SEVEN
I stare at that rope. I don’t hear what they say about it. I just stare until a word snaps me out of it.
Beak? Did they say something about a beak?
I’ve obviously misheard, but that incongruous word is enough to bring me back to myself, and with that, I almost laugh. The victim was killed with an antique-looking piece of rope. Uh, because we’re in 1869? It’s just regular rope here. Old, yes, but otherwise, not nearly as incongruous as it’d been in my time.
Gray is saying something about wanting to remove another rope from the victim’s legs to determine whether they’re seized in that position. That has me craning forward again, still unsuccessfully. I can see the knees, which are drawn up. I squint until I can make out a length of rope wrapped around the victim’s ankles. So he didn’t go into rigor while sitting. That would be difficult—he’d need to die seated and somehow not fall out of the chair. Rigor mortis is a temporary condition, starting about six hours after death and dissipating around forty-eight hours.
Yep, I may not have been on a date in over a year, but I am intimately acquainted with the principles of forensic science, having spent far too many nights snuggling with textbooks, hoping it’d help get me into the homicide unit someday.
As Gray cuts the rope, he holds it steady, and I rock forward, wanting to warn that he’s getting his fingerprints on it. Or is fingerprint analysisnot a thing yet? One area I haven’t studied is the history of forensic science, seeing no practical use for it.
Well, that’ll teach me.
Gray cuts the rope, and the victim’s legs stay in the same position, indicating rigor. He massages one and then the other.
“Death at least eight hours ago and less than thirty-six. I’ll let Addington take the core temperature—he can handle that much.”
McCreadie mutters something uncomplimentary, presumably about the coroner again. Would it be a coroner? Medical examiner? Or just a doctor with a basic knowledge of pathology?
“Tell Addington you had to cut the rope to move him,” Gray says. “I’ll leave the hands where they are.”
I squint to see the victim’s hands, but McCreadie stands between my sight line and the upper body.
“The feathers were intact?” Gray asks.
Feathers?
“There were a few more of them,” McCreadie says. “Dislodged when we transported him.”
“Hmm. I don’t suppose it matters. I have no idea what they signify, but that would be your job. Lack of bleeding suggests they were also inserted postmortem.”
Inserted? Feathers? I’m barely able to stand still now, and I keep reminding myself that this has nothing to do with me. I’m a housemaid in this world, which I hope to exit tomorrow.
Forget feathers and beaks and bizarrely posed corpses. This does not concern me, and like Gray, I will deem it quite ordinary. Mundane. Not worthy of my attention.
So why am I still bouncing on my toes trying to see the body?
“That is enough for now,” Gray says. “Addington will be here soon, and we must play the game of pretending no one has examined the body. I shall perform a more thorough analysis in the morning.”
“Would you like to know who he is?”
“Whowhois?”
“The poor lad on your laboratory table.”
“You know him?”
“Archie Evans. Came up from London a few years back. Fancied himself a proper journalist. Reported on crime for theEvening Courant.”
“Why the devil didn’t you say so? That could be significant.”
“I already considered that, Duncan. Evans may have covered the wrong story. Dug too deep where he ought not to. That has nothing to do with the manner of death, though.”
“The feathers belong to a pigeon. A pigeon carries messages. A scribbler spreads the message of the news.”
“There was also a single raven feather.” McCreadie takes a watch from his pocket. “Oh, would you look at the time? I must trot off to meet Dr. Addington.”