Not that it was difficult to see what had happened here. Just like the others-the elderly man and the middle-aged woman with whom he now made uneasy bedfellows-the younger man’s chest had been cracked open and his heart ripped viciously from within. Even now his rib cage yawned open, split into a ragged-edged wound. Around the gaping hole the flesh was puckered, waxy, and spattered with gore. His hands were fixed like rigid claws by his sides, as if he’d been raking at something in the moments before he died, either in self-defence, or more likely in abject pain. Perhaps both. His shirt and jacket-now little more than ragged, bloodied strips-still hung loosely from his shoulders. They had clearly been torn open in a hurry to provide access to the flesh and bone beneath. It seemed to Veronica that the makeshift surgery had been performed while the man was still alive.
The smell, of course, was horrendous. The corpses had already begun to decompose, particularly those of the two men. The woman was a more recent addition, a victim from the prior evening, Veronica had been told, although her flesh had already lost its pinkish hue through so much blood loss, leaving the body looking pale and doll-like.
She wondered what Bainbridge had found at the scene. She could only begin to imagine the amount of spilled blood. It must have been everywhere, pooling on the floor, sprayed up the walls, dripping off the furniture. She shuddered as she thought about these pale, violated corpses in situ in their homes. Here, as harrowing as they were to look upon, they seemed to belong. Here in the morgue, that was where corpses like these were supposed to reside. But in their own homes, butchered like swine and surrounded by the accoutrements of their lives, they would have been utterly incongruous, somehow even more awful to witness.
She’d seen their like before, of course, more times than she cared to remember, and each and every occasion had left an indelible impression upon her.
Sometimes she wondered if her life would always be steeped in death.
She laughed at herself. Now she was just being maudlin. Although it was difficult not to be while surrounded by the remains of the recently deceased.
She tore her eyes away from the body of the young man, looking for Bainbridge. She needed a distraction.
He was standing beneath the tiled archway at the other end of the antechamber-really nothing more than a screened off section of passageway-deep in conversation with another man, a Professor Archibald Angelchrist.
Veronica wasn’t quite sure what the man was doing there at the morgue, but she harboured a growing sense of suspicion. He had never been properly introduced to her, and ever since he’d arrived he’d been speaking with Bainbridge in hushed tones, evidently intent on excluding her from the conversation. She’d gathered he was a government advisor, although she was not yet entirely sure in what capacity. She’d also gleaned that he already knew Newbury, which had come as something of a surprise. Newbury had never mentioned him, not even in passing. Whatever the purpose of his attendance, it was obscure and left her feeling a little uncomfortable. Well, more uncomfortable.
Clearly, though, he and Bainbridge were close. Veronica suspected the man had something to do with whatever secretive business Bainbridge had been getting up to with the Home Secretary these last few months. He was always heading off for meetings of an undisclosed nature, waving away her questions on the matter as if they weren’t important. This was despite the amount of time they had spent together over the summer while she’d assisted him on a number of unusual cases.
Newbury had been busy with that Lady Arkwell business-which, as far as she knew, remained unresolved-so Veronica had put herself forward to assist Bainbridge on a number of matters in Newbury’s stead. There’d been that whole scandal about the vicar who’d been disinterring freshly buried corpses to feed them to his son, who’d contracted the Revenant plague, and the matter of the Gozitan midget and his “spiritualist” automaton, who they’d caught fleecing gullible members of the gentry for hundreds of pounds. Those were just two of the more memorable cases they’d investigated together in the last few months. There were numerous others, besides. Yet, for some reason, Bainbridge was more distant from her now than he had ever been before. She couldn’t understand it, and she hated feeling suspicious. She wondered if perhaps she should discuss it with him, but dismissed the idea, at least for the time being. Bainbridge had never been particularly good at discussing such personal matters. He’d probably only take offence.
The two men turned suddenly at the sound of echoing footsteps in the adjoining room, and she turned to follow their gaze. Two figures were striding purposefully towards them: the willowy mortuary attendant-a weasely, odious man at the best of times, who seemed to revel in his disdain for the police-and Newbury, who looked immaculate in his freshly pressed black suit. He was clean-shaven and appeared to be bursting with energy as he hurried along beside the slightly taller man, beaming at Veronica despite the gloomy, funereal air of the place. She felt her spirits lifting.
Bainbridge stepped in to intercept Newbury’s path. “You took your time,” he said, morosely.
Newbury grinned, clapping a hand on Bainbridge’s shoulder as he came to a stop. He caught Veronica’s eye with a sly, mischievous look. “My apologies, Charles. I wouldn’t have kept you waiting in this miserable place if it hadn’t been for the Prince of Wales.”
Bainbridge raised an eyebrow. “The Prince of Wales? Have they finally managed to get you up to the palace?” The incredulity was evident in his voice.
Newbury shook his head. “No. He called on me, just a few hours ago.”
Veronica almost laughed out loud at the expression on Bainbridge’s face as he received this news. “What? At Chelsea?” he blurted out.
“Indeed so.”
“Good God. You’ve reduced the monarchy to making house calls, Newbury! What the devil did he want?”
Newbury smiled. “We can discuss that later. Let’s get this business over and done with first.” He turned to Angelchrist. “Good afternoon, Archibald,” he said.
“Likewise, Sir Maurice. Always a pleasure.”
Newbury glanced over at Veronica. “I take it you’ve been introduced to Miss Hobbes?”
Both Bainbridge and Angelchrist looked utterly crestfallen. “Oh … how utterly inconsiderate of me,” said Bainbridge, taking two strides towards her. “My dear, I’m so sorry. I’ve rather let myself down. I just got caught up in the conversation…”
“I fear we’ve neglected you, Miss Hobbes. We’ve been a little preoccupied, but nevertheless, it’s utterly unforgivable.” Angelchrist came to join her and Bainbridge, taking her hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Veronica lowered her handkerchief and smiled. “Indeed, Professor. I’ve heard a great deal about you,” she lied, studying his face to gauge his reaction. He nodded thoughtfully, as if the idea didn’t overly concern him.
Now that he was standing before her, she had to admit he didn’t seem all that sinister. He was a smart-looking man in his early to mid-fifties, just a little older than Bainbridge. His hair was thinning and grey, and his moustache was neatly trimmed and still mostly black with a few flecks of white. He was shorter than Bainbridge by a few inches, and his face was careworn and friendly and creased easily around the mouth when he smiled. His eyes were a deep, warm brown.
“Right,” said Newbury, coming up behind the two men and clapping his hands. The sound ricocheted off the tiled walls. “Tell me about your corpses, Charles.”