Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,38

who appeared no worse for wear after his own encounter with Inspector Brighton, seemed to be trying to convince him that the men, being already deceased, could not possibly mind.

The woman in question was very different from the vixen in the red-and-black dinner gown the evening before. She looked to be in her late thirties, stern and no-nonsense, with a steel-gray unadorned overcoat that matched her demeanor exactly.

If he himself were a dead man, mused Lord Ingram, he could not imagine being studied by a more respectable woman.

But the pathologist disagreed. Would he have been more amenable had Holmes appeared as her usual self? Or should she have come as a wizened old lady?

Or would he have accommodated her only if she’d shown up as Sherrinford Holmes?

Holmes’s cheeks were turning red from the cold. He supposed he should be thankful that the viewing room, part of Scotland Yard’s mortuary, was unheated, and that the wintry air slowed the decomposition of the two men. Still, the interior, which reeked of formaldehyde and disinfectant, held a note of putrefaction, a stench that had burrowed into walls and floors, however bare, and could not be made to disappear unless the site itself was first demolished.

When Holmes stamped her feet against the floor, trying to keep warm, Lord Ingram decided that they’d waited long enough.

“Dr. Caulfield,” he said to the pathologist, “pray cease thinking of Miss Holmes as first and foremost a woman. She is here solely as her brother’s eyes, because Mr. Sherlock Holmes cannot be here himself.”

“Surely, my lord, you could also—”

“I cannot. Miss Holmes has been especially trained and my powers of observation pale in comparison. I am touched by your concern for everyone’s modesty, but I am sure these gentlemen here”—he indicated the bodies—“are more interested in receiving Sherlock Holmes’s insight than in quibbling over etiquette at this late stage.”

The pathologist hesitated.

“We also need to examine the scene of the crime and speak with family members—all before noon. Time flees, Dr. Caulfield. Let us have no more demurrals.”

Reluctantly, the man acquiesced, but not without casting a disgruntled look in Holmes’s direction. “As you wish, my lord.”

“Miss Holmes.”

“Thank you, my lord. Much obliged.”

She observed first Mr. Longstead, who in life might have appeared younger with animation; but with his almost completely white hair, in death he looked every one of his sixty-seven years. The wound was through his chest. There were no other wounds on his person.

Mr. Sullivan, on the other hand, had a bruise on his right forearm, a cut on the back of his head, and was shot through the forehead.

Holmes leaned down and peered at the bullet hole.

Lord Ingram took the opportunity to satisfy his own curiosity. “What do you make of the cause of death, Dr. Caulfield?”

During the carriage ride to Scotland Yard, they had discussed the possibility that she, as a woman with professional inquiries, might not be welcome at the mortuary.

At least you won’t need to ask questions. The pathologist probably won’t be able to tell you anything you won’t have deduced for yourself, he’d said.

She’d smiled slightly and answered, Then you should ask a few. We wouldn’t want him to feel completely superfluous.

Indeed Dr. Caulfield puffed up at having his expertise sought. He rubbed his hands together. “The shot that killed Mr. Longstead was a contact shot—that was easy to see from the fabric of his clothes. The shot that killed Mr. Sullivan, on the other hand, was not fired from such close range. At least, there was no powder residue on his forehead.”

“What do you make of the other injuries on Mr. Sullivan?”

“Hard to pin down exactly what caused the bruise on his forearm. The cut on the back of his head probably happened as he fell—he could have hit it on the windowsill.”

“And the time of death?”

“Between one and three o’clock Tuesday morning, I would say, judging by the development of rigor mortis.”

Dr. Caulfield seemed particularly pleased to offer up this particular morsel, although Lord Ingram was almost certain interviews could have yielded the same knowledge.

He thanked the pathologist gravely. Holmes indicated that she was finished. Sergeant MacDonald conducted them to the room where evidence collected from the scene of the crime was held.

Once they were alone, Holmes asked in a low voice, “How did your interview with Inspector Brighton go, Sergeant?”

Lord Ingram had wondered the same—he’d requested that Sergeant MacDonald be their liaison at Scotland Yard for that very reason. He hoped Inspector Brighton wouldn’t have been as harsh to a