Chapter 8 #2
Dr. Oppler had a list of names of those in attendance, and though he announced Mr. Bernadetto to be at the fore of the list, he shuffled to the next man to give the manager a few more minutes to compose himself.
“Mr. Newton,” he called, and one of the rag tag men Hugh had seen loitering around the hallways of Jewell House that evening stood up. He clasped his worn hat between chapped hands.
“I am told you were the first to come upon the scene. Can you expound on that for us?”
Newton bobbed his head, his scruffy neck and chin highlighted in a brief break of sunlight that streamed through the windows.
“Yes, doctor,” he said, his pronounced Adam’s apple bobbing.
“I was on my way to the top floor of the Jewell to visit my brother, Reggie, who lets a room there, when I walked past number twelve. The door was open a crack. Never seen it open, so I slowed, curious like. It didn’t seem anyone were home.
So, I knocked and called hullo—I didn’t want to barge in—but then I heard someone weeping and decided to peek inside. ”
Mr. Newton had taken time to practice his statement. Hugh noted the man’s earnest expression as he recounted his reasons for entering the apartments.
“And what did you see?” Dr. Oppler requested.
Mr. Newton took a breath, but it faltered and caught, turning into a broken gasp. He shook his head and sealed his lips, his eyes drifting toward the corpse.
“The worst thing I’m ever likely to set eyes upon,” he replied, with a nod toward Miss Lovejoy. “She was in the bed…the blood…the stuff was everywhere.”
“And the weeping?” Dr. Oppler pressed.
“A man, on the floor near the bed. He was covered in it. Her blood, I mean. Rocking back and forth, muttering things. I can’t say what, it wasn’t all that clear. And then I ran, you see, to fetch the night watchman.”
He looked relieved to be at the end of his statement, and he sat down heavily as he was thanked and dismissed. However, Hugh had a few questions that the doctor hadn’t considered.
“Dr. Oppler, if I might ask Mr. Newton a question or two?”
Heads turned toward Hugh, and Thornton crossed his arms with a smirk, as if settling in for some entertainment.
“Of course, Officer Marsden.” Dr. Oppler glanced at the magistrate for confirmation. Sir Gabriel tucked his chin in a nod.
“How often do you visit your brother at Jewell House?” Hugh began.
The man stood again, the anxious expression back now that more answers he hadn’t prepared for were being sought.
“Every week or so, I would think. I was there twice last week, though, on account of my brother feeling poorly.”
“Have you ever crossed paths with the person who resides in room twelve? Or seen anyone coming or going?”
Hugh suspected Fournier only visited his rooms in the evenings when he could use the cover of night as an added cloaking. Mr. Newton frowned and shook his head.
“None I’ve seen.” But then his brows pinched together. “I did hear voices one time. Some hollering.”
“Hollering. As in an argument?” The witness nodded, and Hugh added, “Between a man and woman?”
“I can’t say as I heard a woman. These were men’s voices shouting.”
“Recently?”
“A fortnight or so ago, I think.”
“Thank you,” Hugh said, and again, the man sat back down.
Next to give a statement was the night watchman. He recounted being summoned to the rooms by Newton, finding a crowd of people surrounding the dead body, and having to push them all out into the corridor while sending a lad to fetch the parish constable.
Hugh perked up in his seat. He’d been so occupied once he’d arrived at Jewell House that he hadn’t taken into account that the constable had never shown. Hugh had dealt with the arrest and the removal of the body, which was sent straight to the bone house where the coroner would claim it.
“Do you know the lad you sent?” Hugh asked, wondering why the parish constable had not come.
The night watchman gave a wave of his hand. “The one what showed up with you, Runner.”
Thornton rubbed his chin, attempting to hide his smirk. Hugh only shook his head. Sir had decided to fetch Hugh instead. The question was, how close had Sir been to Jewell House to hear of the murder so quickly? If the boy regularly prowled the area, he might have seen something himself.
Hugh stood next to give his statement, his rendition of events basic and brief. There was no doubt among those present that the woman had been murdered, or that the prime suspect was the Duke of Fournier. However, Lord Thornton signaled Dr. Oppler and stood just as Hugh was finishing up.
“Yes, my lord?”
“A question for the witness,” Thornton replied. Hugh braced himself; Thornton still looked moderately peeved to be sitting in on the inquest. Who knew what he was about to ask?
“You say you found the victim dressed and positioned as though the crime was committed while…in flagrante delicto,” Thornton said.
“That’s correct,” Hugh replied.
“Dr. Oppler, during your inspection of the corpse, did you confirm such activity took place?”
The doctor parted his lips, and as though mildly stunned by the question, took a moment to reply.
“I did not think it necessary to conduct such an examination, my lord, considering the circumstances surrounding her discovery and…clear goings-on. Nor did I believe that her private relations before her death played any influence on her ultimate demise.”
She had been found in a duke’s bed, barely dressed. A woman of her ilk—an opera singer and member of the demimonde—was expected to carry out such assignations. Hugh found he agreed with the doctor in that whether she had been taking part in any sexual intercourse before her death did not matter.
However, if Thornton had bothered to ask the question rather than simply sit sulking, there was a good reason.
“Officer Marsden, was the duke found in the same telling manner?” Thornton asked.
Hugh frowned. Fournier had been fully dressed, and while rumpled and blood-soaked, he had not looked as though he’d been doing any sort of bedding.
Then again, a man could very well remain clothed while being entertained by an unclothed woman.
“No. He was found dressed and covered in her blood, which I thought more pressing at the time.”
“It isn’t your methods I question, Officer Marsden, but the decision of the coroner to not fully examine the body. With all due respect, Dr. Oppler, if she were a willing participant in some tryst, or if she were coerced, the signs would show not only upon her body, but the suspect’s as well.”
Damn it. Hugh wanted to cuff his friend across the jaw, and then clap him on his back.
Several shallow slices to her forearms and hands had been catalogued, which indicated that she had tried to fight off her murderer.
He’d noted her broken fingernails himself that night at Jewell House.
His chest constricted, and he closed his eyes against the sensation of the seat falling out from underneath him.
Fournier’s body had been blood-covered, but there hadn’t been any visible gouges to his face, neck, or arms.
As Dr. Oppler defended his decision, Hugh had the intense desire to pummel something.
Self-loathing ran like hellfire down his spine, and the roar of blood in his ears dimmed the tart back-and-forth between Thornton and the coroner.
He’d been so blinded by the fact that Fournier, a peer of the realm, had been found, incomprehensible, with the body and the murder weapon that he’d failed to make the connection regarding the self-defense wounds.
How the bloody hell had he botched so fundamental an observation?
He could practically see the duchess’s smug grin already.
Her involvement, her risky behavior and stubborn undertaking, had claimed the bulk of his time and attention.
He’d been so wrapped up in defending his arrest of the duke, and to proving that her efforts were a silly waste of time, that he’d foundered in his own inquiry.
“Dr. Oppler, may I approach the corpse?” Hugh asked.
With a pointed sigh, the doctor nodded. Though Hugh had dealt with bodies over the last several years, he never quite grew used to handling them.
He flipped up a side of the sheet, careful to keep Miss Lovejoy’s naked form underneath covered, and reached for her hand.
The skin was unyielding and cold, the muscles and joints stiff.
The bruised cast to her nail beds matched her lips and eyelids. Hugh ran his thumb over the short, bluntly trimmed pointer finger.
“You groomed her nails,” Hugh stated. Dr. Oppler cleared his throat.
“I did. Her family is arriving on the morrow to claim the body for burial.”
Her body had been washed, her wounds sewn, her nails trimmed. A quick look at her long dark hair revealed someone had washed the gore from the locks and combed the tangles out. There was still a crescent of black grime under her nails, though it could have been dried blood.
“They were longer when I found her; torn and ragged from defending herself against her attacker,” Hugh admitted. Humiliation seared like a hot iron against his back where he felt Sir Gabriel’s eyes boring into him.
“Does the duke have wounds to match?” Thornton asked.
Hugh pulled the sheet back down. “None that I have seen.”
He would not have overlooked such scratches during the duke’s questioning in the hours after the arrest.
“Perhaps we should move on to Mr. Bernadetto,” Dr. Oppler said after Hugh had taken his seat again. He crossed a glance with Thornton, his friend’s expression one of apologetic self-satisfaction.
Lack of scratch wounds wasn’t nearly enough to exonerate the duke, but it settled a heavy weight of doubt in Hugh’s mind. If he’d overlooked this, what else had he disregarded?