Holmes nodded. "Were there any traces of blood on the grass leading to and from the severed limbs?"
Makinson shook his head. "None as we could find," he said dolefully.
Holmes considered this before asking, "And what signs were about the body of the banker?"
"Again, very little. We put it down again to – "
"to the removal of the heart."
"Yes," Inspector Makinson agreed.
"Quite so." Holmes nodded slowly and then closed his eyes. "And why would anyone want to steal a heart? Or, more significantly, three hearts plus an assortment of severed limbs and a head? For that matter, why would they leave the young woman's heart in place?"
"It's like I say," said the Inspector, "it's a puzzle and no denying which is, I might add, why I called upon your services. And those of the good doctor," he added with a peremptory nod in my direction.
"And we are both delighted that you did so, Inspector," said Holmes. "But what if," he continued, leaning forward suddenly in his chair, "the murderer simply forgot to take the girl's heart."
"Forgot it!" I was so astounded by the seeming preposterous nature of my friend's suggestion that I almost choked on a mouthful of toast. "Why ever would he do that when that was his entire objective?"
"But was it his objective, old fellow?" said Holmes.
"What are you saying, Mr Holmes?" "Just this: suppose the removal of the hearts was simply to cover up some other reason for the murders?"
"I cannot imagine any reason for murder which is so despicable that the murderer would want to cover it up with the removal of a heart," I observed.
"No, perhaps not, Watson. Not a despicable reason, I agree. But perhaps a reason that might lead us to his identity."
While Inspector Makinson and I considered this, my friend continued.
"Inspector, did your men find any traces of blood or tissue… perhaps even bone fragments… on the wall which took the shotgun blast?"
Inspector Makinson's eyes widened. "Why, I don't believe we did."
"Quite, Inspector. That fact and the fact that was little or no evidence of blood around the body, despite the removal of the heart, means that the murder was committed somewhere else and the body carried to the alleyway.
"I sense a confusion of red herrings," Holmes continued. "Red herrings?"
"Quite so, Watson," Holmes said as he got to his feet. "But before we go any further, I think we should see the bodies."
Without further ado, Inspector Makinson led us out of the room, along a series of corridors and then down a long staircase.
Finally, we arrived at a large oaken door inlaid with sheets of metal and an iron bar manacled through two support frames. The door opened onto a narrow corridor through whose windows we got our first glimpse of the unfortunate victims.
The entrance to the "resting" room was at the far end of the corridor and, as we walked along, I could not help but stare at the series of cots covered over with bottle-green sheets, and at the unmistakable human shapes beneath.
The room itself smelled of death, the familiar aroma – to me, at least – of putrefying flesh, a mixed scent of ruined fruit and
stale milk. There is something about dead bodies which causes the living to speak in hushed tones in their presence. Indeed, it was several months of concentrated autopsy work before even I myself could overcome the need to affect some kind of
reverence. But a dead body is not a person.This knowledge, too, comes only with practice and repeated exposure.
Makinson walked across to the first cot and crouched down to read the label tied to the support. "This one, Mr Holmes,
is,,
"Could we have them in the order they were murdered, Inspector?" Holmes boomed. "And I don't think there's any need to whisper. Nothing we say in here will be any revelation to the victims."
Makinson stood up, ran a finger across his moustache and coughed loudly. He walked across to the second cot, studied the label and then crossed to the third. "This," he announced in grand tones, "is Mr Wetherall."
I followed Holmes across to the cot and watched as Makinson pulled back the sheet.
Decomposition was well underway, despite the cool temperature of the room.
I could see that the man had been in his mid forties although the sunken eyes and hollowing cheeks were giving him a countenance of someone considerably older. A wide ligature around the neck had discoloured to a dull brown shade.
"What do you make of that, Watson?" Holmes said, pointing to the man's chest.
The wound was extensive, apparently caused by a series of slashes into the flesh, some of which extended vertically from the collarbone almost to the waist while others crossed the sternum either horizontally or diagonally. "These wounds were presumably made to expose the heart," I concluded, "but it looks like a frenzied attack. Considering that the man would have been dead when these were committed, I can only conclude that the murderer was in a terrible hurry. See here, several sections of flesh appear to have been hacked out."
Holmes stepped in front of Makinson, who shuffled to one side, and bent over the body. "Did you find these pieces of flesh, Inspector?"
"No. But we had noticed they was missing. We presumed that the killer took them with the heart."
"By mistake or in haste, you mean?" I shook my head. "That does not make sense. The flesh is entirely separate to the heart. Once exposed – as these wounds would surely have done easily – the heart would be encased within the sternum. You can see where he broke the lower ribs to get at it. Once he had the heart, it would be unlikely that he would take a large piece of flesh with it."
"Then why would he take it?" said Holmes. He turned to the Inspector who started to shrug. "Let us look at the next one, Inspector, the farmer, I believe."
We moved back to the second cot and Makinson pulled back the sheet.
This man had been much older, possibly sixty. The Inspector had been right. The damage to the chest was markedly less than that on the first victim, a simple cross-cut over the sternum and two vertical wounds, each less than a foot in length, which enabled the flesh to be pulled back to expose the heart. "It almost seems to be the work of a different person," I observed. "It's certainly not the work of a professional, however, despite its relative neatness. Perhaps he had more time. Or perhaps he was simply not so nervous."
I pulled the head to one side and looked at the damage at the back. The neck appeared to be almost completely destroyed right up to the hairline. The base of the skull was exposed and fragmented. Bending over, I could see that the wound extended down onto the shoulders.
"I wonder if we might turn him over," I said.
Both Makinson and Holmes stepped forward and, between the three of us, we managed to twist the body onto its side.
The shotgun blast had indeed been concentrated on his lower neck and upper back, right between the shoulder blades. The flesh there had been pulverized exposing portions of the spine and lower shoulder blades, themselves showing some fragmentation.
I bent closer. "That's interesting…"
"What's that, old fellow? Found something?"
"Perhaps, perhaps not," I said. "But there does seem to be some indication of another wound."
Holmes and Makinson moved alongside me and looked where I was pointing. Just to the left of the start of the ruination caused by the shotgun blast, a tiny piece of skin appeared to have been removed. That piece of skin could, of course, have been merely the tip of a much larger piece and I mentioned this fact. "One has to consider it as cart tracks disappearing momentarily into
a puddle from which they re-emerge on the other side," I said. "The puddle in this case is the shotgun wound."
"Are you suggesting that something was done to him before the shot was administered?" asked Makinson.
I looked back at the top of the wound, where it met the hairline, and lifted the shreds of loose skin and matted hair. It was as I suspected. The base of the skull was badly depressed, suggesting a hard blow from a solid object.