his bicycle as we roared past. We swerved right onto Baker Street, and thence left onto the Marylebone Road, slaloming through the congealed London traffic like salt through a goose.
We made perilously good time to St Clifford’s and we were in the mortuary (though, fortunately, not as tenants) just before nine. I contacted Beefy in his office.
“Beefy here,” he shouted into his telephone, clearly in high spirits.
“Beefy. It’s Rupert.”
“Rupert! What-ho, what-ho,” he thundered. “How goes it?”
“Very well, thank you” I replied, “but it seems that we have a distinguished visitor in the isolation suite. I thought I should consult with you.”
“Who is it?”
“Chris Peabody.”
I could almost hear him stiffen at the other end of the line. “The radio chappie with the specs?”
“That’s the one,” I confirmed.
“Splendid!” roared Beefy into my ear. “Top hole! Couldn’t stand the bugger. What happened to him?”
“He burst into flames.”
“Good show! I’ll meet you there.”
A quarter of an hour later, Beefy, Urban–Smith and I were stood beneath the extraction vents watching Danny, the mortuary technician, unwrapping two layers of thick plastic from the corpse of Chris Peabody. All four of us were clad in fully impermeable body suits, with gas masks, rubber boots and three pairs apiece of rubber gloves. After much grunting and swearing, Danny finally removed the last of the packaging in a grotesque facsimile of the World’s worst game of pass-the-parcel, and we gathered round for a closer look.
Even with the highly efficient air-filtering system and the charcoal filters in our gas masks, the smell of decay and putrefaction was staggering.
“When did you say he died?” asked Beefy.
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Are you sure?” Beefy prodded gingerly at Chris Peabody’s burst abdomen with a pair of forceps. “Look at the advanced state of decomposition. He looks like he’s been dead for a week.”
“But look,” I said, attempting to bend one of the legs. “He is still in rigor mortis.”
“It’s remarkable,” Beefy muttered. “You could pour his intestines through a sieve. We shall be dissecting him with a ladle.”
For the next ten minutes, we photographed the deceased from every angle, and then examined the unfortunate wretch from top to toe. There was no evidence of blunt trauma or broken bones to be found, although we had not been able to run him through the MRI scanner for fear of contamination, and minor internal injuries could not be excluded. Most notable were the extensive burns to the abdomen, chest and arms, but peculiarly, when we opened the chest cavity, the heart, lungs and upper digestive tract seemed to be most affected rather than the muscles and skin. It was as if the source of heat had been inside the victim himself.
Urban-Smith was leaning over my shoulder. “Have you ever seen a case like this, Beefy?”
“Can’t say that I have, Fairfax. The poor chap seems to have simultaneously rotted and roasted.”
“Any theories?”
“Too soon to say, old chap.”
At this point, we handed the reins to Danny, who filleted and disassembled our guest and divided him into handy segments for Beefy and I to dissect.
We cut each of Mr Peabody’s organs into sections for examination, and collected specimens for microscopic examination. Additionally, I collected samples and swabs to send for bacteriology studies, looking for evidence of infection. By the end of the autopsy, it was clear that either the severe heat or the internal decomposition would have been sufficient to kill Chris Peabody, but he would likely have succumbed to the roasting of his heart and lungs before the dissolution of his bowel.
We rewrapped the body and all the internal organs, save for the parts that were to be examined, and decanted to the semi-contaminated area of the dissection suite to remove our outer clothing before finally moving through to the clean area to scrub our hands and arms. Danny remained behind to decontam
inate the equipment and prepare the specimen cassettes for examination, Beefy returned to his office to search the interweb for similar cases, and Urban-Smith and I ventured into the main hospital to deliver our swabs and specimens to microbiology, having telephoned ahead to explain the high-risk nature of the samples. This accomplished, I bid Urban-Smith farewell and returned to my office to drink coffee and await the arrival of the histological specimens.
In view of the complicated and involved procedure accompanying the use of the level-three biosafety dissection room, there were no other autopsies scheduled for the morning, and I took the opportunity to catch up with some paperwork before enjoying an early lunch, returning to the department a little after twelve-thirty to examine the histological specimens.
When I arrived, Beefy had beaten me to it and was seated at one of the high-power microscopes, peering intently at a section of Chris Peabody’s colon.
“What-ho, Beefy.”
“Rupert, you must take a look at this.” He moved aside to allow me access to the microscope.
“Good Lord,” I exclaimed. “Is this sigmoid colon?”
“It is.”
“The necrosis extends all the way through the mucosa.” I fiddled with the microscope to bring another area of the slide into view. “And just look at all this haemorrhage into the lamina propria.”
“Does it remind you of anything, Rupert?”
“Well,” I mused, “if I didn’t know better, I would say that Mr Peabody had ischaemic colitis.”
Ischaemic colitis is a condition in which the blood supply to the intestines is interrupted, leading to damage to the bowel. It usually presents with abdominal pain, fever and bloody stools, but never before had I known it to cause somebody to erupt into flames.
I leant back and rubbed my forehead wearily. “I feel somewhat out of my depth here, Beefy,” I lamented. “What should I put in my report?”
“One of the beauties of being a pathologist, Rupert, is that you are only obliged to report what you see. You may be asked to give your interpretation of your findings, but the findings themselves are indisputable. Document what you see. If you can’t determine the cause of death, then state that fact and hand it all over to the coroner.”
“Thanks, Beefy.”
“Not at all, Rupert, not at all. Let me know what else you find.”
“Will do, Beefy.”
*
It took me the remainder of the afternoon to compile my findings from examining the microscope slides, and when Danny looked in at half past five to say he was going home, I was still far from being prepared to dictate my final report. However, I had made arrangements to liaise with Nell and Clara, and so I stuck a pin in it and resolved to complete the task on the morrow.
I arrived back at number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews a little before half past six and, after negotiating my way past a demented and high-spirited Gonzáles, who resisted all of Mrs Denford’s attempts to calm him, I presented myself showered and dressed just before seven. Mrs Denford furnished me with a platter of bread and cold meats and ushered me into the sitting room, where Urban-Smith sat in his favourite chair, waiting for the news headlines.
The news was dominated by the deaths of Messrs Ferno, Ashman, and Peabody, and speculation as to the cause was rife and furious. A police spokesman refused to confirm a link, and a panel of dubiously qualified ’experts’ took turns to add nothing of value to the debate. I was dismayed to see that the case was still being presided over by Detective Chief Inspector Gadget despite his televised theatrics two days earlier.
“What became of Detective Sergeant Wendell McKendal?” I asked.
“He and his enormous moustache have accepted a promotion and moved back to the frozen north.” Urban-Smith reached for the remote controller and muted the television’s volume. “Have you any further information regarding Mr Chris Peabody?”
“Not yet,” I mumbled through a mouthful of ox’s tongue. “Ask me again tomorrow.”
“Hmmph,” he hmmph’d ungraciously. He flicked the volume back on, but there was little else of interest in the programme, and our interest soon waned.
“I am frustrated, Rupert,” he growled, turning off the television and hurling the remote control across the sitting room. It struck the back of the sofa and bounced away with Gonzáles in hot pursuit.
“Would you like me to send Clara round?” I asked.
“Not frustrated sexually,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. “I mean in regard to our ongoing investigations.” He sighed and heaved himself out of his chair. “We are no closer to locating the Apple of Eden, the fourth Atman, or Sir Godfrey Pingum’s killer. We are floundering in the doldrums whilst, all around us, public figures are bursting into flame at the drop of a hat.”
He straightened his easel and lifted a blank canvas onto it.
“What of this Dragon fellow and his tattoo parlour?” I asked.
“Apparently he is out of town for a little while.” Urban-Smith selected a brush, palette and tube of crimson paint. “He shall not be back until next Friday.” He proceeded to deposit a blob of paint onto the palette and brush it onto the centre of the canvas in broad, sweeping strokes.
Before I could press him further, my mobile telephone vibrated, belching REO Speedwagon out into the living room. It took me several seconds to locate the telephone, which had slipped behind the sofa cushions, and Urban-Smith hummed along tunelessly as I scrabbled for it.
“Hello?” said I, pressing the handset to my ear.
“Dr Harker?”
“Yes.”
“This is Donald Mackworth, hospital site manager. Are you on call for the department of forensic pathology tonight?”
“I am.”
“There’s been a fire in the department.”
“Good Lord! Has anyone been hurt?”
“No, nobody, but could you please come down to the hospital and speak to the firemen?”
“Of course,” said I, heading through to the hallway for my shoes and coat. “Where exactly die the fire start?”
“In the secure biohazard area.”
I stopped in my tracks. “Chris Peabody,” I gasped. “Has anybody gone in there?”
“No, Doctor. The fire was contained, but there is a Hazmat team standing by. We’ve alerted all the wards to be prepared to evacuate, but so far that hasn’t been necessary.”
I praised my good fortune that we had elected not to remove Chris Peabody from the dissection room and move him to the mortuary.
“I shall summon a taxicab and be with you forthwith,” I assured him.
“Thank you, Doctor Harker. I’ll see you shortly.”
*
Urban-Smith chose to accompany me, and as my taxicab sped through the London streets towards St Clifford’s Hospital, he was fairly writhing in anticipation.
“Do keep still,” I muttered irritably. “It’s like travelling with a sackful of monkeys.”
“Why so tense, Rupert?”
I stared at him in amazement. “Why so tense?” I spluttered. “The situation is abominable. Not even the dead are safe. Where will it end?”
“I know not,” he replied, “but not with the death of Chris Peabody. I firmly believe that this is but a step down the road.”
“But what road?” I was exasperated. “And furthermore, why should I be dragged along. This is not a road I chose to travel.”
“Nor I, Rupert, but travel it we must. If we have any hope of thwarting Saxon Schwarzkröte and his evil organisation, then we must endure.”
“I am frightened, Fairfax,” I whispered. “The sword of Damocles looms large above us. I fear that I may burst into flame at any moment.”
“It seems unlikely,” said he dismissively. “Your death would serve no purpose. Wanton acts of murder are not The Fervent Fist’s modus operandi. Everything they orchestrate has a purpose. They are an instrument of precision and calculated exactitude.”
“You admire them?” I was aghast.
“Of cour
se not,” he snapped. “They are remorseless and cruel, but they are efficient. One need not admire Benito Mussolini to acknowledge that he made the trains run on time.”
“Only because his trains ran backwards,” I retorted.
“Ha,” laughed Urban-Smith. “Ha-ha! Oh, Rupert. I shall never tire of your entrenched xenophobia. Ha-ha!”
Our driver took us to the rear of the hospital where the mortuary was to be found, and parked beside the waiting fire engine. Urban-Smith stood impassively, bathed in strobing blue light, as I paid the driver. We were approached by a slim gentleman in shirt and trousers, whom I assumed to be the site manager, Mr Mackworth, and two firemen in protective overalls and holding breathing apparatus.
“Dr Harker?” said Mackworth expectantly.
“I am he,” I confirmed. “This is my friend and colleague, Fairfax Urban-Smith.”
“Mr Urban-Smith.” Mackworth extended his hand in greeting. “I know of your reputation, of course. Have you come to assist?”
“If I am able.”
With the introductions made, it was time to move on to the matter at hand.
“What has happened here?” I asked.
“One of the night cleaners activated the fire alarm,” said Mackworth, “She was mopping the corridor, and noticed a flickering light. When she went to investigate, she saw flames through the window and raised the alarm.”
“Good Lord!” I exclaimed. “Please tell me she did not enter.”
“No, Sir. All of our domestic staff are well briefed not to enter hazardous areas or tackle dangerous situations.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Is it safe for us to enter?” I asked the attending fire officers.
“Yes, Doctor. The fire seems to have burnt itself out.”
“Alright, then. Please lead on.”
The fire officers led us through the mortuary, down the main corridor, and on towards the secure biosafety level three (BSL-3) autopsy laboratory.
The BSL-3 facility consisted of a suite of three adjoining rooms. The first room was the designated clean room, where one changes from one’s regular clothes into appropriate protective attire. This room was accessed via a fire-door with a glass panel, and secured by a combination keypad lock. Urban-Smith and I entered while the fire officers stationed themselves in the corridor, ready to enter should there be any incident.
Smoked Havoc Page 10