grinned triumphantly. “Ah, here it is.”
“That was fast, sir,” Barnes said.
Witherspoon laughed. “You forget, I used to run the records room. I rather enjoyed it, and I must admit, I was actually quite good at it.”
“I’m sure you were, sir, but you’re better at solving murders.” Barnes didn’t want his inspector getting any silly ideas about running back to the records room.
“He’s not the only one who can solve murders around
here.” Nigel Nivens, who’d entered the room so silently neither man had heard the door open, stepped farther into the room. “What are you two doing here? You’d better not be
looking for the Odell file; you’ll not find it. It’s still on my
desk.”
“Gracious, Inspector Nivens, why would you think we
were interested in that case?” Witherspoon held up the
file he’d just taken out of the box. “This is the Compton
case file. We’re not the least concerned with your case; it’s
closed.”
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“And it had better stay that way,” Nivens snapped. “I’m
warning you, Witherspoon, keep your nose out of the Mu-
ran case. I got Tommy Odell dead to rights and he’s going
to hang.”
Witherspoon, ever the gentleman, tried again. “I assure
you, I’m not in the least interested in Tommy Odell.”
“Perhaps we should be, sir,” Barnes said softly. He
glanced at Nivens and noted, with some satisfaction, that
his face was turning red. “It seems to me that Inspector
Nivens is going to a great deal of trouble to try and scare us
off. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“How dare you.” Nivens glared at the Constable. “Just
what are you implying?”
“I’m sure the constable wasn’t implying anything untoward,” Witherspoon said hastily. Confused, he looked at his constable and then back at Nivens. “Er, uh . . .”
Barnes knew he was playing a dangerous game. It could
all blow up in his face and if things went horribly wrong,
and he could end up spending his last few years on the force
making the rounds in Whitechapel or Brixton. On the other
hand, if he played his cards right, he might just be able to
actually pull the inspector onto the case. Nivens might have
just made a really bad mistake.
“I was only curious, sir,” he said to Witherspoon. “I
mean, even if we were looking for the Odell case file, why
should Inspector Nivens get so het up? You never get upset
when other policemen look at your cases, sir.”
“Well, uh . . .” Witherspoon wasn’t quite sure what to
say. The constable had a point. He always had to track his
old case files down from someone’s desk, but he’d been
flattered that his fellow officers were interested in his
methods. Still, he didn’t wish to aggravate Inspector Nivens
needlessly—but it was odd that the man was so upset about
the matter. Very odd indeed. “Perhaps uh . . .”
“This is outrageous. Are you accusing me of having
something to hide?” Nivens cried, but his tone was now
slightly defensive. “I’ll have you know there was nothing
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83
wrong with my handling of that case, nothing at all. It was
good detective work on my part.”
“I’m sure it was, Inspector,” Witherspoon said calmly,
but his tone was slightly less mollifying than before.
“And you got a quick conviction,” Barnes goaded. He’d
heard the new note in his inspector’s voice. He also knew
that by virtue of Witherspoon’s past successes, if he took the
matter to the chief inspector, they’d have to listen to him.
Nivens glared at the constable and then turned his attention back to Witherspoon. “I’m warning you. Stay out of this case. Let me make this perfectly clear: if I hear
you’ve been interfering in this matter, there will be dire
consequences.”
Witherspoon said nothing. He simply stared at Nivens.
“Well, I’m glad that you understand.” Nivens dropped
his gaze and began backing toward the door. “There’s no
reason we can’t be civil about this matter. After all, I don’t
go snooping about in your cases.”
Barnes snorted faintly, but Nivens didn’t notice. His attention was on the inspector, who still hadn’t said a word.
“I’m glad we were able to get this issue resolved,” Nivens
muttered as he reached the door. He turned on his heel and
left.
For a long moment, the inspector said nothing, and
Barnes was sure he’d pushed too hard.
“Constable, I do believe you and I ought to have a word
with the chief inspector.”
“Are you going to complain about Inspector Nivens,
sir?” Barnes wasn’t sure that was the best idea. Perhaps it
would be better to wait until they had evidence of some
sort before they went to the chief. Nivens was an incompetent fool, but he was a fool with good political connections.
“Complaining about Nivens wouldn’t do the least bit of
good. He’s too well protected.”
Amazed, Barnes stared at Witherspoon. Maybe the inspector wasn’t quite as naïve as he’d thought. “Then why do you want to see the chief inspector, sir?”
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Emily Brightwell
“I want his permission to have a look at the Odell case.
I’ve a feeling that something is terribly wrong about the
matter. What’s more, Nivens knows there’s something
wrong but he was so desperate for a conviction on his books
that he overlooked it. We can’t have that, Barnes. We must
be sure. A man’s life is at stake.”
Just across the river, Mrs. Jeffries hurried down a corridor
at St. Thomas’s Hospital. As she came around the corner,
her quarry stepped out of a door and into view. He spotted
Mrs. Jeffries and a wide smile spread across his bony face.
He was a tall man with dark red hair, pale skin, and deep-
set hazel eyes. “Good morning, Mrs. Jeffries. I had a feeling you’d be along soon. I’m just on my way to my office.
Would you care to join me? I expect we could get a cup of
tea along the way somewhere.”
“Thank you, that would be lovely,” she replied as she
fell into step with him. She really didn’t want anything to
drink, but it felt churlish to refuse.
They stopped at the nursing station and he got both of
them a hot mug of tea and told the nursing sister he’d be in
his office.
“Come along, then. I’ve changed offices since you were
last here,” he explained as he led her down a short flight of
stairs and along the corridor. “This one actually has a window.” He opened the door and nodded for her to step inside.
Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t see that this office was much of an
improvement over his old one, but she kept that opinion to
herself. Despite the pale light seeping in through the narrow
window, the room was small and rather dim. The air was
filled with the scent of dampness mingled with soap and disinfectant. The room was as cluttered as she remembered—
with books, medical magazines, and papers covering e
very
inch of the desktop and most of the shelves along the wall.
Dr. Bosworth put his cup on the edge of his desk and
picked up the pile of books that had been sitting on the chair
opposite his desk. “Do have a seat, please.”
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85
“Thank you,” she said, sitting down. On the cabinet behind his desk, she could see a glass jar with a grayish pear-shaped object in it. It appeared to be suspended in some
sort of liquid. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what it
might be. She forced herself to look away.
Bosworth took his seat. “I had a chance to read the postmortem report,” he began.
“Was the report detailed enough to give you any idea of
the kind of gun that was used to murder Mrs. Muran?” Her
gaze flicked back to the object in the glass jar.
“Based on the details in the report, my guess is that it
was a fairly large pistol. The entry wound was over half an
inch wide.”
“Did the doctor doing the autopsy measure the wound?”
She forced her gaze away from the jar and back to him.
“Are your methods becoming well known?”
Bosworth laughed. “I’d like to think so, but the truth is,
the postmortem was done by a friend of mine, and he’s quite
familiar with my theories. I don’t think he believes them to
the same extent that I do, but he was curious enough to measure the wound.” His smile faded. “The poor woman never had a hope of surviving. She was shot in the head and the
heart.”
“There were two shots?” Mrs. Jeffries prompted.
Bosworth nodded. “Whoever did it wanted to make sure
she was dead.”
“But surely a shot to the head would have done that,”
she pressed.
“Not necessarily,” Bosworth replied. “Quite a number of
people have survived head wounds. You can walk around
quite easily with one or even more bullets in your brain. I
once treated a gambler in San Francisco who had two bullets lodged in his head. I was treating him for the gout. No, whoever shot Mrs. Muran wanted to make sure she was dead,
and the only way to do that was to make sure you hit both the
brain and the heart. By the way, that sort of knowledge isn’t
generally known by the public.”
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Emily Brightwell
“What are you saying, Dr. Bosworth?” she asked. She
wanted to make sure she understood precisely what this evidence might mean. “Are you implying the killer must have medical training?”
“Not exactly.” Bosworth leaned forward. “Anyone who’d
ever been on a battlefield or around a hospital could have
such knowledge, as could anyone who has studied anatomy
or physiology. It doesn’t mean your killer is a physician or
a nurse. But whoever the murderer is, he must have known
that the only way to be sure of certain death is to go after
both organs. Either that or he was just someone who liked
shooting and happened to hit just the right spots.” Bosworth
leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “I can’t prove any
of this, Mrs. Jeffries, but as you know, I’ve seen a number
of shootings in my time, and frankly, most people are such
awful shots that one is just as likely to be wounded or
maimed rather than killed. But Mrs. Muran was killed, and
from what the postmortem reveals, she was killed quickly
and cleanly.”
“Could it be a coincidence?” she asked. “I mean, could
it just be that the killer got lucky?”
“Anything is possible,” he replied. “I wish I knew more,
but I’m afraid that’s really all I was able to understand
from the report.”
“You’ve been very helpful, and we’re very grateful. I
know you’re busy, so I’ll not keep you further.” She rose to
her feet and he started to get up as well, but she waved him
back to his chair. “I can find my own way out.”
“But Mrs. Jeffries, I wasn’t finished.” He grinned. “I did
find out something else, something you might find quite
useful.”
She sank back down. “But you said there was nothing
else in the report.”
“That’s true, but I had a chat with the fellow who treated
Mr. Muran’s head wound.”
“How very clever of you.” She stared at him in genuine
admiration. “How did you manage that?”
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“London may be a large city, but the medical community isn’t that extensive,” he explained. “Mr. Muran was treated here.”
“Gracious, that’s a lucky coincidence.”
“Not really. The murder scene was just across the bridge.
We were the closest hospital, so the constables brought him
here. I found out who was on duty that night and made some
discreet inquiries. Keith Muran was seen by Dr. Matthew
McHenry. McHenry and I went to medical school in Edinburgh together.”
“What did you find out?” she asked eagerly.
“Muran’s injuries were genuine. He had a severe concussion and spent several days in hospital. Whoever hit him, hit him very hard. Unfortunately, Dr. McHenry isn’t
particularly interested in my theories, so he didn’t examine
the injury closely, he only treated the man. He’d not taken
any measurements nor had he paid attention to the actual
shape of the wound.”
Bosworth sighed. “I think so, but not everyone seems to
agree. McHenry looked at me as if I were quite mad when
I inquired about the particulars of the wound. But Mrs. Jeffries, if he had paid attention to the shape and specific size of the injury, it might give us some idea of what kind of
weapon was used on Keith Muran.”
“Knowing the weapon might make a difference,” she
murmured.
“Of course it would,” Bosworth insisted eagerly. “First
of all, it would give you some idea of whether or not your
assailant used the pistol handle, brought another weapon
with him, or whether he simply used a handy brick or a
stone to cosh Muran over the head.”
Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t certain how one could use this sort
of information, but she suspected it might mean a great
deal in the overall scope of an investigation. “Yes, I can see
how that might be helpful.”
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Emily Brightwell
“Secondly,” Bosworth continued. “If the sides of the
wound were a nice, even shape with straight, square edges,
you’d know that the fellow was probably coshed with a brick
or a small paving stone, but if it were rounded and irregular,
you’d have to consider other possibilities.”
“But what if the victim had been hit more than once?”
she speculated. “Wouldn’t that change the shape of the
wound?”
“Of course, but Mr. Muran was only hit once or possibly twice, and even if he’d been struck multiple times, there would still be evidence on some of the wounds as to
the kind of weapon that had been used.” He smiled selfconsciously. “Don’t get me started, Mrs. Jeffries. I shall take advantage of you. You’re one of the few people I
know
who actually appreciate my interest in this subject.”
“And your interest in this subject has been very instrumental on more than one occasion in catching the right killer,” she assured him. “Don’t doubt that for a minute,
Doctor. That’s one of the reasons we keep coming to you
for help.”
“You’re very kind. Let’s hope that one day people will
understand the importance of looking at every detail in a
murder. Mark my words, Mrs. Jeffries, in the future, there
will be an entire field of study devoted to the examination
of both the victim and the murder scene.”
“You know, Dr. Bosworth, I do believe you’re absolutely right.”
Wiggins walked along Barrick Street and thought it a right
miserable place. He’d gone back to the Muran neighborhood after he’d followed the two women to the tea shop, but his luck had apparently run out. He’d seen no one nor
had he caught so much as a glimpse of that scared young
maid, either. There were only so many times you could
walk up and down a street without someone noticing, so
he’d decided to come along here and have a firsthand look
at the murder scene. Fat lot of good that had done him.
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He’d been hoping to run into Smythe and get his advice
on what to do next, but so far he’d not seen hide nor hair of
the coachman. Wiggins stopped and folded his arms over his
chest. This was just about the silliest idea he’d ever had in
his life. What had he thought he’d find here? In the light of
day, the street was just another ugly commercial neighborhood without people or color or anything to recommend it.
He started walking again, taking his time and trying to
get a sense of the place, trying to see what would make
someone come here late at night. But for the life of him he
couldn’t see any attraction to the place. He trailed his fingers against the dull brown bricks of a large, windowless building that was built right up to the edge of the narrow
pavement. The building was like all the others on the road.
At the far end of the road was a solid wall of another, taller
building.
Wiggins shook his head in wonder. Maybe he’d got his
facts wrong. Why would anyone come here? He noticed
that at the dead end there was a narrow passageway, and he
hurried towards it. But when he got there, he saw it only led
to a set of double doors set back a bit from the street proper.