‘I have been discreet because I feared her father would not approve. Happily, I have been proven wrong on that front.’
‘Then who is this father, whose good judgment I must now question, and who cares so little for the welfare of his daughter?’
Raven looked about, as though afraid of being overheard. He did not want to risk breaking whatever spell had facilitated all of this, and yet he felt he had to tell someone.
‘Dr Cameron Todd.’
‘You are to marry Eugenie? Well done.’
Henry looked both surprised and impressed, though Raven was wary that he appeared to know of her. What had brought her name to his attention? Dr Todd’s words about Eugenie being complicated were suddenly preying on his mind, fuelled by the instinctive unease that if Dr Todd was happy to let his daughter marry Raven, then there must be something wrong with her.
‘I suspect my association with Dr Simpson will not have harmed my standing,’ he offered, both by way of explanation to Henry and reassurance to himself.
‘Do not underestimate yourself, Raven. Joking aside, Cameron Todd would not marry off his only daughter merely for the sake of a profitable alliance. He was always known to be vigilantly protective of her well-being. In fact, it was my understanding that he sent her overseas for her health, at some expense.’
‘She was sickly?’ Raven asked. He could not think of anything about Eugenie that gave the impression of enfeeblement. Robust and combative were the adjectives that most readily leapt to mind.
‘I don’t know what the supposed ailment was, though some suggested Dr Todd was merely keeping his daughter away from a number of eager suitors. It seems he was reluctant to part with her. Evidently both have recovered from their afflictions. There will be much interest in this news.’
Raven felt a pang of concern, still anxious about protecting that spell.
‘Henry, you must keep this to yourself for now. There has been no formal announcement. I have not yet told Dr Simpson.’
‘So no to a proclamation in the Scotsman, then. Or the Courant.’
‘Definitely not the Courant,’ Raven said as they turned onto the High Street. ‘I was recently introduced to the editor – and its proprietor.’
Henry gaped. ‘You were at Sir Ainsley Douglas’s grand soirée? You truly are moving up in the world.’
‘Merely travelling on Dr Simpson’s coat-tails.’
‘A pleasant evening?’
‘I spent much of my time terrified of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person. Oh, and I was briefly reacquainted with Gideon.’
‘I trust he had lost none of his charm,’ Henry mused.
‘He is entirely unchanged.’
‘I often wondered what became of him after he abandoned his studies.’
‘I didn’t realise he had,’ Raven admitted, having assumed Gideon was already in practice somewhere. He recalled what he had witnessed at the stables. ‘I believe his father fancies him for the Navy.’
‘I hope it’s a better fit than medicine. Hard to imagine that there was ever anyone less suitable for a career in the healing arts. He regarded suffering humanity as a lesser species.’
The police office came into view and they quickened their pace to get out of the rain.
The door squeaked on its hinges as they entered. There was a familiar smell about the place: sweat and damp wood. It made Raven uneasy, recalling the last time he was in here. At least McLevy was not to be seen.
Henry nodded to the sergeant on the desk and led Raven through to the back of the building, down a bleak, unadorned corridor.
‘Thank you for clearing this with Struthers,’ Raven said.
‘Don’t mention it. Though it would have been easier with his predecessor, who would probably have been too drunk to notice you were there.’
‘So, what is Struthers like?’
‘Seems to know his stuff,’ was Henry’s frugal reply.
They entered the cramped room which had been assigned for post-mortem examinations. Struthers was standing behind a table, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up. Unlike the Infirmary’s mortuary with its tiled walls, multiple sinks and cabinets full of instruments, this room felt as though it had been cobbled together at the last minute with furniture scavenged from unsuitable sources. There were no marble-topped surfaces here, just a standard wooden table that would not have looked out of place in any dining room, apart from the knife marks that scarred its surface and the various stains that had seeped into the grain.
The smell hit them full in the face, but Henry had come prepared. He pulled a small bottle of Friar’s Balsam from his pocket and liberally sprinkled some onto his handkerchief before allowing Raven to do the same. The pungent aroma of the tincture would not neutralise the smell completely – nothing could – but it would certainly make the proceedings more tolerable.
Struthers looked to be around forty, of slim build with a neat beard and white hair, his eyes blinking expectantly behind a pair of spectacles. His arms were braced on either side of a small bundle covered in white calico. It seemed incredible that such a small specimen could be responsible for such a stench. Had something even worse preceded this? Some maggoty, partially decomposed body perhaps? Raven sniffed again at his infused handkerchief. A strong stomach and a poor sense of smell were certainly prerequisites for a career in pathology.
Henry made the introductions, and Struthers stepped around the table to greet him. He had an awkward gait and steadied himself with one hand while extending the other for Raven to shake. The reason became quickly apparent. His right leg had been amputated below the knee; the shortfall made up by an elaborate wooden prosthesis.
How typical of Henry not to have warned him.
Struthers noticed where Raven’s eye had been drawn.
‘You like it?’
‘I have never seen anything quite like it,’ Raven answered.
It was a quite remarkable piece of work. The polished wood had been intricately carved to delineate the muscles of the calf.
‘Tibialis anterior, peroneus, gastrocnemius, soleus,’ Struthers said. ‘Useful for reminding medical students of their anatomy. I am fortunate to know a skilful artisan who supplied me with this, shaping it to my precise specifications. The only problem is that I am hostage to the weather, as it expands and contracts in response to temperature and humidity. There are times in the winter when I can walk for an hour and find I have merely gone in a circle. On the other hand, on such days I am very nimble around a hillside.’
Raven smiled but silently cursed Henry. He should have warned him that the man was somewhat unto himself.
Struthers hobbled back round the table and whipped the sheet from the little body lying in the middle of it. Its chest and belly had already been opened, its tiny ribcage spread apart.
‘Gentlemen, I’m afraid you are a little late. As you can see, I have already completed my examination.’
‘That’s my fault,’ Raven volunteered. ‘My duties at Queen Street delayed me. My apologies.’
‘Not at all,’ Struthers replied. ‘I will summarise what I have ascertained so far. As you can see, we have a male infant. Size suggests the child was several months old when death occurred, so it’s not a stillborn babe we’re dealing with here.’
‘I suppose it could have been abandoned while still alive,’ Henry mused. ‘Left in the hope that someone would find it.’
Raven wondered why Henry had made such a suggestion. He thought it indicated wishful thinking rather than sound reasoning but then remembered that Henry had not been party to the details surrounding the discovery.
‘There are two problems with that hypothesis,’ Dr Struthers said, peering over the top of his spectacles at Henry. ‘The first is that the body was found wrapped in parcel paper – presumably as a means of concealing it. Unless the original plan was to post it somewhere.’
Struthers took a moment to laugh at his own joke. Nobody else did, though this did nothing to dampen his mirth. He
really was a strange character and Raven thought it a blessing that he had pursued a career in pathology. He was perhaps best suited to dealing with the dead.
Henry reddened with embarrassment at his error, but he had not known about the paper. Raven had not told him.
‘The second,’ Struthers continued, evidently enjoying himself, ‘is that the child was almost certainly dead before it entered the water.’ He looked at them expectantly.
‘Not drowned then?’ Raven asked.
‘No.’
Raven wondered how he could be so sure.
‘Was there no water in the lungs?’
Struthers sighed. ‘Just because a body is found in or close to water does not necessarily mean death by drowning. Drowning as a cause of death is a diagnosis based upon the exclusion of other potential causes.’
Raven knew then that Struthers had found something to explain the death, but he was not going to tell them just yet. This was a performance, a demonstration of his skills of observation and deduction. He had an audience and he was going to make the most of it.
‘There were no marks of external violence upon the body. The lungs were collapsed, no froth in the trachea. A small amount of farinaceous food in the stomach, partially digested. Vessels of the brain mildly congested.’
Struthers paused for a moment. Raven wondered if he was inviting suggestions as to the diagnosis. He looked to Henry, who merely shrugged his shoulders. They both stared at the dissected chest, as though doing so would offer up answers.
‘Do you see it?’ Struthers asked.
Raven shook his head but then noticed that Henry was smiling.
‘This child died of asphyxia,’ he said with certainty. ‘May I?’ He pointed at a pair of fine-toothed forceps lying on the table beside the body.
Struthers nodded, now looking distinctly less pleased with himself.
‘This baby’, Henry said, ‘has been strangled.’ He pulled a length of white tape from the folds of mottled flesh around the child’s neck.
‘Murder then,’ said Raven.
‘Indeed,’ Dr Struthers confirmed, pushing his spectacles further up his nose. Raven felt sorry for him. Henry should have let him make the grand revelation himself. Probably be the most fun that he had had in a while. But Henry had the bit between his teeth now, keen to make up for his earlier mistake.
‘Where is the paper that the child was wrapped in?’
Dr Struthers pointed to a small desk in the corner.
Henry marched over, picked it up and took it to the window. Raven followed, intrigued. It was heavily stained, a rusty discolouration blooming over large parts of it.
‘Looking for a return address?’ Struthers asked. ‘You won’t find much. It has been thoroughly examined already.’
Henry turned the sheet over delicately in his hands. It was stiff in parts, where the salt water had dried out. The paper had been written on in several places, but the ink was now so faded as to be indecipherable. The only visible inscription was two letters: M and O.
‘Part of a name, perhaps?’ Henry suggested.
‘McLevy already has his men out scouring the city for any woman bearing those initials,’ Struthers said. ‘Or their inverse.’
‘Bit of a long shot,’ Raven said.
‘Oh, you know McLevy. Always gets his man. Or woman in this case. Some wretch by the name of Mary O’Reilly or Olive Watson will have her appointment with the rope. Appropriate I suppose, given the method by which her son was dispatched.’
Struthers covered the body and began tidying his instruments away, his good humour finally extinguished as the grim reality of the situation bore down upon them all.
TWELVE
aven cursed the rain as he made his way along the High Street, the downpour having failed to abate while he was inside the police office. It had come on so rapidly that it had quickly filled the gutters, flooding the cobbles with a ghastly slick of diluted muck. Henry would have had something to say about it, had he not remained behind with Struthers. He was grimly fascinated by the inadequacy of the city’s drainage.
Raven shoved the newspaper he had just bought beneath his jacket to prevent it getting any wetter. It had been a foolish purchase under the circumstances, but he preferred to arrive bearing gifts of some description. And if its intended recipient was feeling morose in his infirmity, then at least Raven would have something to read.
He cut along an alleyway at the side of the Ship Tavern, through an open door and up to the first floor. He knocked briefly, calling out to identify himself as he did so. He was expected, but the man he was visiting was not an individual it was wise to startle.
There was a rumbling grunt of acknowledgement from within and Raven entered. He sat himself down in his usual seat, an upholstered chair that had seen better days, presumably sometime in the last century. Stuffing was escaping from various holes in the fabric, a material so worn it was impossible to tell what its original colour had been. It matched the rest of the furniture in the room, equally shabby, much like the householder himself, who was seated opposite in an oversized chair.
‘What have you brought?’ his host asked. The man’s name was Gregor, but Raven could only ever think of him as Gargantua – a term of endearment now, though it had not always been. He was a giant of a man, grossly oversized and strangely proportioned, as though certain parts of him kept growing when others had naturally stopped.
Raven pulled his copy of the Scotsman from inside his jacket, earning him a scowl. Then from his pocket he produced a bottle of whisky, which was greeted more favourably.
‘That’s more like it.’
Gregor grabbed the bottle and pulled the cork out with his ramshackle and widely spaced teeth, more robust than their appearance would suggest. He declined to pour but drank straight from the bottle, neglecting to offer Raven any.
Raven had not come expecting hospitality. He watched as the man glugged down a good portion of the bottle’s contents without pausing for breath. He was drinking too much, more than was good for him, but Raven was there as a companion, not as a doctor. Even if his medical advice had been sought there was nothing that Raven would have been able to suggest. Temperance was unlikely to add much to his limited span. ‘Won’t live any longer, it’ll just feel that way,’ was how Gregor had put it himself.
Gregor was aware that his great size and strength came at a terrible price. He had an understandable interest in the life of Charles Byrne, a fellow similarly afflicted who had been known as the Irish Giant. Raven had seen a sketch of him on his visit to Edinburgh: it depicted the man lighting his pipe from a street lamp on the North Bridge. Byrne had lived a mere twenty-two years.
‘Right,’ said Raven, opening the damp newspaper and scanning the pages for something informative, entertaining or preferably both. Gregor could read well enough, but his eyesight was failing, and he was troubled by the small print, especially indoors. In addition, Raven suspected that he enjoyed being read to. Raven didn’t grudge it. He knew the kind of stories to look out for.
‘Sheriff Court, Thursday last,’ Raven said.
‘Magistrate?’
‘Boyle.’
Gargantua snorted, evidently familiar with the man. ‘Go on.’
‘William McInnes. Found guilty of assaulting a woman near the Grassmarket. Six months’ imprisonment.’
Gargantua nodded.
‘Peter Cannon. Convicted of stealing two top-coats from a house in Comely Green Crescent. Six months’ imprisonment.’
‘Harsh,’ Gargantua stated authoritatively. ‘Must have had previous convictions. Will have been in front of Boyle before.’
There was a wistful, faraway look in his bloodshot eyes. He looked so much older than he was. And it was not merely his appearance, but also his manner. Gregor had the weariness of a man who had already experienced more life than he cared to.
Raven decided to change tack, scanning the pages for something less perplexing.
‘“Leopard Chloroformed
at London Zoo”,’ he announced, confident that this would be appealing to his listener. ‘“This magnificent beast, a gift from the Pasha of Egypt, sustained a serious injury to one of its limbs following an accident in its cage. Professor Simmonds of the Royal Veterinary College considered amputation necessary to save the animal’s life. The animal survived the surgery and seems set to make a full recovery.”’
‘Don’t fancy that job much. Wrestling with a wild animal.’
Raven did not think the animal in question would stand much of a chance against Gregor.
‘“Chloroform was administered using a sponge on the end of a long stick,”’ Raven read.
‘A very long stick, I should think,’ Gregor mused, taking another long swig from the bottle.
Raven turned the page, wondering if there would be anything of interest in the intimations, always Mina’s favourite section. He tried to imagine her reaction to the news that he was to marry Eugenie.
As he scanned the page, a name caught his eye.
‘What?’ Gregor asked. ‘They’ve treated a shark for toothache?’
‘Sir Ainsley Douglas,’ Raven said. ‘I was at his house two nights ago.’
Raven stared at the page, remembering the man holding forth to the gathered crowd; causing his son to cower before him in the stables. Strong, clamorous, formidable.
‘Rubbing shoulders with the quality now, are you?’ Gregor said. ‘Sir Ainsley Douglas, no less. There’s a man who doesn’t have to worry where his next bottle of whisky is coming from.’
‘You have that much right,’ Raven replied, pointing to the newspaper. ‘He’s dead.’
THIRTEEN
aven was taking off his sopping coat in the hall when he was intercepted by Mrs Lyndsay carrying a pile of plates towards the dining room.
‘You’d best come through. Dr Simpson says we have a special guest for dinner.’
He quickly ran up to his room to change into a dry shirt, fastening the buttons as he descended the stairs. He was propelled both by a desire not to keep everyone waiting and by curiosity as to who would be joining them. The professor was wont to invite upon a whim any remarkable individual who happened to be visiting the city, often giving little or no notice to the cook.
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