Sam bit his lip to stifle the put-upon sigh that threatened to burst forth. The murder of a man like Sir Giles could easily become a political firestorm.
Munroe shot him a shrewd glance as they walked into the autopsy chamber. But he offered no commiserating words in response to Sam’s sigh; his attention was immediately claimed by the cadaver on his table. Mr. Barts, Munroe’s pallid, weak-chinned apprentice, was already inside the room, lighting lanterns and candles to chase away the gloom.
“’Tis an ignominious end for a man such as Sir Giles,” Munroe finally said, removing his gloves and unbuttoning his greatcoat.
“Perhaps that was the point,” Sam murmured. “Perhaps.”
The doctor tossed his greatcoat on one of the counters that ran the length of a wall, and peeled off his dark gray jacket, leaving him in white shirt, white cravat, and brown tweed waistcoat over black pantaloons and boots. He slipped on the leather apron that he always wore to protect his clothes from the unexpected sprays of bodily fluids. Across the room, Mr. Barts lit two more lanterns, carrying them over to the autopsy table. As Sam watched, he set one down, and lifted the other to attach it to the wheel-like structure centered above the autopsy table. It was a clever contraption that Munroe had designed himself, to infuse the area with light without having wax drip on the corpse below.
“I pray that such barbarism wasn’t committed until after the poor sod was dead,” Sam muttered, his gaze falling on the dead man’s face and mutilated tongue.
Munroe said nothing. Rolling up his sleeves, he walked back to the table. “We shall begin with the visual examination,” he informed them.
“One moment, sir.” Barts bent to retrieve the last lantern, but paused, frowning. “How very odd . . .”
Munroe asked, “What’s the matter, Mr. Barts?”
The apprentice continued to frown, obviously puzzled. “I’m not certain, sir. The cadaver appears to have a tattoo of some kind. . . . Ah, actually several tattoos . . .” Barts squatted down to examine the symbols on the dead man’s leg before glancing up at Munroe. “I do not recall the body being marked in such a way when he was brought in, Doctor.”
“That’s because he did not have any such bodily mutilations,” Munroe said sharply. He came around the table, snatching the lantern away from his apprentice to peer closely at the area in question. Sam heard his gasp of surprise. “My God. What is this?”
Sam scooted around the autopsy table, nudging aside Barts to stare down at the dead man’s leg. “I don’t remember seeing them, either,” he admitted slowly, and felt his lips part in astonishment as he watched two more intersecting lines begin to appear on Sir Giles’s flesh. “Jesus,” he whispered, and had to curl his hand into a fist to stop himself from making the sign of the cross. He looked at Munroe. “What witchery is this?”
Munroe said nothing, but behind his spectacles, his gray eyes narrowed. He hesitated, then carefully moved the lantern down the length of the leg, letting the light play over the corpse’s flesh.
Sam leaned closer, waiting. He was mildly disappointed when nothing happened.
Munroe pressed his lips together as he contemplated the leg. After a moment, he brought the lantern closer to the body. Nothing happened at first, but then slowly two more symbols appeared like mystical stigmata.
Someone gasped. For a second, Sam was embarrassed to think he might have done it, but then he realized that Barts had made the sound.
Dr. Munroe lifted his hand and pressed two fingers against one of the images. He brought his hand back toward his face, thoughtfully rubbing his index finger and thumb together.
“’Tis no witchery, Mr. Kelly,” he finally murmured. “I believe it’s some form of secret ink. I’ve read about such things.”
“The light from the lantern is making the symbols visible?” Sam guessed. Intrigued, he leaned forward to watch as Munroe continued to move the lamp closer to the skin. The process teased out more of the markings.
“Not the light, Mr. Kelly. The heat. Mr. Barts, please bring another candle.”
Sam didn’t wait for an invitation. He retrieved a candle from one of the wall sconces as the apprentice had, and joined the men in bringing the flames near enough to heat the dead man’s flesh without setting it on fire. Despite having already seen it happen, Sam was still amazed when dark images began to bloom. Twenty minutes later, Sam took a step back and surveyed the corpse with appalled fascination. Sir Giles was no longer pale in death; his skin had become a canvas for about a hundred markings—the same symbol, etched over and over again on the warmed up flesh.
It took him a moment to be able to speak, and even then his voice was hushed. “God’s teeth. ’Tis a crucifix . . . ain’t it?”
“I’m not certain,” Munroe admitted. “Initially, I thought it might be an X, but one of the lines of the symbol is consistently longer . . . . I believe you may be correct, Mr. Kelly.” He turned to meet Sam’s gaze. “He was found in a church. Do you think this might be some form of religious zealotry? Or a political statement? Sir Giles was not a proponent of Irish emancipation.”
Sam frowned, troubled by the implication. “I don’t know,” he finally said, and his mind instantly conjured up an image of a certain dark-eyed, dark-haired American. “There is someone who might be able ter help answer that question, though.”
“Kendra Donovan,” said Munroe without hesitation.
“Aye.” Sam nodded, and nearly smiled. He knew that a year ago, neither he nor Munroe would have ever considered the idea of a lady involving herself in something so gruesome as murder, much less actually welcome her presence. But a year ago, they’d never known a female quite like Kendra Donovan.
The American was a puzzle. Her guardian, the Duke of Aldridge, had spread the story that Miss Donovan was the daughter of a close friend who’d emigrated to America, and he’d taken her in as his ward when her parents had perished in that rough-hewn country. Of course, Sam knew that story was as false as the one that Kendra had told his Grace—that she’d traveled to England in 1812 and had been stranded when war broke out between the two countries. The Duke must have had his suspicions; he’d asked Sam to investigate. It was during the course of that investigation that Sam had discovered . . . nothing. He’d found no ship carrying a passenger by the name of Kendra Donovan, and no captain who admitted to having transported a woman that answered to her description.
It was odd. But then, so was the American. There was no disrespect in Sam’s observation. In fact, he’d developed a deep admiration for the lass. He’d never met a female more courageous or more clever when it came to the criminal element. He’d seen her study a corpse with as detached an eye as Dr. Munroe. She even seemed to know things that the doctor did not. There were times when it was damned unnerving. If Kendra Donovan didn’t wear skirts, Sam would have been tempted to persuade her to become a Bow Street Runner.
Well, that, he amended silently, and the fact that she was the ward of the Duke of Aldridge. Members of the Ton did not become Bow Street Runners.
Although . . .
He scratched the side of his nose, and glanced at Munroe. “The Duke of Aldridge is a man of science. He would probably find this secret ink interesting, wouldn’t he?”