“Close the door, Constable, and go about your duties. I’m sure you must have plenty to do.”
“Yes, sir,” Bowers gulped, swinging the door shut reluctantly, leaving Ian and the chief inspector alone with their visitor.
“Assuming you are who you claim to be,” Crawford began, “why—”
“Why on earth would anyone pretend to be me?” she interrupted impatiently.
Knowing her reputation, Ian was convinced she was exactly who she claimed to be.
Evidently the chief inspector agreed. “Very well,” he said. “Pray be seated.”
“That’s more like it,” she said, settling her sturdy form into the nearest chair.
“Now then,” said Crawford, “exactly why do you believe a murder has been committed?”
Jex-Blake returned his gaze. “Are you familiar with the symptoms of arsenic poisoning?”
“Some of them, yes.”
“Then you are perhaps aware that it can easily be attributed to other causes, such as stomach viruses, dropsy, or even cholera.”
“What in particular leads you to believe Mr. Caruthers is the victim of arsenic poisoning?”
“His fingernails display pronounced horizontal striation.”
Crawford’s broad face puckered. “Horizontal stri—?”
“White lines along the width of the nails,” she explained, as though addressing an exceptionally slow child. “It is a telltale sign of arsenic poisoning.”
“I see,” Crawford replied, stroking his ginger whiskers.
“What relationship have you to the victim?” Ian inquired.
Dr. Jex-Blake squinted at him as though he were an unusual laboratory specimen.
“Why is that of any consequence?”
“In any investigation, it is crucial to identify the persons surrounding the victim,” he replied, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. “You are the one to report this crime—if indeed such it is—so I am starting with you.”
“Mr. Caruthers’ wife has been under my care since her pregnancy.”
“Under your care?” said Crawford.
“You are evidently unaware that I run a clinic for women on Grove Street,” she said drily, as though their ignorance was an offense against her honor.
“Ah, yes—quite commendable,” Crawford said with a little cough. “So Mrs. Caruthers informed you of her husband’s death?”
“Actually, no. I was the one who found Mr. Caruthers after his demise.”
“How did that come about?” Ian inquired, exchanging a look with Crawford. It was a given in crime investigation that the person who “discovers” the body must be considered as a potential suspect.
“I did not poison Mr. Caruthers, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Dr. Jex-Blake snapped. “I happened to be checking in on Mrs. Caruthers, and not finding her at home, I thought to wait for her.”
“How did that lead to the discovery of the body?” said Ian.
“Mrs. Caruthers had given me a key to her home. When I let myself in, I felt something was not quite right, so I went into the bedroom, where I found Mr. Caruthers.”
“I see,” said Crawford. “Upon which you diagnosed arsenic poisoning.”
“Precisely.”
“And where is Mr. Caruthers at this moment?”
“His poor wife was quite beside herself with grief, so we had him taken to the city morgue.”
Listening to Dr. Jex-Blake, Ian Hamilton thought this seemed a very interesting case. He had no way of knowing it would prove to be far more than that.
CHAPTER TWO
It was nearly ten o’clock, and Sergeant William Dickerson had just poured his second cup of tea, when Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton burst forth from DCI Crawford’s office.
“Come along, Sergeant,” he called, throwing his long black cloak over his shoulders. Some on the force felt the old-fashioned garment was an affectation, but Dickerson thought the detective looked rather dashing in it.
“Where to, sir?” he asked, scrambling to fetch his own coat from the rack.
“The morgue,” Hamilton replied, and the sergeant’s heart sank.
The place made Dickerson extremely uncomfortable, though he would never admit it to anyone. He knew their trip was something to do with the lady who had barged in demanding to speak with DCI Crawford. He’d never seen such cheek in a woman before. He admired her, but women like her scared him—another fear he was unlikely to admit.
He donned his long uniform coat and barely had time to button it as he hurried after Hamilton. They emerged into a bright, windy day, skirting the edge of Old Town on their journey to the morgue. Dickerson dodged a group of schoolboys playing hoops and sticks, nearly tripping over one of them as he scrambled to keep up with Hamilton’s long strides.
“That lady—ye seemed t’recognize her,” he said. “Who is she?”
“A very brave woman, Sergeant. She managed to get permission to study medicine at the University of Edinburgh—caused a lot of trouble, too. You’ve heard of the Surgeons’ Hall Riot?”
“When were that, sir?”
“About 1870, I believe. My family had just moved here around that time.”
“So she’s a doctor?”
“Yes, but she got no joy from the University of Edinburgh. She and six other women attended lectures but were never given degrees. It would seem progress in Scotland crawls rather than marches on.”
“A right pity, sir—I’d think a lady like that would make a good doctor.”
“Well, she eventually got her medical degree—from a German university, I believe.”
“I’m glad, sir. There’s somethin’ about her inspires confidence, if y’know what I mean.”
“I do,” Hamilton said. “I only hope for her sake that her accusation does not land suspicion upon her.”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“It is not uncommon for criminals to pretend to ‘discover’ a victim they have in fact murdered. They do this hoping to divert attention from themselves, but some killers also derive a perverse thrill from remaining close to the investigation. This allows them to relive their crime all over again, as well as keep an eye on the progress of the police.”
“That’s disturbin’, sir.”
“The criminal mind is a dark place, Sergeant.”
The city morgue was an imposing stone building located on Cowgate, so named after the herds farmers brought from the west of Edinburgh to sell at the Grassmarket. It was as dismal as Dickerson remembered. The hollow clang of a bell announced their arrival, and the attendant appeared shortly afterward, swinging open the heavy wooden door to admit them to the underground chambers. The sergeant remembered him from their last visit—a stringy-haired Welshman by the name of Jack Cerridwen. Dickerson was wary around the Welsh, who could be surly and secretive. Most of all, they tended to be ill-disposed toward the English, and being from Lancashire, Dickerson had met his share of unfriendly Welshmen.
But Jack Cerridwen didn’t seem to care about anyone’s origins so long as they supplied him with alcohol, and he greeted Detective Hamilton with a broad smile. “Come right in, gentlemen—I’ve been expectin’ ye, as it were.”