Voules gaped. ‘Is that where you were all morning? Interviewing the prison guard? And all the while I was stuck here, slaving away over the lunatic theory that we’re all descended from monkeys?’
Hulda gave a superior smile, and flounced from the room to present her article to Stead. Voules watched her go, his expression murderous.
‘Why Stead hired her, I’ll never know,’ he muttered. ‘She cannot open her mouth without being rude and aggressive!’
‘She’s also a gifted writer and an astute, incisive interviewer,’ Cook pointed out, drawing a firm line through two of his sentences. ‘We’re lucky Stead persuaded Morley to hire her.’
Morley had broken new and dangerous ground by taking on a female journalist, but no one could claim that his gamble had been anything but a success. The ‘Prussian Governess’ or ‘The Friederichs’, as Hulda was known to her colleagues, seemed well on her way to meeting her dream of becoming the first woman reporter to be paid the same as the men. Even so, ability was no certain passport to success in journalism.
Cook was, if anything, even more talented. At twenty-four, he was the youngest liner on the staff, and had only recently graduated from New College, Oxford. He had already shown remarkable abilities, and was the last of the three in contention for the upcoming position, although Morley was unlikely to hire him because of his lack of experience.
Voules, by contrast, was a careless researcher and an indifferent writer, whose only value lay in his family connections. Lonsdale glanced at him and saw greasy crumbs and a long yellow streak of egg yolk adhering to his cravat, while he moistened his thumb with a wet, red tongue to flick through the pages of the book. Morley’s personal copy of The Descent of Man would never be the same again.
All three were concentrating on their work when Hulda returned wearing a triumphant smirk – her article had been heartily praised. Lonsdale completed his report about the fire, and left as Voules and Hulda began an acrimonious debate about evolution, which Hulda was certain to win. He glanced at his watch. It was four o’clock, and he decided he had plenty of time to visit the mortuary before returning home to change for dinner.
Raised voices followed him down the stairs, and he heard Stead chuckling as Hulda began a ruthless and systematic destruction of Voules’s arguments. He walked briskly to the Strand, where he hired a hansom to take him to the mortuary. Iron-grey clouds dropped a light drizzle, and as the wind blew sooty droplets into his face, he felt as though it were the perfect day for a trip to the House of the Dead.
TWO
The northern branch of the Metropolitan Police mortuary lay near the River Thames, in an area of Westminster dominated by dirty streets and grimy buildings. To the south was Millbank Penitentiary, to the east the chartered gas works, and to the west the run-down Grey Coat Hospital. It never ceased to amaze Lonsdale how such a seedy and unkempt area could be located so close to the homes of the upper classes along Victoria Street.
The mortuary was one of the most ramshackle buildings of all, and Lonsdale wondered whether it would survive another winter without some serious repairs. Black water trickled down its walls from leaking gutters, and its wooden door was flaking and rotten. Had it been anything other than a repository for the dead, he was certain thieves would have smashed the filthy windows in their decaying frames, and stolen everything inside.
The door stood ajar, and an oil lamp within threw a feeble yellow gleam into the gloom of a hallway. Wafts of death and strong chemicals billowed out, ranker than the ever-present stench of rotting horse manure and poisoned river that pervaded the city. When no one answered his knock, Lonsdale walked in, calling Dr Bradwell’s name. There was no reply.
The hallway stretched away into blackness. Lonsdale took a few tentative steps, then froze at the sound of scrabbling claws on the stone floor. Rats! He was about to take the lamp to light his way, when it gave a sharp hiss and went out, leaving him in the dark. A quick shake revealed that it had run out of fuel. He considered lighting one of the gas lamps on the wall, but then decided against it, feeling that if they were in as poor repair as the rest of the place, he was likely to blow it and himself to kingdom come.
More rats skittered in the darker reaches of the corridor as Lonsdale rummaged in his pockets for matches – he did not smoke, but he always carried a box of Alpine Vesuvians. He struck one, and began to make his way down the dismal corridor, noticing that the walls glistened with black slime, while insects moved this way and that over the foul, speckled surfaces.
At the end of the hall was a sturdy door, with a line of light gleaming along the bottom. Lonsdale’s match went out, leaving him in darkness again. He stepped forward and rapped on the door. There was no reply, and he was just reaching for the handle, when it was flung open. A figure silhouetted against the bright light behind advanced on him menacingly.
‘What do you want? We’re not in the business of cat food, if that’s what you’re after.’
‘I don’t have a cat,’ replied Lonsdale, wondering what sort of person usually visited the police mortuary. ‘I’m from The Pall Mall Gazette. Are you Dr Bradwell?’
‘One of Stead’s fellows?’ asked the shadow, the belligerence fading from his voice. ‘And women, of course, because one mustn’t forget Miss Friederichs. Is she with you?’ He stepped forward to peer hopefully into the gloom.
‘I came alone,’ said Lonsdale.
‘Pity,’ sighed Bradwell, stepping aside to allow Lonsdale to enter his domain. ‘Miss Friederichs is always welcome here.’
‘That must be a comfort to her,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Do you have a specific slab in mind?’
Bradwell gazed at him blankly for a moment before giving a sharp bark of laughter. He was a stocky man in his late thirties, with neat black hair and lively brown eyes. He sported thick sideburns, and his face was prematurely lined, although with laughter or care Lonsdale could not tell. He wore a thick apron, like the ones favoured by the fish porters at Billingsgate, which was stained with ominous smears.
The mortuary’s inner sanctum comprised a large square room with a low ceiling that Lonsdale could have touched – not that he would have tried, as it was dappled with all manner of filth. Pressed along three of the walls were waist-level tables, occupied by human shapes covered with grey blankets. He estimated that there were about thirty in all, although this was insufficient, as several were doubled up with occupants.
In the centre of the room were two more tables, larger than the surrounding ones, with a lever at one end to adjust their heights. A brightly burning gas lamp hung above one, while a trolley bearing a grisly selection of instruments stood to one side. The sulphurous, cloying stench of blood and decay was overpowering, but Lonsdale resisted the urge to cover his nose with his handkerchief, knowing he would grow used to the odour. It was not the first time he had visited such places, and, during his days in Africa, he had grown inured to the sight and smell of violent slaughter.
There was but one other living occupant in the room. He was an unkempt-looking man with a poor complexion, a scraggly brown-and-grey beard, and a head of long greasy hair, parted in the middle of a flaking scalp. He wore an apron similar to Bradwell’s, and slouched near the wall, picking his teeth.
‘Have you come about the Hackney Road murder?’ asked Bradwell, indicating the waxy-white figure that lay on one of the central tables. There was a wide, deep wound on the victim’s throat, and bone and cartilage gleamed through the mess of red and black. ‘There’s not much to tell, I’m afraid. He was killed by a single slash to the neck. The killer has already been apprehended, so there’ll be no hue and cry over the police not catching the culprit.’
Lonsdale opened his mouth to tell Bradwell that he had come about the Wyndham Street death, but the doctor was not easy to interrupt. Lonsdale imagined that the sullen assistant, who still poked at his long yellow teeth, was unlikely to be much of a conversationalist, and supposed the pathologist was taking advantage of different company.
&nb
sp; ‘It’s difficult to conceal a murder like this,’ continued Bradwell enthusiastically. ‘Blood spurts from the neck, and unless you know what you’re doing, you’ll end up as covered with it as your victim. It makes escape more difficult. Why’s Stead interested in this case?’
‘He isn’t,’ said Lonsdale. ‘We’d like to know about Patrick Donovan – the man who died in Wyndham Street.’
‘Really?’ asked Bradwell. He shrugged in a way that suggested he considered Donovan’s the last case in which anyone should be interested. He turned to the slouching man. ‘Bring in the burned one, please, O’Connor.’
O’Connor gazed listlessly at the covered shapes as though he expected Donovan to sit up and identify himself. Bradwell sighed.
‘We put him outside, remember?’ He turned to Lonsdale. ‘He was making the place smell.’
‘Yes, I can see that would be unpleasant,’ said Lonsdale, wondering how they imagined Donovan’s body might make a difference to the choking stench that already pervaded the building.
O’Connor returned with a clanking trolley. It carried a burden that was an unusual shape under its rough, grey blanket. Bradwell whipped the cover off with a flourish, like a magician removing a handkerchief to reveal a golden egg, and underneath lay Patrick Donovan, fists still clenched, knees still bent, and head still a mashed pulp.
Lonsdale was aware of Bradwell watching him, and kept his expression blank. He knew perfectly well that the surgeon had hauled the blanket away in such a dramatic fashion in the hope of shocking him – as a form of initiation to the morgue that would cause the reporter to run from the room in horror. It was by no means the first time a pathologist had played that particular trick on an unsuspecting visitor.
‘So?’ Lonsdale asked, meeting Bradwell’s disappointed gaze.
‘Typical pose for a fire victim,’ said Bradwell, turning his attention to the body and pointing at the fisted hands. ‘The muscles contract to make the corpse look as though it’s ready for a fight. So what do you want to know? It’s pretty clear to me how he died.’
‘Is it?’ asked Lonsdale, surprised.
Bradwell’s eyes narrowed warily, as though he thought Lonsdale was trying to make fun of him. ‘Surely even a layman can see that he’s been in a fire.’
‘But did the flames kill him, was he overcome by smoke, or did he die from the injury to his head?’ asked Lonsdale.
‘Oh, I see what you mean. The police don’t usually want that kind of detail. House fires are so common that we tend not to waste much time on them. The inquest will be little more than a formality, and the coroner will record the incident as death by fire.’
‘You won’t even perform a post mortem?’ asked Lonsdale, surprised.
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Bradwell. ‘But it won’t be the kind of in-depth investigation that I’d do for the Hackney Road murder. I’ll look at his heart and lungs, and then I’ll assess the degree of burning – which you can see is severe.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Basically. Whether the cause of death was smoke inhalation, burning, or injuries sustained from falling masonry is irrelevant. That he died in the fire is usually enough for the records.’
‘And you say it happens a lot?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘People dying in fires?’
Bradwell looked grim. ‘More often than you’d think. People underestimate fires, and they usually don’t live to learn their lesson. The smoke overwhelms them and they end up like your friend here.’
‘Is that what happened to him?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘Death by asphyxiation?’
‘I can’t say without inspecting his lungs. I was planning to leave him until tomorrow, but as you’re here, I suppose I could do it now. I’ll be late home, but my wife’s used to it.’
He and O’Connor transferred the charred remains to the other central table.
‘What’s your bet?’ asked the surgeon, selecting a short, silver knife from the trolley. ‘I’ll put ten shillings on smoke inhalation. We might as well have a little fun, if I’m doomed to spend an evening in the frosty silence of a wife who objects to my long working hours.’
‘I’ll go for the head crushing,’ said Lonsdale, wondering how he had ended up in the police mortuary on a wet afternoon betting on the cause of someone’s death with a man wearing a fishmonger’s apron.
For the next few minutes, the room was silent except for moist sucking sounds and the cracking of bones. Lonsdale watched for a while, then began to wander around the room, first inspecting the rows of gleaming instruments and then studying a stained chart on the wall that showed the major muscles. O’Connor watched him intently, and Lonsdale sensed that if he tried to touch anything, the mortuary attendant would leap to slap his hand away.
‘You seem more inured to this than most reporters,’ said Bradwell, not looking up from his work. ‘Yet I haven’t seen you before.’
‘I worked in Africa,’ replied Lonsdale. ‘Violent death is no stranger there.’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Bradwell suddenly. ‘Look at this!’
Lonsdale leaned over him to see where he was pointing, but could determine nothing from the mass of blackened tissue and bone that had so excited the doctor. He said so.
‘Neither of us will be claiming that ten shillings,’ said Bradwell, straightening and eyeing Lonsdale soberly. ‘This man died from neither smoke inhalation nor a crushing of the head. However, someone has made off with part of his brain – his cerebrum.’
For a moment, Lonsdale was too startled to say anything. He gazed at the police surgeon in astonishment, aware that the mortuary assistant was doing likewise from a shadowy corner near the door.
‘What?’ he gasped when he eventually found his voice. ‘You must be mistaken!’
Bradwell pursed his lips in annoyance, as if Lonsdale were questioning his professionalism. ‘I assure you I’m not. Can you see a cerebrum in that skull?’
‘I couldn’t tell you one way or the other,’ said Lonsdale, looking down at the mess that had been Donovan’s head, ‘what with the charring and the crushing. Perhaps whatever bit you mean leaked out or was incinerated.’
‘The cerebrum is the largest part of the brain,’ said Bradwell stiffly. ‘It wouldn’t just “leak out” and, even after burning, there should be some of it left.’
‘So what happened to it, then?’ asked Lonsdale sceptically.
‘I have no idea. But it didn’t disappear of its own accord. And since it didn’t go naturally, I can only assume that someone took it.’
Lonsdale began to laugh. ‘Stead! He told you to spin me some outrageous tale, so that I’ll write it up and provide him with an endless source of amusement.’
‘You don’t know him very well, if you think that,’ said Bradwell reproachfully. ‘He might have an odd sense of humour, but he would never make a joke of someone’s death.’
Bradwell was right, yet what the surgeon was suggesting was outrageous.
‘But Donovan’s neighbours saw him run into the street shouting about a fire,’ argued Lonsdale. ‘I need no medical expertise to assert that he couldn’t have done that without his brain.’
‘Then his cerebrum must have been removed after he returned to his house,’ said Bradwell firmly. ‘Intriguingly, the rest of the brain is still there, including the cerebellum, the thalamus, and the brain stem.’
‘So you think someone followed Donovan into his burning house – unseen by the neighbours – whipped out his cerebrum, and left?’ asked Lonsdale incredulously.
‘I’m a physician,’ said Bradwell icily. ‘I leave that sort of speculation to the police. I deal in evidence and facts: and the fact here is that there is no cerebrum in this skull!’
Lonsdale rubbed his eyes. Although he had sensed something odd about Donovan’s death, he had not imagined it would transpire to be anything as sinister – or peculiar – as a missing organ.
‘Are you sure someone didn’t take it while the body was out in your yard?’ he asked. ‘When I
first arrived, you thought I was looking for cat food, so you obviously deal with some very odd people.’
‘We have a high wall topped by broken glass. If someone were to climb over that, he’d want more than a cerebrum.’ Bradwell gestured that the reporter should move closer. ‘The skull has been smashed, as you so eloquently pointed out, but if you look here, you’ll see that the line of fracture isn’t jagged – it’s straight. In other words, someone sawed carefully around the top of this man’s head, much as I did to the gentleman over there, who died from a fall.’
O’Connor lifted a blanket covering one of the corpses to reveal that a circular disc of skull had been removed from the top of the head, allowing the brain within to be examined.
‘This is becoming even more outrageous!’ exclaimed Lonsdale. ‘Now you’re suggesting that whoever did this had a degree of medical knowledge?’
Bradwell did not reply but fetched a magnifying glass for a closer look. ‘Hah! I’m right! You can see the striations made by the saw.’
Still sceptical, Lonsdale took the glass and noted that there were indeed marks that looked unnatural.
‘But what really convinces me that this didn’t happen accidentally,’ said Bradwell, ‘is that every part of the cerebrum is gone. It is normally anchored to the skull by membranes, and it’s necessary to detach each one very carefully to remove it in one piece.’
‘But what could someone want with a cerebrum?’ asked Lonsdale, bemused. ‘You can hardly put it on your mantelpiece.’
‘The world’s a queer place,’ put in O’Connor sagely, speaking for the first time from where he leaned against one of the tables, his hand placed without any thought on the chest of the body under the blanket. ‘Full of strange folk with strange customs.’
‘This is scarcely a custom, O’Connor,’ said Bradwell.
‘I blame the newspapers, personally.’ O’Connor cast a venomous glance at Lonsdale. ‘They write about all those peculiar places, and it gives people funny ideas.’
‘What sort of places?’ asked Lonsdale, searching his memory for a report from one of the Empire’s far-flung outposts about corpse mutilation.
Mind of a Killer Page 4