“Ah, it is you, Sir John.” To his credit he seemed not the least disappointed. “Come in, come in, all of you.”
Sir John introduced the visitors and explained the nature of our visit. I noticed Mr. Donnelly cast a dubious glance at Mrs. Millhouse.
“I’m afraid, madam, I cannot allow you to view the body.”
“But why?” said she. “I knew her best.”
“You might not know her at all as she is now.” He went to the door to the next room. “Give me but a moment, and I shall prepare the corpus for viewing, Mr. Millhouse.”
When Mr. Donnelly called out to come ahead. Sir John signaled that I was to remain as he followed Thaddeus Mill-house through the door. Fumbling a bit, he managed to close it after him.
We waited — Lucinda Millhouse, Edward, and I — as voices muttered low from beyond. Mr. Donnelly’s was a humble surgery. There were but two rooms. This one provided him with living space and would also do for him as a place where patients might wait for his attention — if patients ever came. They might sit upon the couch where I sat, a couch which also served him as a bed. For minutes Mrs. Millhouse paced the floor with Edward, who continued his fussing. Then, of a sudden, she seated herself on one of the simple chairs which had been pulled away from the deal table in one comer of the room. She began dandling the young fellow on her knee.
“He is not always so,” said she to me in the nature of an apology. “Edward is usually the sweetest-tempered of lads. It’s his teeth coming in, you see. It distresses all babes.”
I assured her that his cries did certainly not distress me.
“It will be good for Tad — Mr. Millhouse, that is — to get away from our room in his new employment. It has been most difficult for him to work, day or night, with all of us cooped together.”
“No doubt,” said I in a sympathetic manner.
The door to the next room opened, and the subject of her concern swiftly emerged. His eyes were red, and though he had wiped them dry with the kerchief clutched in his hand, it was evident he had been weeping.
“Come, Lucy, let’s away,” said he.
Yet as she rose, Mr. Donnelly came out, a small container in his hand. “But a moment,” said he. “I have a salve here for the baby’s gums. Just rub the tiniest bit where the tooth is coming in, and it will give him relief.”
Mrs. Millhouse accepted it rather reluctantly. “What is in it?” she asked.
“It is a very mild mix of opium. Don’t worry. It was used often on babies in Lancashire with no bad result.”
“We … we cannot pay.”
“Take it with my good wishes. But remember — only the tiniest bit.”
“Thank you ever so much. I — ”
“L «o’/” Mr. Millhouse stood at the door to the hallway, hurrying their departure. “Please, let us be off.”
She nodded to us all and scurried after him, pulling the door shut with a loud bang. We listened to the descending footsteps. And only then did Sir John emerge from the examination room.
“Why did you do that?” Mr. Donnelly asked him. “There was really no need to display those horrible wounds in the abdomen. A look at her face would have done, surely.”
“I wanted to get a reaction from him,” said Sir John calmly.
“Well, you certainly got one! I thought for a moment I should have to apply some oil of turpentine to his nose in order to revive him. And dear God, the tears! Why, I thought he would ‘drown the stage with tears.’ “
“It was rather a surplus of reaction, wouldn’t you say so?”
“Well, he had spoken of her as one might speak of a family friend. Imagine living on such terms with a prostitute.”
“And the fellow does claim to be a poet.”
“Well, with a poet such a surfeit of emotion is always possible, even likely.”
“Nevertheless,” said Sir John, “it does make one curious. That is why I invited him to come in and talk to me tomorrow morning.”
“But you said you wanted only to discuss certain details of the victim’s life — friends, frequent visitors, and so on.”
“I would not put him on his guard, Mr. Donnelly. But enough of that, what have you to tell me of the wounds of Priscilla Tarkin?”
“Ah, the victim, of course. Well, I’ve written out a report, as you requested, for the record. Shall I read it to you?”
“No, tell it. That way I shall retain the essentials.”
“Oh, very well. Let me see now.” He paused but a moment to collect himself. “She was almost certainly attacked from the rear. There were bruises left and right on her cheeks, which I should say indicated that a large hand had been clamped over her mouth. A single cut wsis made across her throat from the left. Her gullet and windpipe had been severed right down to the spinal cord. Thus we have the cause of death. The mutilation of her abdomen and interior parts was done afterwards. That consisted of a cut made from sternum to pubic bone and lateral cuts made below the ribs and approximately two inches below the navel. They were deep, long, dragging cuts and did considerable damage to the organs beneath — stomach and intestines were badly lacerated. The skin of her abdomen had been flapped back, perhaps to get at her womb, which had been stabbed through — or perhaps merely out of curiosity at what lay beneath. The intestines had been displaced, perhaps again to get at the womb.”
“In other words, he knew where to look for that female organ,” put in Sir John, “and it was important to him to find it.”
“You might say so, yes.”
“This would then be consistent with your speculation with regard to the first victim that the assailant had some knowledge of anatomy.”
“Well … yes.” It was reluctant agreement at best. Then added the surgeon: “There are differences here, though, that make me a little less certain about that. The hacking and slashing nature of these wounds makes me think they were done swiftly and with a practiced hand. Also, their nature suggests to me that they were done in anger — an absolute rage.”
“And what about the size of the woman? I had not asked that earlier. I should have.”
“She was not small, about nine stone, I should say. Nothing like the Amazon he first took on. In any case, he had no trouble controlling her. For that matter, he had no trouble with either woman.”
“Indeed,” said Sir John, and grew thoughtful for a space. Then: “May I ask a very basic question?”
“Of course. Sir John. They are often the most important.”
“Would it be possible to inflict the wounds you have described without spattering yourself with the victim’s blood?”
“The mutilation, perhaps, although it was done in haste — and whatever is done in haste is sure to be messy. But that long cut across the throat also severed both the major carotid artery and the major jugular vein. Blood would have gushed, perhaps spurted. His hand, wrist, and forearm would almost certainly have been spattered with blood.”
“Jeremy? Are you here?”
“Yes, of course. Sir John.”
“Have we overlooked the obvious? Was Mr. Millhouse’s coatsleeve or cuff bloodstained?”
I thought upon it but a moment. “No, sir,” said I, “and his coat was of such a color that it would show most plain.”
“I will second that,” said Mr. Donnelly.
“And what would you judge his size to be?”
Before either of us could answer, a sturdy rap came upon the door. Mr. Donnelly looked at me and shrugged, then stepped over and threw open the door. There stood Dr. Amos Carr, the former Army surgeon who had upon occasion and in Mr. Donnelly’s absence, served Sir John and the Bow Street Runners. It was he who had amputated Mr. Perkins’s arm when Mr. Perkins thought it might be saved. Sir John did not hold him in high esteem.
“Well, Mr. Donnelly,” he boomed forth, “I had heard you were returned to London and set up your surgery here. Though we have met but twice or thrice previous, I thought to come by like a good colleague and give you a warm welcome.”
For a moment or more, Mr. Donnelly was quite struck dumb. But he recovered himself and bade his visitor enter.