in all its ugliest, most heartbreaking and stomach-churning manifestations. He had even killed men himself, more times than he cared to remember. But none of that had left him with Gibson’s calm insouciance when it came to viewing the dissected, mangled, or decomposing bodies of the dead. . . . Particularly when the body belonged to someone he’d called friend.
“We-ell,” said Gibson, drawing out the word into two syllables, “I’ve only just begun, I’m afraid. Had a coroner’s inquest that lasted far longer than it ought to have. About all I can tell you at this point is the liver and spleen are enlarged. But then, that’s typical for someone with Walcheren fever.”
“He told me just a few weeks ago that he thought he was getting over the worst of it.”
“No one ever really gets over Walcheren fever, I’m afraid,” said Gibson. He was a few years older than Sebastian, in his early thirties now. But chronic pain had etched deep the fan of laugh lines beside his green eyes, touched the temples of his dark hair with silver, and left him thin and wiry. “I’m not saying for certain that’s what killed him, mind you. I’ve a few things to look at yet.” He paused. “How’s Annie taking it?”
“Badly.”
Gibson shook his head. “Poor girl. She’s been through so much.”
“She’s game,” said Sebastian.
“Aye, that she is. But she was looking rather worn down last I saw her.”
“Things have been difficult for them, what with Wilkinson invalided out and too ill to hold a position. I offered to help, but she would have none of it.”
“I’m not surprised. She was always a proud woman.” Gibson limped out from behind the slab, his peg leg tapping on the uneven paving. “I take it you’ve heard about Russell Yates?”
“I have. You wouldn’t by chance know who’s doing Daniel Eisler’s postmortem?”
Gibson smiled. “I thought you might be interested, so I asked around. Seems there wasn’t one. I gather the magistrate involved doesn’t hold with such outlandish modern practices. I did, however, manage to speak to a colleague of mine—a Dr. William Fenning—who was called to confirm the man’s death at the scene. He said Eisler had been shot at close quarters in the chest. Death was likely virtually instantaneous.”
“Did he notice anything else?”
“You mean, at the house?” Gibson shook his head. “I’m afraid not. He was brought in to view the body; he gave his opinion and left. I gather he was late for a dinner party.”
The two men went to stand outside, their backs to the close room and its grisly contents, the damp wind clean and cool in their faces. Sebastian said, “Do you remember Matt Tyson?”
Gibson looked over at him. “You mean the lieutenant from the 114th Foot who was court-martialed after Talavera?”
“That’s the one. I ran into him just now. From the looks of things, he’s sold out.”
“I’m not surprised. He might have been acquitted, but those kinds of accusations leave an opprobrium that lingers.”
“Justifiably, in his case,” said Sebastian dryly.
Gibson shook his head. “I’ve never really believed in evil—at least, not as something with a finite existence outside ourselves. But when I run across someone like Tyson, it makes me wonder if the good nuns might not have been right after all.”
Gibson fell silent, his gaze on the bunching, heavy gray clouds bearing down low on the surrounding rooftops and on the soot-streaked white bulk of the old Norman keep. And Sebastian knew without being told that the surgeon’s thoughts had returned, like his own, to the man on the slab behind them.
Sebastian said, “Annie wanted me to tell her the results of the autopsy. You’ll let me know when you’re finished?”
“Of course.” Gibson hesitated, then said, “You do realize that when one dies of something like an overdose of laudanum, it doesn’t show up? Perhaps someday science will learn how to detect these things, but at the moment it’s beyond us.”
Sebastian met his friend’s gaze but said nothing.
Gibson continued. “It just looks as if the body’s systems shut down, which would also be consistent with someone who had long been in ill-health.”
Sebastian blew out a harsh breath and nodded. “That’s good. Annie’s suffered enough.”
Neither of them said, She doesn’t need the shame of her husband’s suicide added to everything else. But then, they didn’t need to.
The knowledge of it was there, in the storm-charged air.
Chapter 15
C
harles, Lord Jarvis, lounged comfortably in an overstuffed armchair beside his host’s hearth, a glass of good French brandy cradled in one palm,