central wing was occupied by judges and officers of the Supreme Court. Truly a case of putting habeus and corpus together, what?” When Owens clapped his hands, Dunne noticed he had scaly and scarred palms and fingers, no doubt what they called “doctor’s hands,” with localized sepsis caused by the bacteria commonly transmitted from patients.
They arrived at the dissecting room, a large area well-lit both by tall windows and by candles and oil lamps in wall sconces and portable holders. A workbench along one wall was littered with glass phials on stands, chemical retorts and similar alembic apparatus.
Dunne’s gaze took in the glass-doored wall cabinets and shelves. These exhibited metal basins, bleeding bowls, clamps and probes, and various saws and knives. Some of the most fearsome instruments were also works of art, their handles decorated with sharkskin, mother-of-pearl or tortoiseshell. There were also trepan sets for drilling into the skull.
Apart from these instrument cases, the only other furniture was three long, wide tables. These were scored along their tops by long, deep grooves that led into drains over enamel buckets. The dominance of the tables in the room was accentuated by the sinister magnetism of the bodies resting, under blankets, upon two of them.
“We don’t have many visitors here,” said Owens. “Living ones, that is,” he added slyly.
But Dunne wasn’t listening to the doctor’s black humor. He was mesmerized by the outlines on the tables. One blanket obscured two distinct mounds. He pointed.
“Is that … mine?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “In the Valley of Cauteretz” (1864)
“ I NDEED IT IS ΥOUR BODY, AS YOU SAY,” SAID DR. OWENS ENTHUSIASTICALLY. “Its companion is another gentleman recently brought here. I have performed postmortems on both. Two in a matter of days. Dear me.”
“Do you handle many?” asked Dunne.
“Oh, we would only deal with, ah, cases of suspicious death—those the coroner cannot comfortably rule as having ‘died by visitation of God.’ And we are allowed to anatomize the bodies of prisoners hanged at the jail. That keeps us on our toes, mind. They hang up to fifty poor devils a year, y’know. What remains ends up in an anonymous lime pit.
“It is rough justice, Mr. Dunne. As is even flogging, to my mind. That’s one of our more unfortunate duties, y’know—to supervise, witness, the scourgings next door at the barracks or down at the Lumber Yard.” He snorted. “As if they need a surgeon to tell them that even after four strokes the cat draws blood. Why do they need to be told what a canary of a hundred strokes will do?
“But enough of that. About the first murder, the soldier at the public house, I can tell you little that you probably haven’t heard already from Captain Rossi, who, as you know, has discussed it with me. Now, of course, the body is lying in the Sandhills cemetery. At the time, we studied the exterior of the man only briefly, the cause of death being so obvious: calamitous loss of blood following a cut to the throat. Expiry was almost instantaneous. The lacerations to the abdomen and ankles were profound but largely superficial. But I’m sure you’ve already been told this.”
“Yes,” said the patterer. “Although one thing has been troubling me. What did Captain Rossi mean when he said there was sugar in the man’s mouth?”
“Well, that was interesting. Of course, by the time he was examined it had largely dissolved, but there’s no doubt his mouth had been filled with what was clearly fine-grained sugar. Not the irregular pieces people make by scraping at a sugar cone, highly refined stuff. There’s something else in line with that—but I will delay mentioning it until a more appropriate, logical time.”
Dunne was puzzled but decided to let the matter lie. “Is there anything else you can tell me about
They arrived at the dissecting room, a large area well-lit both by tall windows and by candles and oil lamps in wall sconces and portable holders. A workbench along one wall was littered with glass phials on stands, chemical retorts and similar alembic apparatus.
Dunne’s gaze took in the glass-doored wall cabinets and shelves. These exhibited metal basins, bleeding bowls, clamps and probes, and various saws and knives. Some of the most fearsome instruments were also works of art, their handles decorated with sharkskin, mother-of-pearl or tortoiseshell. There were also trepan sets for drilling into the skull.
Apart from these instrument cases, the only other furniture was three long, wide tables. These were scored along their tops by long, deep grooves that led into drains over enamel buckets. The dominance of the tables in the room was accentuated by the sinister magnetism of the bodies resting, under blankets, upon two of them.
“We don’t have many visitors here,” said Owens. “Living ones, that is,” he added slyly.
But Dunne wasn’t listening to the doctor’s black humor. He was mesmerized by the outlines on the tables. One blanket obscured two distinct mounds. He pointed.
“Is that … mine?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “In the Valley of Cauteretz” (1864)
“ I NDEED IT IS ΥOUR BODY, AS YOU SAY,” SAID DR. OWENS ENTHUSIASTICALLY. “Its companion is another gentleman recently brought here. I have performed postmortems on both. Two in a matter of days. Dear me.”
“Do you handle many?” asked Dunne.
“Oh, we would only deal with, ah, cases of suspicious death—those the coroner cannot comfortably rule as having ‘died by visitation of God.’ And we are allowed to anatomize the bodies of prisoners hanged at the jail. That keeps us on our toes, mind. They hang up to fifty poor devils a year, y’know. What remains ends up in an anonymous lime pit.
“It is rough justice, Mr. Dunne. As is even flogging, to my mind. That’s one of our more unfortunate duties, y’know—to supervise, witness, the scourgings next door at the barracks or down at the Lumber Yard.” He snorted. “As if they need a surgeon to tell them that even after four strokes the cat draws blood. Why do they need to be told what a canary of a hundred strokes will do?
“But enough of that. About the first murder, the soldier at the public house, I can tell you little that you probably haven’t heard already from Captain Rossi, who, as you know, has discussed it with me. Now, of course, the body is lying in the Sandhills cemetery. At the time, we studied the exterior of the man only briefly, the cause of death being so obvious: calamitous loss of blood following a cut to the throat. Expiry was almost instantaneous. The lacerations to the abdomen and ankles were profound but largely superficial. But I’m sure you’ve already been told this.”
“Yes,” said the patterer. “Although one thing has been troubling me. What did Captain Rossi mean when he said there was sugar in the man’s mouth?”
“Well, that was interesting. Of course, by the time he was examined it had largely dissolved, but there’s no doubt his mouth had been filled with what was clearly fine-grained sugar. Not the irregular pieces people make by scraping at a sugar cone, highly refined stuff. There’s something else in line with that—but I will delay mentioning it until a more appropriate, logical time.”
Dunne was puzzled but decided to let the matter lie. “Is there anything else you can tell me about
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