The Butchered Man Page 9

  “And mistresses are far more expensive than wives,” said Vernon, throwing open the doors of the press. “Now am I right in thinking he might have got blood on him, if he had been involved?”

  “I would think there’d be some. Do you think it’s possible he did it? He looked genuinely shocked to see the body. Fainting like that.”

  “You can argue it either way,” said Vernon, pulling out Rhodes’ clothes and heaping them on the bed. He picked up a coat and peered at the lapels. “You go through the drawers.”

  They searched as thoroughly as they could but nothing seemed out of place. There were no blood-stained shirts and no knives of any description. Felix went carefully through every silver-topped, gilded bottle in Rhodes’ handsome dressing case and although there was an inordinate amount of scent and lotion for a man, there was nothing suspicious. There was not even a flask of laudanum, and certainly no arsenical preparations.

  “Either that means he is nothing to do with it,” said Vernon, “or he is smart. Well, I know that. He is smart. He must have picked up a stash over the last few days just playing cards and that is not a racket for fools. If he had done it, he might have been clever enough to remove all the evidence. This place is clean as whistle.” He glanced around him. “I need to know more about this will. Professional card sharps are paragons of calm – they have to be – but this will and his cousin put him in a towering rage.”

  Felix closed the dressing case.

  “Sir, is it possible that the person who gave him the poison is not the same person who took the knife to him?”

  “Entirely,” said Vernon, “unfortunately – because that doesn’t make our job any easier. But there is a sort of sense in there being two hands at work: one rational, calculating and organised – a poisoner. Then we have the irrational one: bitter, furious, venting spleen, seizing an opportunity, perhaps.”

  “But then who stripped him and put him in the ditch? That’s clearing up. That’s highly rational.”

  “Perhaps they came to their senses. Imagine you are furious enough to do that to someone, to some enemy. It would be like being possessed by the devil, and then you stop. You see what you have done and reason comes on you again. You have to act differently, conceal what you have done. You do not go to pieces – you are stronger than that. You organize matters. You eliminate the trail as far as you can.”

  “Do you think John Rhodes is capable of all that?”

  “I really don’t know. But if he is, he won’t be much bothered by my locking him up and threatening him with the magistrates. He is not going to confess just to oblige me. If he is responsible, and it is a large ‘if’, we will have to tease the truth out of him.”

  “How will you do that?” said Felix.

  “I’m going to let him go and watch what he does. Otherwise I am showing my hand too strongly. But while we are watching him, we will find out a deal more about our dead man. Rhodes may not be the only person who would have liked to measure him for a coffin.”

  ***

  “Perhaps we can talk now, Mr Rhodes,” said Vernon.

  Rhodes was lying on the bench that passed for a bedstead in one of the white-washed cellars, his hands tucked under his head.

  “About what?” he said, after a long moment.

  “About the matter of a will. A quarrel over a will.”

  “That is none of your business,” said Rhodes. “That was between my cousin and myself and has nothing to do with this.”

  “Then tell me what the substance of the quarrel was. If it is not material to your cousin’s death, then I can see no point in your not discussing it.”

  “Because it is a private matter!” said Rhodes, sitting up. “Between two gentlemen, and therefore none of your damned business. Furthermore, I will not have you poking your self-righteous fingers into my affairs, merely because you think – on the flimsiest grounds possible – that I may have something to do with his death. I know how you see me. I am a convenient scapegoat for you – and you are too lazy to get out there and find the real culprit!”

  “Given the way you make your money, you are hardly in a position to object to any treatment I might care to mete out. You have long ago forsaken any right to the consideration due to a gentleman, Mr Rhodes, and you know it.” He unlocked the gate and pulled it open. “But I shan’t keep you.”

  Rhodes heaved himself up.

  “You’re letting me go?”

  “Yes – but don’t leave Northminster. But you won’t be able to, will you? As Rhodes’ nearest living relative you have a funeral to arrange. You can apply to the coroner tomorrow to release the body for burial. No doubt you will want to see the thing done properly. And when he is safely in his grave, perhaps then you might talk to me?”

  Rhodes gave a sort of grunt and strode out of the cell and past the Major.

  He stopped and turned back.

  “I hope to God you are half the fellow you presume yourself to be and that you can catch the devil that did that to my cousin! For all you think I may be, I am not that devil. We may have quarrelled, but I should never have stooped to murder!”

  Chapter Twelve

  “It’s quite rotten. I’d better draw it for you. That way it won’t give you any more trouble.”

  “Do you have to, sir?” Constable Arthur said, blenching.

  “If I don’t, you’ll lose the rest of them,” Felix said, and went to look in his instrument case for his extraction forceps. When he turned back, he found Arthur on his way to the door.

  “If it’s all the same to you, Doctor,” he said, “perhaps not now.”

  “It’ll be nothing to the pain if I leave it in. You said you hadn’t slept properly for weeks.”

  “Yes, sir, I know, but...”

  Constable Arthur was a real bruiser and apparently always first into a fight, and yet here he was, cowering at the sight of a little pair of steel pincers.

  “Sit down, man,” said Felix, turning the Windsor chair into the best light. Still the man hesitated. “It’ll all be over in a moment or two.” Felix hoped he sounded suitably insouciant. The truth was that the tooth might easily crack.

  Arthur edged nervously towards the chair and sat down.

  “Have you any spirits, sir?” he said.

  “Whisky,” Felix said, and passed him a cup of it. Constable Arthur drank a long draft and then another before he consented to lean back, his face screwed up in anticipation of the agony, his mouth just open in a rigid little slit.

  “You’ll have to open wider than that,” Felix said.

  “I can’t sir,” said Arthur. “It already hurts like murder.”

  Speed and surprise – those were the hallmarks of a efficient surgeon. Felix knew he had to act before Arthur had any more time to think about what was going to happen.

  So he plunged in, with a manoeuvre which he considered more desperate than elegant. He wrenched down the man’s jaw, and got his left hand into his mouth, holding down his tongue so he could not bite it off, and then came in with the pincers. Arthur was writhing so he had to go for the mark at once. He clamped the tooth at the lowest point he could and pulled with all his strength. For a long moment it would not even loosen and then suddenly it came away and Felix jumped back in triumph, the tooth miraculously intact on the forceps. Constable Arthur, now released, bellowed and howled, as if he had been assaulted.

  “You fucking bastard!” he screamed, lumbering across the room towards Felix, his arms flailing. “You fucking bastard!”

  He would have hit Felix had not someone roared “Sit down!” in a voice which stopped Arthur in his tracks. Felix was equally startled. Intent on the job, he had not noticed Major Vernon come in.

  Constable Arthur went meekly back to his seat.

  “Here, have some more spirits,” Vernon said in a slightly milder tone. “Excellent work, Mr Carswell. I have considered doing that myself on occasion, but I can see it is a job for an expert.”

  Felix dropped the tooth into a cup. H
e would be able to make some interesting slides for his microscope out of that. He would have liked a sip of whisky for himself. He was sweating and dry-throated with a mixture of excitement and relief. He put down the forceps and pushed his hands through his hair, exhaling and attempting to steady himself.

  Felix noticed Arthur was making short work of the whisky.

  “Rinse your mouth out with it,” he said to him. “Then go and lie down in the mess room for a couple of hours. Keep yourself warm.” The mess room was hardly the best place to recover, but there was a good fire there. He would probably fall down dead drunk and sleep it off.

  “Yes, sir, of course, sir,” Arthur said, and after noisily swilling and spitting, he staggered off.

  “I’ll get on with testing the stomach contents now, sir, unless there are any other men out there?” said Felix.

  “No, but you have a visit to make,” said Major Vernon handing him a note. “Miss Hilliard at the House of Mercy at Brinklow asks me if I can spare you. One of her charges is giving her concern. I’ve told Bennett to saddle your horse. I gather it’s a matter of some urgency.”

  ***

  “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call,” said Giles. “Perhaps we might sit down?”

  “Yes, yes,” said the Dean taking his usual chair by the fire and offering Giles the chair opposite. “So, you are on business again, of course,” said the Dean. “Do you want my daughter’s needlework this time? But I should not jest – you look troubled, Major.”

  “I have bad news for you,” Giles said. “Stephen Rhodes is dead.”

  The Dean winced and pressed his palms together, as if praying for a moment.

  “Oh, dear God,” he murmured. “Oh, my poor child.” He rubbed his face “How?” he said, “and when? And why are you telling me this, of all people? How is this police business?”

  “Sir, I can only be brutally frank with you. It is my business because he was murdered.”

  The Dean got up from his seat and went over to the bow window, where he stood with his back to Giles for some minutes in silence. At length he said, with his voice shaking: “But how is that possible? Was he set upon by ruffians while travelling? What happened?”

  “It is very unclear. We are still investigating.”

  “You have no idea who did it?”

  “Not yet, sir. That is why I will need your help and that of your family, particularly that of Miss Sophie.”

  “How is Sophie anything to do with this, Major Vernon? I would rather spare her the details.”

  “That may not be possible. You told me yourself that she and Mr Rhodes had an understanding. That it was likely they would marry.”

  “Yes, that is exactly why I wish to spare her any more pain than is necessary. She will be ill with grief as it is. A girl of her age, to have all her hopes dashed in this horrible fashion. You must appreciate my position, Major. I must protect my child.”

  “She will have to be told, sir,” Giles said. “I am sorry, but –”

  “I cannot see how she can help you, and it certainly will not help her. Tell me how she can help you find a monster? What does my girl know of the monsters that do such things?”

  “Nothing, but Mr Rhodes had perhaps confided in her, told her something that could be of use to us. Perhaps he has said something to you of matters that were troubling him. About money, perhaps, or family?”

  “No,” said the Dean, “no. And even if he had, I cannot see what such things could have to do with his death. He will have been murdered by some degraded wretch whom he was no doubt trying to help. I have read of such cases.”

  “Then perhaps he may have mentioned it to Miss Sophie. It really is important that I talk to her. The case is a complicated one to say the least, and I believe that once Miss Sophie understands how matters stand she will want to talk to me. She will want to see justice done. It will help more than you can know.”

  “You are very earnest on this,” said the Dean, scrutinizing him hard. “And I suppose I must defer to your knowledge of such matters. But I find it abhorrent.”

  “Thank you, sir, for your tolerance. And of course I shall not need to speak to Miss Sophie today. I have other inquiries still to make. Indeed, it may come to the point that it will not be necessary after all.”

  “I pray God it shall not.”

  ***

  The girl lay swamped and hunched in a voluminous blue flannel nightgown. She was grey-faced and clearly in serious pain. Strands of her dark hair, damp from her fever, stuck to her face, and she looked more alarmed than reassured at the sight of Felix. She flinched as he approached.

  “Don’t be afraid. I’m going to try and help you,” he said, crouching down beside the bed and looking into her eyes. He took her wrist. Her pulse was racing. She was struggling for breath, as Felix pressed his hand to her forehead. Her skin was fiery and clammy. “What’s your name?”

  She did not answer, but the woman who had brought him there said, “Her name is Abigail Prior.”

  Felix glanced back at her. She might have been a nurse, but she looked more like a prison warder, in her steel-grey dress and with a bunch of keys hanging from her belt.

  “And your name?” he asked.

  “Fulwood, sir.”

  “Will you open the window?” Felix said to her. “And get some ice, or if you haven’t any ice, the coldest water you have.” It was then Felix noticed the pail of bloody rags in the corner of the room. “She’s bleeding?”

  “Yes,” Fulwood said.

  “Where?”

  “From her womb. She lost a child last night.” She spoke matter of factly, with not a trace of concern in her voice.

  “When did she start bleeding?”

  “Yesterday morning. She was screaming the house down with the pains.”

  “And this fever came on when?”

  “Last night.”

  Felix nodded, and turned back to the shuddering girl, who was moaning into her sleeve.

  “Has she vomited a great deal?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long was she gone with child?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t even tell us she was with child.”

  “Go and see if you can find some ice,” he said. “And fetch a lighter shift for her.”

  When she had gone, he turned back to the girl. “I am going to try and make you a bit more comfortable, Abigail, if I can. First I will give you something to take the pain away a little.”

  Felix made up a small cup of tincture of opium in brandy and fed her a few teaspoonfuls. She clutched at him as he did it.

  “Now, do you think you can manage to lie flat on your back for me?” he asked

  This, of course, was not the way he had been taught to examine a woman, but in the circumstances he could not think what else to do. The girl was not in a position to stand up and permit it. He had recently read some articles on this subject by an American surgeon who suggested the woman should lie on her side, with her face turned modestly away from the doctor, but that would not serve here. She would have to lie on her back, with her knees up.

  He helped her recline and then raised her hips with a couple of pillows, wrapped in more towels in the hope that might stem the blood flow a little. The haemorrhage was really extreme. He wondered if she would last the night after such blood loss.

  “I’ll be as quick and as gentle as I can,” he said. “Just take a deep breath if you can, and try and relax.”

  He had read a suggestion that it was the incomplete expulsion of the foetus and placenta that caused these violent after-effects. Was that the case here? He pushed up his shirt sleeves and looking the girl squarely in the face, gently put his hand in between her legs. She was well dilated but he still hurt her. She screamed and sobbed, and he felt ashamed of what he was doing, but he had to attempt something. Otherwise, he could do nothing for her but let her bleed to death.

  So grabbing her flailing hand with his own free hand, firmly he said, “I must do this, believe me
. Your life may depend on it. Trust me, Abigail, please, can you do that?”

  She gave an almost incomprehensible grunt of consent and he focussed again on what he could feel, attempting to read with his fingertips what lay within, matching it with all the anatomy he had practised and read of. In his mind’s eye he held the image of what should be, and then felt the mass of what should not be there. It was stuck firm to the side of the uterus. It did not yield to his fingers.

  He removed his hand and his patient sank with relief. The opium he had given her seemed to be having a little effect now. Her breathing was more regular.

  If only he could get it out. If it was out of there, then the symptoms might be alleviated. He was sure that these remains were the cause of the problem. Of course there was a risk in removing them and tearing more skin, creating another wound, but this thing, which was no doubt putrefying, would at least be taken out of the equation.

  One of his professors at Edinburgh, a former military surgeon, had often exhorted them to be brave and experimental. Surgery was for the courageous, he had said, and discoveries were awarded like medals to those who took risks. This girl was going to die otherwise. This was a chance to save her. The odds were extremely long, but at least they existed.

  He searched in his bag for a tool that might serve. His smallest pair of forceps would not do it. It would not remove it in one action and that would be too excruciating for her. The pain might well kill her. What was needed was a scraping blade.

  He found a reel of silver wire that he used for repairing his instruments. He cut a length of it, bent it into a loop, and twisted the two ends together to make a rudimentary handle. But even as he made it he hesitated, weighing up cause and effect, feeling desperate for the opinion of a fellow medic, preferably that old professor of Military Surgery. However, he would have settled for a Northminster apothecary with a wig and a jar of leeches.

  He went to Abigail who lay on her side now, panting, a wad of flannel between her legs. She looked utterly miserable.

  “I want to try something,” he said to her, “and I need your permission. It will be painful now, but it may bring relief later. Do you think you can bear to let me try?”