“Her mind is much like that of Sherlock Holmes,” my father said, nodding. “I would venture to say she would have no difficulty matching wits with him.”
“That is high praise indeed.”
“And when dealing with others, she will have an obvious advantage over Sherlock.”
“How so?”
“People will underestimate her because she is a woman.”
“They will do so at their peril.”
“A most remarkable woman,” my father concluded.
“In every possible way,” I said, then brought my mind back to the heinous crime that we were investigating. “I wonder if Christopher Moran has any idea how formidable an opponent he is now up against.”
“I suspect not,” my father replied. “But I daresay he will soon find out.”
6
St. Bartholomew’s
We had no difficulty gaining entrance to the morgue at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital because of my rank as assistant professor of pathology. I wore a long, white laboratory coat to signify my status while my father was dressed only in a fine tweed suit, but he was known by more than a few of the staff, as he had once been an attending physician at the famous hospital. I had asked Joanna Blalock to wear one of her well-starched nurse’s uniforms so that her presence would not arouse any undue suspicion.
Before us on a marble slab lay the mangled body of Charles Harrelston, which was covered up to the shoulders with a white sheet. His head was badly disfigured and sharp ends of fractured bones could be seen sticking up beneath the covering.
“Will you be performing the autopsy?” my father asked.
I shook my head. “Dr. Willoughby insists on undertaking all the high-profile cases.”
“Will you be allowed to assist?”
“That is unlikely.”
“And very unfortunate, for your eyes and skills far exceed his.”
Joanna moved in closer to the body and remarked, “I do not believe John’s absence at the time of dissection will matter a great deal. For in this instance, it is the external examination of the body that will tell us the most.”
“But the dissection could give us important information on his prior health,” my father objected mildly. “These hidden findings might solve some of the mysteries in this case.”
“Such as?”
“If he had severe disease of the larynx and could not utter loud sounds, it would explain why he did not cry out during his fall.”
“He was dead before the fall,” Joanna reminded him.
“Quite so,” my father admitted. “But I was simply giving an illustration of why a thorough dissection could be vital.”
“And a good illustration it was,” Joanna said. “But here we are dealing with a sudden, yet premeditated murder. The perpetrator had to carry out his evil deed quickly and surely, and this almost always requires an external force, which may well be observed on examination of the outer body.”
“An external force?” I pondered. “Are you referring to a gunshot wound to the disfigured head?”
“Not under the circumstances,” Joanna replied. “A pistol shot would make far too much noise, something even passersby on the street could hear.”
“A knife?” I ventured.
“Too much blood. And if the wound was not well placed, a struggle might ensue.”
“Asphyxiation?”
Joanna pointed to the corpse’s neck. “There are no marks or bruises present. In addition, his face does not show the terror of asphyxiation.”
“Poison perhaps?”
“Too unpredictable.”
“What, then?” I queried.
“That is what we must discover.”
The door to the morgue flew open and Professor Peter Willoughby entered the well-lighted room. He glared at the three of us with an expression that told of his displeasure.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded of me.
“We are here to investigate the tragic death of Charles Harrelston,” I answered.
“By whose authority?”
“At the request of the family.”
“Which illustrates you are not here in an official capacity.” Willoughby gave me a long, stern stare before saying, “Really, Watson, this is most irregular.”
“I know it is, Professor,” I said defensively. “But the Harrelston family is much distressed and wishes us to look for any cause that might have precipitated his suicide.”
“Humph,” Willoughby grumbled, and walked over for a close look at the corpse. He made a few guttural sounds while performing the superficial examination, but made no mention of any findings.
I glanced at Joanna, who seemed to be intently studying Professor Willoughby. I did not see anything odd about the man. He was of short, wiry stature, with a large head and piercing dark eyes. The suit he wore fit poorly and had short sleeves that allowed most of his shirt cuffs to show. I had to admire his gold cuff links, but not the stained red tie he seemed to favor so often. There was little striking about the man’s appearance, yet Joanna seemed to be greatly interested. I brought my attention back to the professor and now noticed he had the sort of color in his face common among men who work out of doors under a strong sun, but which would be quite rare in London this time of year.
“There is nothing here of note other than his traumatic injuries,” Willoughby declared. “Obviously he suffered from a deep-seated mania and plunged to his death.”
“I am convinced you are correct,” I said. “But the family wishes me to briefly examine the corpse as well.”
Willoughby nodded begrudgingly, growling to himself. “Who are your assistants?”
“I believe you know my father, Dr. John Watson, Sr.,” I introduced. “The woman next to him is a nurse and the only witness to Harrelston’s fall.”
Willoughby eyed my father carefully. “Are you not the chronicler of the Sherlock Homes mysteries?”
“I am,” my father said with pride.
Willoughby quickly turned back to me. “I must insist your father not include his visit here in any future stories involving the trumped-up detective.”
“I can assure you he will not,” I promised.
“And what of this woman?” Willoughby asked in a demeaning tone. “I don’t see a reason for her presence and must ask that you escort her out immediately.”
“He will do no such thing,” Joanna said firmly. “He will perform the examination and I will observe.”
Willoughby was thrown completely off balance. “I—I beg your pardon?”
“I stay,” Joanna said. “I am here at the request of Lady Harrelston and I shall report directly to her and to those closest to her. Surely you will not deny her request.”
“Of course not,” Willoughby said, now suddenly servile. He fumbled uncomfortably with his stained tie before finding more words. “If there are other requirements, you must let me know.”
“There is one other request,” Joanna went on. “Lady Harrelston has asked that no one know of our visit here nor of her involvement. Will you see to that?”
“Most assuredly.”
“And now, Professor, we should allow the Drs. Watson to begin their quick examinations. We will not detain you further, for I am certain you have many other pressing duties, particularly those which may be related to your recent conference in Italy.”
Willoughby raised his brow. “You were aware of the pathology conference?”
“And the work you presented,” Joanna said. “Was it well received?”
“Quite,” Willoughby replied. “How did you learn of my presentation?”
“I have my sources,” Joanna lied easily. “Did you enjoy the Amalfi coast as well?”
“Very much so,” Willoughby answered. “Naples was a delight.”
“It always is this time of year,” Joanna concluded, and looked toward the door. “Well then, thank you for being so gracious to us.”
Willoughby took the hint and, with a half bow, departed.
>
I stared at Joanna in amazement. “How in the world did you know he had been to a pathology conference in Naples?”
“From the tone of his skin,” Joanna said. “No one in England or France or Germany would be exposed to such a bright sun this time of year. That would only occur in the Mediterranean, and in particular the Amalfi coast of Italy, where the weather would be the warmest. Also the cuff links he wore were Italian. The interlocking Cs indicate they came from the jewelry house of Cassini. I suspect he purchased them while in Naples.”
“But how did you deduce that he had been to a pathology conference?”
“Because our dear Professor Willoughby is a very frugal man who pinches every farthing,” Joanna stated, as if she were reading from a book. “He makes a handsome income, yet he dresses in a cheap, ill-fitting suit and wears a tie so stained most men would throw it away. His shoes are scuffed and he will not buy polish or pay someone to polish them. Such a frugal man would never pay for a holiday to Italy; thus it is safe to assume someone else paid for it. So either the department or the hospital funded the trip and he would have been obliged to present his work in pathology while there.”
“Extraordinary,” I said.
“But one feature does not fit,” my father rebutted. “The cuff links were made by Cassini, an exclusive and expensive Italian jeweler. Surely a frugal man would never buy them.”
“If they were secondhand, he would,” Joanna explained. “And they were. One of the links was badly damaged, with the bottom of a C broken off. He no doubt bought them in Italy, perhaps in a pawnshop, at a cut-rate price.”
I had to smile at her stunning ability to gain so much information from a few simple observations. “Is there anything else we should know about Willoughby?”
“Hmm,” Joanna hummed, apparently waiting for more thoughts to come to her. “There are several other things worth mentioning. His wife does not love him, he comes from a poor background in East London, and he is careless.”
“Oh come now,” I said, believing she was embellishing.
“Those characteristics are clearly obvious,” Joanna went on without a moment of hesitation. “A loving wife would never allow her husband to appear in public that poorly dressed. His attire is so unseemly it caused me to wince. Even if his wife was also frugal, she would never permit that. No devoted wife would. Thus, she simply does not care, which means she has no affection for him whatsoever. His background is easily defined. Some of his language has a definite East London Cockney origin, particularly when he cuts the t off words like what and don’t. His carelessness is demonstrated by his poor shave, in which some areas are quite clean while others show bristle. A careful man would shave carefully; a careless man would not.”
She thought for a moment and asked, “Does the latter trait show up in his work?”
“I am afraid it does,” I replied honestly.
“Which accounts for his meanness, which he uses to cover up his deficiencies.”
“Remarkable,” my father said admiringly. “And you had to quickly parry his threat to have you ousted. I liked the manner in which you caught him off guard, with your reference to Lady Harrelston. Are you truly a close friend and confidant?”
“I know the family,” Joanna said evasively. “But my purpose was not to throw him off guard. I only wanted to show him his place. Even an oaf like Willoughby would be aware of Lady Harrelston’s closeness to the royal family, and he is not foolish enough to venture into that territory. The use of Lady Harrelston’s name will ensure that Willoughby keeps our visit here a secret.”
“Others saw us, though,” I said.
“Remember, it is Moran whom we are concerned about and who is also on staff here,” Joanna said, unconcerned. “He might well approach Willoughby to learn of the autopsy findings and make certain his tracks remain concealed. But he will only ask Willoughby, not the lower staff members. And Willoughby would be tempted to talk of our visit, which would be to our disadvantage. So I dissuaded him from doing so.”
“There is no need to let Moran know that we will soon be nipping at his heels,” I concurred.
“Or at his throat.” Joanna walked briskly to the corpse and pulled the sheet down to the body’s navel. “Now, let us move to the chase.”
I stepped in closer to begin my examination. The left side of Charles Harrelston’s corpse appeared normal, whereas the right side was badly disfigured. His right arm was mangled with a compound fracture of both the ulnar and radius. The right side of his face was crushed in with an eyeball protruding.
“He obviously landed on his right,” I observed, then went about examining the corpse’s head. There was a blow-out fracture of the occipital bone, with macerated brain tissue exposed. On the crown of the skull was a rounded, depressed fracture. “He has two fractures of the skull that are separated from each other by normal bone. How do we explain that?”
“The occipital fracture was caused when the back of his head smashed into the granite curb,” Joanna answered. “I witnessed that myself.”
“But what of the rounded fracture located on the crown?” I asked. “How could a fall account for that?”
“It cannot,” Joanna said, and came to my side for a better view. She examined the distorted skull, totally unmoved by its gruesome appearance. Then Joanna gave it a second look and focused in on the crown. After a long moment’s thought, she reached for a rubber glove on a nearby tray and put it on, then stuck her finger into the rounded fracture. “It makes a rather neat circle, with rough edges.”
“Perhaps when the body bounced, as your son described, the granite caused a second fracture,” my father suggested.
“That would not produce such a rounded fracture,” Joanna said at once. “This is the type of fracture that results when one is struck by a weapon that has a rounded end.”
“I know of no weapon that fits that description,” my father said.
“Oh, there are a number that would,” Joanna informed him as she stripped off the bloodied glove and discarded it. “I would place a hammer at the top of the list.”
“But when did this occur?” my father asked.
“Prior to his fall, obviously.”
I reexamined the rounded, depressed fracture which measured an inch across. Beneath the wound was a large collection of clotted blood. “A single blow from a hammer could very well do this. And the excessive bleeding tells us the blow was delivered antemortem.”
My father asked, “Why, Joanna, did you place a hammer as a weapon of choice at the top of your list?”
“Because they are easily gotten, easily used, and easily disposed of,” Joanna answered. “A blow struck by a hammer carries an incredible amount of force and produces a fracture like the one we are seeing.”
I thought nothing else about Joanna Blalock could surprise me, but I was wrong. Her knowledge on so many varied subjects seemed endless and was so readily at hand. It would not be an overstatement to say I was dazzled by her insight into head injuries inflicted by blunt force. I had encountered pathology residents who knew less on the subject. “Please tell us how you come to know so much about skull wounds and the weapons used to produce them.”
“I read about them,” she said simply.
“Come now,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.
“But it is true,” Joanna went on. “Over the past several days my son, Johnnie, has asked me incessantly about various aspects of skull fractures, many of which I could not answer. In particular, Charles Harrelston’s blow-out fracture of the occipital bone has fascinated him. Thus, I had no recourse other than to obtain Sir Michael Walton’s monograph on criminally induced head wounds. It was brief, but quite informative. According to Sir Michael, hammers are favored by the working class and iron stokers by those of higher rank.”
“But an iron stoker would leave behind a long indentation, which we do not see here,” my father commented.
“That leaves us with a hammer or hammerlike weapon,” I said, and
turned to Joanna Blalock. “Does it not?”
“So it would seem. But Sir Michael’s monograph tells us that hammers are rarely used by the higher class. With that in mind, we should look for another weapon.”
“Such as?”
“That is what we have to determine.”
“Perhaps microscopic studies will provide us with the answer.”
Joanna shook her head briskly. “Not with that idiot Willoughby leading the investigation. He believes this all can be explained by mania-induced suicide and nothing will dissuade him. We must conduct the search ourselves.”
She reached for her magnifying glass and carefully examined the circular fracture. “I see nothing of particular interest, but here I am out of my depth. John, this is well within your purview, so we would be most grateful if you would apply your expertise to this matter.”
I donned the rubber gloves and moved in beside Joanna to begin my examination. Our arms touched and, as she leaned forward for a closer view, a lock of her hair brushed upon my neck. A most pleasant warmth spread through my body, head to toe. It required all of my effort and concentration to focus on the mangled corpse before me. With deliberation I inspected the ragged edges of the skull wound, which showed only matted hair encased in shredded skin. The weapon had left no superficial traces behind. I gently pushed aside the clotted blood that covered the inner surface of the wound and peered in.
“Do you see anything noteworthy?” Joanna asked.
“Only splintered bone,” I reported.
“Are there any foreign objects?”
“None so far,” I said, and removed a thick blood clot with embedded hair. Seeing only macerated brain tissue with the naked eye, I reached for a nearby magnifying glass and moved it up and down over the open wound to increase its magnification. “Hello! What do we have here?”
“What?” Joanna asked eagerly.
I slowly raised and lowered the glass repeatedly to gain an even better look. “See if there are tweezers or forceps in the drawer to my left, would you, Joanna?”
The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Page 7