“I’d prefer it if you just talked to me.”
“I could talk. But I think we ought to do something about this.” Campbell gestured at the heap of Denby lying next to the dead log in the forest clearing. “That’s a lot of blood.”
Day agreed. He peeled Claire’s handkerchief back and looked at the wound. It had stopped bleeding. Denby’s skin was pale, and there was a trickle of blood running from a corner of his mouth. Day tossed the handkerchief into the brush (another excuse to buy her something with the proper monogram) and opened Denby’s jacket. He undid the top few buttons of the doctor’s shirt to make his breathing easier. As the shirt came open, Day gasped. He looked up at Campbell and saw that his eyes had grown large, his lips pressed tightly together. Day unbuttoned the rest of Denby’s shirt and stood up. He stepped back, side by side with Campbell. He heard the bird-watcher draw in his breath.
Denby’s entire torso, everything that had been covered by his shirt, was a writhing mass of dark wet shapes. Leeches writhed over the doctor’s flesh, their fat bodies pulsing and bloated, filled with blood.
34
Kingsley had commandeered the inn’s dining room over the strenuous objections of Bennett Rose, who had stalked off into the common room and had not been seen since. Kingsley covered the oak tabletop with a fresh linen bedsheet, and his assistant, Henry Mayhew, fetched in his microscope, slides, and a small crate full of tools and chemicals. A portion of the sheet was pulled away from one corner of the table, and a small burner was filled and set on a plate. Henry lit the burner and adjusted its tiny flame.
Kingsley spread the tiny floral dress across the opposite corner of the table and examined it under his lens, checking each of the dark stains for telltale signs of dirt clumps or paint buildup.
“First,” Kingsley said, “shall we see if this is blood?”
“It looks like blood to me, sir,” Henry said.
“And to me. But let’s be certain.”
He dabbed at the middle of the largest stain with a dampened cotton swab and rolled the swab across a glass slide. He rummaged in his satchel until he found a small vial of clear liquid, labeled Acetic Acid Chloride. He unstoppered the vial and the air above it began to smoke. Quickly, Kingsley filled a dropper and restoppered the acetyl chloride, then added a single drop of the liquid to the slide. Holding the slide in a pair of tongs, he carefully heated the mixture, then moved the slide over to his microscope. He set it on the platen and clamped it down, then angled the small mirror underneath to catch the room’s lamplight and deflect it up through the slide. He bent over the lens and drew in a sharp breath. He stood and beckoned to his assistant.
“Look, Henry. Right in there.”
Henry hunched down and looked through the leather eyepiece. He stood and shook his head, showed Kingsley a puzzled expression. “I don’t see anything. I’m sorry.”
“Crystals, Henry. Crystals are already forming on that slide. Take another look.”
Henry sighed and looked again. He straightened and took a step back and smiled at the doctor, but said nothing.
“You still don’t see them?” Kingsley said.
“I don’t know what a crystal looks like, sir.”
“That’s okay, Henry. I suppose you can take my word for it. The presence of crystals means that we have found blood.”
“Where?”
“On the slide. There’s blood on the slide.”
Henry’s eyes grew wide and he gasped. “It must’ve come from that dress.”
Kingsley chuckled. “I think you’re right. Shall we see what else we can determine by looking at the dress?”
“I can’t see anything except a mess, sir.”
“Hmm. I see a mess, too. But there may be more to that mess than we at first suppose.” Kingsley walked the six feet to the other end of the table and gestured at the dress. “You aren’t familiar with Lacassagne’s patterns of blood.”
“Sir?” Henry said.
“There are shapes here.”
“I don’t wanna see no more blood, sir, crystals or no.”
Kingsley smiled at the simple giant. “You don’t have to look, Henry. I’m used to talking to myself in the laboratory. Or to Fiona, if she’s around. I know we haven’t quite got used to each other, but if you’ll only let me talk aloud, you don’t really have to listen to what I say.”
“I will listen, sir. Only I still won’t look, if it’s all right.”
“As I said. No looking. If I catch you looking. .” Kingsley wagged a finger at Henry, who grinned.
“No looking, sir. Won’t do it.”
“Good man.” Kingsley picked up his lens and peered at the dress. “So, what I see here are splashes and what I would call spurts.”
“Spurts?”
“Just listen, Henry. If these stains are blood, then this dress was not worn by the victim. Whomever, or whatever, this blood belonged to was facing the person who was wearing the dress. Blood left a body, some body, and moved outward along what appear to have been several different trajectories, each of them making a mark on this dress.”
“Who was it, sir? Who was the bleeder?”
“I don’t even know that it was a person, Henry. It might have been livestock.”
“A horse, sir?”
“Perhaps. But if so, not a terribly large horse. Not even a pony. Look at this.”
“Please no, sir.”
“I mean to say, looking at this, the blood exited some body and landed in a sort of a wave upon this one. It tapers in a specific way. The heart was pumping full force here.” Kingsley pointed at a spot high on the front of the dress.
Henry continued looking away.
“But then here,” Kingsley said, “it has become weak and isn’t pumping so hard anymore.” He pointed to a different spot, lower on the dress. “If we are to assume that the person wearing this dress was present as the wounds happened upon the other body, then we can see that the heart pumping this initial spurt was not so large as all that, was it?”
Henry shook his head. He looked a bit green, and Kingsley set down his lens. He patted Henry on the back in a reassuring way.
“So,” Kingsley said, “a smallish creature of some sort was repeatedly injured. Blood exited its body and landed on this dress through, I would imagine, more than three apertures in the flesh of the injured body. There are droplets here, and here, indicating that either this dress or the injured body was moved as it bled out. Perhaps turned as the extent of injuries was fully realized by the person inflicting them. Or possibly to get a better angle, if someone was working to bleed out a lamb or small pig.”
“I like bacon.”
“Of course you do. So do I.”
“I don’t like it when people’s hurt, though.”
“People or pigs, we all hurt.”
“But we don’t eat people, sir.”
“Well.” Kingsley frowned at the dress. “Most of us don’t.”
35
Day and Campbell spent a few frenzied minutes plucking leeches from Dr Denby’s torso and throwing them at the icy dirt. When they had finished, the doctor’s pale flesh was dotted everywhere with angry red rings. Day buttoned Denby’s shirt while Campbell rose and began grinding the squirming leeches under his heels. Blood oozed out into the patches of snow, white laced with pink, the forest floor like marble.
Denby stirred and his eyes half opened. “Brothwood,” he said. “Needs me.” He struggled to rise, but sank back against Day. “More will die, Inspector.”
“What do you mean, more?” Day said. “Is the Price family dead?”
But Denby had lapsed back into unconsciousness. Day looked up at Campbell, who towered above him, staring off in the direction of the village.
“Who’s dead?” Day said. “Do you know?”
Campbell shook his head. “He’s a doctor, not a murderer. He’s talking about the sickness, I’m sure. It’s spreading through the village more quickly every day.”
“Has he smothered everyone in these blasted creatures, then?” Day gestured at the leeches all round him. Campbell had destroyed most of them, but those that remained had stopped moving, frozen or hibernating.