Instruments of Darkness by Imogen Robertson Read Free Book Online

to my bed in the morning when not viewing the slaughtered gentry of the neighbourhood.’ He weaved his hands together and stretched his fingers, making them crack, then continued in a practical tone: ‘Now, this will not be a full dissection. This is not the weather, the body must be viewed by the Coroner’s men in the morning, and I think we can be certain as to how this man died. We will confine ourselves to externals and examine his leg for any old injury.’ Harriet drew herself very straight and nodded. Crowther suspected she was fighting the impulse to salute.

    He had removed his coat and was turning to hang it on a convenient nail when he noticed his own tools, wrapped in their soft leather roll on the bench beside the ewer and bowl.

    ‘How came these here?’

    ‘William picked them up from your people as he came back through the village. Had you not required them, they would have been returned before you had noticed they were gone.’

    ‘Your house is well run.’

    ‘William and David were both at sea with my husband and myself. Mrs Heathcote’s husband serves with him still. I could not wish for a better family. The maids still come and go, but in general I believe a woman never had better servants, or more loyal.’

    Crowther turned to the corpse again, wondering if Miss Rachel Trench had ever been to sea, and if not, what she thought of the family now gathered round her.

    He had been expecting Mrs Westerman to leave him at this point, but she did not. Instead, she folded back her habit from her wrists, and picked up an apron to cover her skirts. Catching his look, she gave him a wary half-smile.

    ‘You did say it would not be a full examination.’

    ‘Indeed.’

    ‘Then I think I shall stomach it.’ She moved to the body and folded away the linen cover, then, her attention caught, she bent down to examine the hand.

    Crowther had studied with some of the best surgeons and teachers of anatomy in Europe. They were busy practical men, their inquisitiveness their main feature, their niceties blunted by their commerce with the dead and the necessary dealings with the underworld of bodysnatchers and resurrection men. He had seen any number of corpses cut up and manhandled, the floor slippery with blood and air thick with human effluvia while a dozen men in powdered wigs jostled over a body to examine some peculiarity pointed out by their instructors. He thought now that he had never seen a sight as shocking, or as strangely beautiful, as Mrs Harriet Westerman taking the stiff fist of the corpse between her own white hands and stooping to examine the dead flesh. Its grey, waxen emptiness alongside the delicate colouring of her face and intelligence in her eyes, seemed a metaphor of divine spark. If she had breathed on that hand and made it warm again, and alive, Crowther would have accepted the miracle and believed.

    ‘He has a hold of something. Do you have a pair of tweezers?’

    ‘Of course.’

    He handed them to her and watched as she pushed them between the man’s fingers. She bit her lip when she was concentrating.

    ‘There!’

    She passed the tweezers back to him with a flourish; in between their delicate silver tips Crowther saw a scrap of paper. The corner of a sheet, torn off.

    ‘He had something with him. A note or letter to go with the ring and it was taken from him,’ she said immediately.

    ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps it was a note from his tailor.’

    She narrowed her eyes. ‘I doubt anyone goes to meet someone in the woods, in darkness, with a note from their tailor clasped in their hand. Though I understand you. I am too quick.’ She reclaimed the scrap of paper, folded it into her handkerchief and put it to one side.

    ‘You are perhaps a little hasty. But your methods are just as I would advise.’

    ‘You forget. I read your article and watched you this morning. I am your student.’

    Crowther raised his eyebrows briefly and returned to the body.

    The cloak revealed