Murder As A Fine Art Part 41

He pulled and flinched as something shot from the wardrobe, embedding itself in the wall near the doorway: a shaft from another crossbow. Sweat now soaked his underarms as he stepped from the side and faced the wardrobe's contents.

He saw a colonel's uniform. One pair of formal evening clothes. One set of gray trousers, a black waistcoat, and a black knee-long coat, the standard business clothes that respectable Londoners wore.

A shelf revealed a colonel's hat and a collapsible top hat.

A drawer revealed two pairs of underclothes, two ties, two s.h.i.+rts, and one pair of dress gloves.

De Quincey doubted that anyone else in Brookline's lofty position lived so austerely. The room felt like a monk's cell.

I don't dare stay any longer.

But as De Quincey stepped from the bedroom, he couldn't resist looking back and focusing on the s.p.a.ce above the wardrobe.

The rush of his heartbeat made him feel sicker.

The wardrobe's top was much taller than he was. There wasn't a chair on which to stand. He set down the candle and the knife. He jumped, gripped the top of the wardrobe, and pulled himself up. His arms in pain, he looked over the top and almost let go, so startled was he by what he found.

He was staring at a three-stranded whip with dried blood on it.

He released one hand and managed to grab the whip before he dropped to the floor.

Each night, Brookline flagellated himself.

De Quincey now suspected that the malodorous match and candle weren't intended as a warning that someone had been in the house. Rather, their stench was a deliberate displeasure, just as the straight-backed wooden chair would become painful during the many hours that Brookline spent obsessively reading De Quincey's work.

A monk's cell indeed.

A monk devoted to h.e.l.l.

De Quincey pulled everything off the cot so that the bloodstains were fully exposed. He dropped the whip onto them, wanting Brookline to have no doubt that this secret had been uncovered.

Despite De Quincey's urgency, he remembered to keep to the side of the stairs in case there were further traps.

At the bottom level, he studied Joey's blood on the floor. He stared at the vomit that he himself had left on the floor. Yes, Brookline would definitely know that visitors had been here.

He ran to the stack of books and tore out the page that began his Confessions of an English Opium-Eater. He took a pencil from the table and wrote, The Opium-Eater came to call and regrets that you weren't at home.

He put the page on the stairs, where it would certainly be noticed. All that remained was to blow out the candle and free the bolt.

As he pulled the door open, someone towered over him.

LIKE MOST PHYSICIANS in 1854, Dr. Snow had his office in his home. Running with the boy in his arms, Becker came around a corner one block to the west and charged up the steps of the building on Frith Street to which he'd been taken on Sat.u.r.day night.

Holding Joey, he fumbled with the doork.n.o.b and felt a hand surge past his, opening the door. The hand belonged to Emily, who had raced here with him, her free-moving dress giving her more speed than he believed possible for a woman.

They hurried across a vestibule and reached another door, which Emily quickly opened, allowing Becker to rush in.

Dr. Snow and a male patient looked up in surprise.

Snow was in his early forties with a thin face and dark sideburns that framed his narrow jawline. His eyes were intense. His hair had receded, making his forehead seem unusually high.

His patient was well dressed, middle-aged, and portly, with a full beard.

They sat on opposite sides of Snow's desk.

"What the devil?" the patient exclaimed as both men sprang to their feet.

"This boy needs help," Becker said.

"He's filthy," the patient protested.

"He's been shot with a crossbow."

"The beggar was probably trying to break into someone's home. Dr. Snow, look at the blood he's dripping on your floor."

"There's a surgeon ten blocks over," Snow informed his unexpected visitors.

"The boy needs help now," Becker told him.

"But I'm not a surgeon any longer. I'm a physician."

Becker understood. Physicians stood at the top of the rigidly stratified medical world. They never touched their patients but instead listened to them describe symptoms and then recommended drugs supplied by chemists with whom the physicians had a financial arrangement. In this way, physicians did not receive money directly from their patients and were not considered to be "in trade," an activity distasteful to the upper cla.s.s.

Below physicians were surgeons, who lacked social status because they dealt with all the gore that humans were subject to. Even worse than touching patients, they received money directly from the people to whom they administered. A physician was called "doctor" while a surgeon was referred to as "mister." A physician could be presented at the queen's court. A surgeon could not.

"You're telling me you won't help this boy?" Becker demanded.

The well-dressed patient reacted with shock at the idea that his physician might actually lay hands on someone, a bleeding soot-covered beggar, no less.

"What I'm telling you is, it's a job for a surgeon," Snow replied, looking disturbed as more blood dripped on the floor.

"Dr. Snow, shall I step outside and summon a constable?" the patient suggested indignantly.

"Thank you, Sir Herbert, but-"

Becker almost shouted that he was a constable but then realized that he couldn't say that any longer.

"You acted as a surgeon to me on Sat.u.r.day night," Becker reminded him.

"You did what?" Sir Herbert exclaimed.

"You disinfected my wounds and closed them. Why can't you do the same for this boy?"

"You actually closed wounds?" Sir Herbert asked in dismay.

"I did it as a favor to Detective Inspector Ryan," Snow replied. "He helped me locate the source of the recent cholera epidemic. I felt I owed him a courtesy. Yes, I was a surgeon years ago, but I progressed."

"This is nonsense," Emily interrupted. "You," she told Sir Herbert, "please leave."

"Pray tell on what authority do you-"

"Leave," Emily repeated, escorting the portly man to the door. "You have no purpose here. You are disruptive."

"But-"

Emily had him in the vestibule now and was opening the outside door. "If you're not careful, some of the blood from the boy will touch your clothes."

"Blood on my clothes? Where?"

"Good day." Emily pushed him outside and shut the door firmly. "Dr. Snow, do you still have your surgeon's instruments?" she asked as she marched back into the office.

"In that cabinet. But I have no intention of-"

"You might not, but I have every intention. Constable Becker, set the boy on this desk. Help me remove his clothing."

"You can't barge into my office and a.s.sume control," Snow told her.

Instead of paying attention to him, Emily was already tugging off Joey's filthy, blood-soaked coat.

"I a.s.sume that the first step is to clean the boy so that we can determine the extent of his injuries. Dr. Snow, where is your kitchen? We need hot water. Please instruct someone to bring it. Becker, in the meantime, help me pull the projectile from his shoulder."

"No, no, no," Snow objected. "The feathers on one end or the barbs at the other will make the wound larger."

"Then what should I do?"

"The shaft needs to be cut to remove either the feathers or the tip. Then the shaft should be cleansed with ammonia before it is pulled through the wound."

Emily freed Joey's coat and found his s.h.i.+rt so full of holes that she could easily tear it off. "How do I cut the shaft?"

"With a saw."

"And where is the saw? Dr. Snow, you need to be more hasty and helpful. This boy risked his life to try to stop the murderer."

"The murderer?"

"Who lives one block from you, on Greek Street."

"A block away?" Snow repeated with greater alarm.

"The murderer could kill you in your sleep, but this boy might have saved you. Now please stop repeating everything I say. We need the saw and the hot water, and... Yes. Good. The saw. Thank you. How do I hold it? Is this where I cut the shaft?"

"If you do it that way, you'll tear his shoulder open."

"Like this?"

"No, no, no, like this."

"Then for heaven's sake, show me before I make a mistake. Yes. Good. Please keep demonstrating. I'll fetch the hot water. Where's the kitchen?"

"Through that door."

"Is your wife home?"

"Not married. Hold the boy," Snow told Becker. "He's thras.h.i.+ng so much I can't work on him."

When Emily returned with a clean rag and a basin of steaming water, she found Dr. Snow holding a mask over Joey's face while he turned a valve on a metal container.

Joey stopped struggling.

"Is he dead?"

"Asleep. There's no more risk to the boy than when I administered chloroform to the queen during her recent childbirth." Snow put the saw on the shaft, telling Becker, "Keep him turned on his side. Hold the shaft tightly. You need to prevent the force of the saw from moving the shaft and tearing his shoulder."

Becker used his large hands to grab the front and the rear of the shaft, steadying it.

Emily wiped blood away as Snow began sawing. The grating sound of the saw against the shaft made her cringe.

To distract herself, she asked Snow, "You truly administered chloroform to the queen?"

"To the consternation of some clergymen, who objected that the Bible maintains women should suffer during childbirth." Snow pressed harder on the saw.

"The Bible says no such thing."

"It's in Genesis four sixteen. After Adam and Eve fell from grace in Eden, G.o.d banished them, telling Eve, 'In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children.' "

"Those clergymen are idiots."

"My opinion also. Almost through. There!" Snow triumphantly held up the barbed tip of the shaft. "And now to put ammonia on the shaft before I pull it out."

The door suddenly opened.

Emily looked up, surprised to see three men enter.

FATHER!"

Hurrying with him were Inspector Ryan and an authoritative man she didn't recognize.

"This is Police Commissioner Mayne," Ryan explained quickly. "Before I went to Scotland Yard, your father told me where he suspected Colonel Brookline had a residence. We met your father as he was leaving."

"Not that I believe Colonel Brookline is responsible for the recent murders," the commissioner made clear. "The cook who drugged the food at the prison vanished. Our constables learned that he used to be a soldier in India."

"A tattoo on the dead man at the prison established that he too used to be a soldier in India," Ryan said. "In the very same regiment. It turns out that Brookline also served in that regiment."

"Perhaps the colonel will remember the two men and be able to tell us something about their criminal relations.h.i.+p," the commissioner suggested. "Forgive me, young lady. I know Constable Becker, but I haven't had the pleasure of-"

"Emily De Quincey."

"Of course. Inspector Ryan speaks highly of you."