dozen of letters home in Southampton, as soon as I debarked from my naval transport, but even a true heart sometimes fails in its duty. I stretched upon the bed to gather my thoughts, and fell asleep before taking up my pen. I fear I did not even say my prayers.
Mine must have been the heaviest of slumbers, for I heard no one enter the room. And I have an old soldier’s ears. My life has depended on hearing the softest Pushtoon footfall below the Khyber, and sometimes I wake at the scratch of a mouse and alarm my Mary Myfanwy. But that night I heard not the slightest sound.
When I awoke, in yellow light, I found a box beside me on the bed. Twas a gorgeous thing of polished wood, inlaid most ornately, the way the Musselman artisans do in Lahore. I stared at the thing for a confused moment before I lifted the lid.
Inside lay a child’s hand, bleeding and still warm, upon cream velvet.
THREE
NEVER SEEN NOTHING LIKE IT, I AIN’T,” MR. ARCHIBALD said. “Can’t ’ave ’ad ten years on ’im.”
“A boy, then?” Inspector Wilkie asked. “Not a girl?” His whiskers crept so high and black up his cheeks, and his hair grew so far down his forehead, that I could not help but think of a human monkey, though yesterday I had thought him like a hound. I do not mean such comparisons disrespectfully, of course.
“I would say a boy, Inspector Wilkie,” the coroner’s underling continued. “Although a body can’t be positive certain in the case of a child. A lad of eight or nine. And poor, bless ’im. Look ’ere at those knuckles.” The coroner fellow’s large, deft fingers worked the hand that had not yet stiffened in its separate death. The deed was as recent as it was cruel. “See ’ow the fingers ’ave been scrubbed up, all like it was Sunday. Still, the dirt won’t let go of the creases in ’is skin. And as it’s ’is right ’and, it’s all the dirtier, since ’e made more frequent use of it.”
“Just what I was thinking meself,” the inspector said.
“Took it off at the wrist, with one clean chop. Clean as the corner butcher might see it done. Not sawed through at all, but done cleanlike. With a ten-inch cleaver, I’d put ’alf a crown on it.”
“A cleaver, then, Mr. Archibald?” the inspector asked. “And ’ere I am thinking the very same thing meself.”
The stink of the cellar had settled overnight, though putrid enough it remained. Another body, that of a collapsed hag, had joined the Reverend Mr. Campbell in death’s universal marriage and lay beside him on the next table. We worked over Mr. Archibald’s desk, where a kerosene lamp reinforced the light from the gas fixtures on the walls. Bled pale, the child’s hand lay on a bit of muslin now, removed from its ornate bed. Just beside Mr. Archibald’s unfinished breakfast it was.
“Look ’ere now,” the coroner’s helper said, reaching out with his left hand. He took the inspector’s paw and stretched it out for us all to see. Thick black hair grew downward from Wilkie’s wrist onto the backs of his fingers. “ ’Ere’s just ’ow it was done. I bring down the cleaver like this.” Mr. Archibald made a mock chop with his right hand, stopping just at the start of the inspector’s wear-varnished cuff. “Cutting from the inside out, so to speak. That why it’s cut on the bias, it is.”
The coroner’s fellow let go the inspector and bent low over the child’s hand again. Making certain of everything. He seemed, indeed, a scientific fellow. He might have been a student of Mick Tyrone’s.
“Just as I sees it meself,” the inspector said. “Still, I’m troubled by the implications, Mr. Archibald.”
“And why is that, Inspector Wilkie?” The little fellow’s voice took on a wariness, as if his expertise might be impugned.
“It’s just ’ow as this don’t fit the ’abits of the criminal class, of which I ’ave made a serious study. As you ’ave yourself, Mr. Archibald. It’s proven ’ow the criminal
Mine must have been the heaviest of slumbers, for I heard no one enter the room. And I have an old soldier’s ears. My life has depended on hearing the softest Pushtoon footfall below the Khyber, and sometimes I wake at the scratch of a mouse and alarm my Mary Myfanwy. But that night I heard not the slightest sound.
When I awoke, in yellow light, I found a box beside me on the bed. Twas a gorgeous thing of polished wood, inlaid most ornately, the way the Musselman artisans do in Lahore. I stared at the thing for a confused moment before I lifted the lid.
Inside lay a child’s hand, bleeding and still warm, upon cream velvet.
THREE
NEVER SEEN NOTHING LIKE IT, I AIN’T,” MR. ARCHIBALD said. “Can’t ’ave ’ad ten years on ’im.”
“A boy, then?” Inspector Wilkie asked. “Not a girl?” His whiskers crept so high and black up his cheeks, and his hair grew so far down his forehead, that I could not help but think of a human monkey, though yesterday I had thought him like a hound. I do not mean such comparisons disrespectfully, of course.
“I would say a boy, Inspector Wilkie,” the coroner’s underling continued. “Although a body can’t be positive certain in the case of a child. A lad of eight or nine. And poor, bless ’im. Look ’ere at those knuckles.” The coroner fellow’s large, deft fingers worked the hand that had not yet stiffened in its separate death. The deed was as recent as it was cruel. “See ’ow the fingers ’ave been scrubbed up, all like it was Sunday. Still, the dirt won’t let go of the creases in ’is skin. And as it’s ’is right ’and, it’s all the dirtier, since ’e made more frequent use of it.”
“Just what I was thinking meself,” the inspector said.
“Took it off at the wrist, with one clean chop. Clean as the corner butcher might see it done. Not sawed through at all, but done cleanlike. With a ten-inch cleaver, I’d put ’alf a crown on it.”
“A cleaver, then, Mr. Archibald?” the inspector asked. “And ’ere I am thinking the very same thing meself.”
The stink of the cellar had settled overnight, though putrid enough it remained. Another body, that of a collapsed hag, had joined the Reverend Mr. Campbell in death’s universal marriage and lay beside him on the next table. We worked over Mr. Archibald’s desk, where a kerosene lamp reinforced the light from the gas fixtures on the walls. Bled pale, the child’s hand lay on a bit of muslin now, removed from its ornate bed. Just beside Mr. Archibald’s unfinished breakfast it was.
“Look ’ere now,” the coroner’s helper said, reaching out with his left hand. He took the inspector’s paw and stretched it out for us all to see. Thick black hair grew downward from Wilkie’s wrist onto the backs of his fingers. “ ’Ere’s just ’ow it was done. I bring down the cleaver like this.” Mr. Archibald made a mock chop with his right hand, stopping just at the start of the inspector’s wear-varnished cuff. “Cutting from the inside out, so to speak. That why it’s cut on the bias, it is.”
The coroner’s fellow let go the inspector and bent low over the child’s hand again. Making certain of everything. He seemed, indeed, a scientific fellow. He might have been a student of Mick Tyrone’s.
“Just as I sees it meself,” the inspector said. “Still, I’m troubled by the implications, Mr. Archibald.”
“And why is that, Inspector Wilkie?” The little fellow’s voice took on a wariness, as if his expertise might be impugned.
“It’s just ’ow as this don’t fit the ’abits of the criminal class, of which I ’ave made a serious study. As you ’ave yourself, Mr. Archibald. It’s proven ’ow the criminal
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