highlighted by melancholy gray eyes that seemed to look at everything, but reluctantly, and a thin line of a mouth that with minimal change could suggest sorrow, disgust, reproach and even amusement.
The Crippen case—one of the century’s most notorious—had marked Spilsbury’s entry into the world of forensics; and over the intervening years no professional ups and downs had followed for Spilsbury, strictly what a wag had called “a steady climb to Papal infallibility.”
Still, like so many in Britain, Spilsbury had not been spared by the war; his son Peter, a surgeon, had died in 1940, at the height of the Blitz. Greeno had heard the whispers: on that day, Sir Bernard had begun to fail.
His work, however, remained impeccable. It was characteristic of Spilsbury to work alone in a politely preoccupied fashion. But his considerable charm, his dry wit, seemed to have evaporated. The touch of sadness in his eyes had spread to his solemn features.
“Doctor,” Greeno said.
Greeno knew not to call Spilsbury “Sir Bernard” here; the pathologist considered that out of place at a crime scene.
“Inspector,” Spilsbury said. He was lugging the almost comically oversize Gladstone bag that was his trademark. Then the pathologist raised one eyebrow and tilted his head toward the brick shelter.
Greeno nodded.
And this was the extent of the inspector briefing the pathologist.
Greeno followed Spilsbury through the narrow doorless doorway into the brick structure. The pathologist knelt beside the dead woman, as if he were praying; perhaps he was—one could never be sure about what might be going on in Sir Bernard’s mind.
Then Spilsbury snapped the big bag; it yawned open gapingly to reveal various odd and old instruments, including probing forceps of his own invention, various jars and bottles (some empty, some full), and a supply of formalin. Also, he withdrew rubber gloves from somewhere within, which he snugged on.
Not all pathologists went the rubber-glove route. But Greeno knew Spilsbury—unlike many who should’ve known better—could be trusted to touch nothing at this crime scene other than the body, and even then with gloved fingertips. Any other evidence gathered by the pathologist would be preceded by a request to the detective in charge—in this case, Greeno.
The gloom of the shelter required Spilsbury to withdraw, from the seemingly bottomless bag, an electric torch, which he held in his right hand, using his left for other examinations. The pathologist was adeptly ambidextrous.
Never rising, Spilsbury started at the woman’s feet and, bathing her selectively in the torch’s yellow glow, closely looked at the clothed corpse as carefully as an actor studying his curtain speech. There was no rushing the doctor, although his methodical approach was diligent, not laggard.
It was Spilsbury, after all, who had taught Greeno that “clues can be destroyed through delay, and changes in the body after death… and the body’s removal from where it was found… can confuse the medical evidence.”
“With your permission,” Spilsbury said, “I’m going to remove this watch.”
“Please,” Greeno said.
“I’ll hold on to it, if I might.”
“Do.”
“I will pass it along to Superintendent Cherrill for fingerprint analysis and other testings.”
“Fine.”
Carefully, the rubber gloves apparently causing him no problem, Spilsbury removed the watch from the dead woman’s wrist. He turned it over.
“We may have just identified the poor woman,” Spilsbury said. “Take a look.”
Spilsbury held the item up and Greeno leaned down.
On the back of the timepiece was engraved: E.M. Hamilton.
“It’s not a cheap watch,” Greeno said. “Odd our man left it behind, when he took her purse.”
“Dark in here,” Spilsbury said, making the same assumption Greeno had earlier. “He may simply have missed it.”
The doctor was placing the watch in a small jar; this he labeled with a pen. Greeno knew material evidence was safe and sound in Spilsbury’s keeping—whenever a case on which Spilsbury had worked came to court, the chain of possession of the evidence was flawless… only the great man himself and the laboratory analyst would have handled the stuff.
“On such and such a date,” the familiar testimony went, “I was handed so many jars by Sir Bernard Spilsbury….”
Spilsbury’s mournful, chiseled countenance looked up at Greeno. “Have you taken photographs?”
“One of my men has, yes.”
“Then I’m going to unbutton her blouse, and may need to remove or undo an undergarment. Please block the doorway so that we’re not interrupted.”
Greeno did.
Finally, Spilsbury sighed as he rose, taking off the rubber gloves. He indicated the corpse, whose rather full breasts were exposed, though the pathologist largely obstructed Greeno’s view. “I’d like more photographs, please.”
Greeno made that happen, and briefly flashbulbs worked their