When Falcons Fall by C. S. Harris Page A

the usual seepages of body fluids that are to be expected after death.”
    Sebastian shifted his gaze to the pale, slack face of the murdered woman on the table. She looked so very young—younger by far than twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Her nose was small and delicately molded, the tender flesh of her eyelids nearly translucent, her lips brown and dry now in death. And he suddenly felt swamped by a tide of inexplicable, useless fury.
How did you die?
he wanted to rage at her.
How did he kill you? How?
    And then Sebastian saw it: the faintest blur of purpling, almost like a shadow along the lower edge of her jaw.
    He stared at it, then walked around to examine the other side of her face. It took a moment to find it, but it was there: a small, faint, elliptical bruise just to the left of her mouth, exactly the size of a man’s fingertip.
    Thoughtfully, he reached out to lay his right hand over Emma Chance’s lower face, positioning it just so.
    “What are you doing?” demanded Higginbottom.
    Sebastian looked up at him. “I know how she was killed.”
    “What the devil are you talking about?”
    “She was smothered.” He lifted his hand, then carefully placed it back in position. “The killer put his palm over her mouth like this. He used the heel of his hand to shove up her jaw and hold her mouth closed while he pinched her nostrils together with his thumb and first finger. You can see the hint of a bruise here, on her cheek, where his little finger dug into her face as he applied the pressure.”
    Sebastian took his hand away and shifted to study the dead woman’s wrists. Higginbottom was right; there was no sign of bruising. And any marks on her arms were hidden by the sleeves of her dress. Although . . .
    “If he sat on her chest and held her arms down with his weight,” Sebastian said aloud, “she might not even have any bruises on her arms. But the weight on her chest would have made it that much harder for her to breathe.”
    “You’re mad. There are no bruises on her face. I had a good look at her before I had her brought in here, and I tell you there are no bruises. And you couldn’t possibly see ’em in this light even if there were!”
    “Get a lantern.”
    Higginbottom stared at him a moment, then turned away, grumbling, to light a lantern that rested on a nearby shelf. He was clumsy with the tinderbox, so that it was a moment before he swung back around, the lantern held high, his face twisted into a sneer.
    “There. See? No bru—”
    He broke off, his lips twitching as he leaned in close to peer at the edge of the dead woman’s jaw. “Well, I’ll be go to Ludlow,” he said after a long, heavy silence. “How the blazes did you see that—especially in this light?”
    “I see unusually well in the dark.”
    “Huh. You must be part owl.” The doctor shifted around to shine the light on her left cheek. “Yes, there it is.” He shifted the lantern back and forth. “There might also be the vaguest hint of a bruise from the killer’s third finger, just here.”
    He set down the lantern, then rubbed his hand across his beard-stubbled face. “There could be some bruising other places on the body,” he said almost to himself. “And sometimes with smothering you’ll see changes in the heart and lungs—but not always.”
    He turned abruptly and walked out of the shed into the warm golden sunshine of the morning. Sebastian followed him.
    The two men stood together in silence for a moment. Then Higginbottom shook his head and pushed out a painful sigh. “It’s a nasty way to die—trying desperately to suck in air but not being able to breathe. Feeling your lungs burn, mad with panic for a good two or three minutes before everything goes dim and you finally lose consciousness. And then you’ve still got another two minutes till death finally comes. That poor girl. And to think her killer was sitting on her the whole time with his hand over her face, looking into her terrified eyes and