CHAPTER 6
A fugue of festering smells assaulted his nose as he crossed the narrow swath of yard between the surgery and the small outbuilding that served as the mortuary.
Death was never pretty, reflected Wrexford, save in the grandiose heroic paintings of war and sacrifice made by artists who had never experienced the stench of blood or screams of the dying.
He rapped on the door, and after a long moment a muffled voice bade him to enter.
“I’m busy.” The guttering lamplight illuminated a man hunched over a stone slab. He had not yet bothered to turn around. “Whatever you want, be quick about it.”
“I doubt the fellow you are tending gives a rat’s arse whether there’s a slight delay in wrapping him in his shroud.” The earl could just make out a pair of bare legs and yellowing toes behind the surgeon.
Henning—Wrexford recognized the man’s profile as he looked around—squinted uncertainly. “Your voice is familiar. Who are you?”
“Wrexford,” replied the earl. “We met during Moore’s campaign.”
“Bloody idiot.”
He wasn’t sure whether Henning was referring to him or the late general.
“A senseless slaughter of our soldiers,” muttered the surgeon. “A brave man, but bacon brained when it came to organizing the retreat.”
Ah, the general.
“So,” went on Henning, “have you come to ask me to prepare your corpse for the Hereafter, after the Crown’s executioner has finished with you?
” The surgeon was known for his sardonic sense of humor.
“It appears your recklessness has finally caught up with you. A pity. You have a decent mind when you choose to use it.”
“I’m not dead yet, and I intend to keep it that way for a little while longer. Speaking of which, how is Saybrook?” Wrexford knew the surgeon was a good friend of the Earl of Saybrook, an acquaintance of Wrexford’s from his Oxford days.
“His wounds are slowly healing. But the laudanum is taking a toll.”
Yet another casualty of the interminable war with France. The brutal conflict had cut down more friends than he cared to count. Lord Saybrook had nearly lost a leg in the fighting. “I’ve stopped by his town house on several occasions, but was told he turns away all visitors.”
“Aye. For now, he prefers to battle his demons alone,” said Henning, wiping his none too pristine hands on his bloody apron. “So, what battle brings you here, laddie? For I am assuming you did not stop to take tea and cakes in my drawing room.”
“Correct.” Wrexford moved closer and eyed the half-stitched incision in the cadaver’s chest. “I have a few questions about Reverend Holworthy’s corpse. I was told by an acquaintance of yours that his body had been brought here after its discovery.”
“It was,” confirmed Henning. “Do you mean to say it wasn’t you who doused his phiz with chemicals and sliced his throat open from ear to ear?” He began rearranging the set of scalpels on the slab. “I heard rumors on the Peninsula that you were a dab hand with a blade.”
“Knives and chemicals? Oh, come—I may be reckless but I’m not stupid, Henning. I might as well have left a calling card with the corpse.” He spotted several canvas-covered shapes deep in the shadows. “I don’t suppose you still have the remains here?”
“The Church of England was quick to remove his carcass from my unholy ground.” A grim smile. “I would have assured them I’m not a Presbyterian, but I doubt they have any higher regard for atheism.”
“I see,” murmured Wrexford. “Dare I hope you took a close look at his face before they carted him away?”
“Interested in the chemical burns, eh?”
He nodded.
“Lucky for you I have an interest in science and not simply sawing bones.” Henning set aside his surgical tools. “Come let us step outside where the air is a trifle less noxious.”
Wrexford repressed a smile as they made their way to the far end of the yard. Henning resembled a walking gorse bush—his salt-and-pepper hair stuck out in spikey points, his jaw bristled with a two-day stubble, his pockets bulged with all sorts of sharp implements.
Turning, the surgeon pulled a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from inside his coat. A strike of flint against steel produced a plume of pungent blue smoke.
“What, exactly, do you want to know?”
“Based on your friend’s satirical print—which, by the by, she claims is quite accurate—I have a suspicion of what chemicals were used,” answered the earl. “I’m hoping you might be able confirm it.”
“Ah, so you’ve met Mrs. Sloane. An interesting woman. And yes, I’ve found her to have a very observant eye,” murmured Henning. “Luckily for you, I have some knowledge of chemistry. A friend at the University in St. Andrews is a leading expert in the field.” He then rattled off a list.
Wrexford nodded thoughtfully. His experiments were right. But that didn’t quite explain . . .
Henning interrupted his musings. “One thing that did strike me as unusual. The discoloration of the flesh had a strange hue around its edges. It looked to me like a rather large quantity of mercury had been part of the mix.”
“Mercury is an odd element to add to a caustic liquid. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Nor does nearly severing a man’s head from his neck,” remarked Henning dryly. “However, I long ago ceased to be shocked by the atrocities man will inflict on his fellow man.”
“Anything else I should be aware of?”
Henning drew in a mouthful of smoke and slowly let it out. “Nothing that comes to mind.”
Wrexford wasn’t sure if the surgeon’s information would be of any use, but nonetheless he thanked him for sparing the time.
“No matter. I was anxious to blow a cloud—though a dram of whisky would be even more welcome. The fellow inside is getting rather ripe, which makes stitching him up deucedly difficult.” Henning took another few puffs.
“Why the interest in Holworthy’s body? As far as I’ve heard, there is no tangible evidence to tie you to the murder.
And the House of Lords isn’t going to hang one of their own based on gossip, no matter how lurid. ”
“Let’s just say I’m curious,” answered the earl.
“Auch, just remember, laddie—it’s said that curiosity kills the cat.”
“It’s also said that cats have nine lives.”
“The question,” shot back Henning, “is how many of them have you already used up?”
Wrexford shrugged. “I’m not very good at mathematics.” Which was a lie. In any case, simple addition showed that the ledger added up in favor of the Grim Reaper.
A laugh, short and rough, rumbled in Henning’s throat before giving way to a cough. “I, too, find I’m curious about something. How did you learn that Mrs. Sloane is A. J. Quill? She takes great care to keep her identity a secret.”
“To toss out yet another old adage, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander,” quipped Wrexford. “I merely employed the same tactics of careful observation that she uses.”
“Don’t make trouble for her,” said the surgeon, a note of warning shading the casual comment. “She doesn’t deserve it.”
Henning was hard as Highland granite. That he appeared to have a soft spot for the widow piqued his interest. “How is it that you know her?”
“Her late husband was a patient. His health was fragile—weak lungs, a condition exacerbated by their return to London from the warmer, drier climes of Italy.”
“What made them return?”
“Anthony Sloane was a brilliant artist. He craved recognition for his talents.” Henning tapped his pipe against his boot, sending a shower of burnt ashes over the muddy ground. “But I’ve seen his wife’s paintings. She possesses an even greater talent. I can’t help but wonder if that drove him mad.”
“Mad?” The earl raised his brows. “That sounds rather gothic. Like something out of The Castle of Otranto, what with its clanking chains, supernatural curses, and tortured villains.”
“Aye, well, Sloane’s behavior turned awfully erratic in the weeks before his death.
He was always a sensitive soul. Perhaps too sensitive.
He started having inexplicable mood swings, uncontrollable tremors, and terrible headaches.
” The surgeon’s expression hardened. “I had the feeling that his wife was forced to take on all the responsibilities of running the household and finances as well as to minister to Sloane’s increasingly irrational behavior. ”
It wasn’t an uncommon story within the less prosperous parts of London. Hardship seemed to suck the life out of men, while the women found the strength and resilience to survive.
“At the end, he was muttering to me about guilt and shame—about what he wouldn’t say,” went on Henning. “Delusions, no doubt. Indeed, I suspect that he might have deliberately taken too great a dose of laudanum to silence the devils in his head. But I did not say so to Mrs. Sloane.”
Wrexford suspected that if that were true, she would know it without being told. Nor would the damning knowledge crush her.
“She seems a very resourceful woman,” he said aloud. “It was clever of her to think of taking over her husband’s trade.”
“Aye, Mrs. Sloane is sharper than a scalpel. But a hard life hasn’t dulled her elemental kindness. Despite her own straitened circumstances, she comes regularly to my clinic, where she teaches women from the rookeries to read.”
Yet another facet to the widow. Which only made her more of an enigma.
“I wouldn’t have taken her for one of the selfless women who dedicate themselves to doing good works.”
Henning let out a low snort. “She claims it’s not out of simple Christian charity.
She believes knowledge is power, and reading is a skill that helps her fellow females fight back against those who would take advantage of them.
It’s also a way to find a decent job, rather than be forced to toss up their skirts in order to survive. ”
“Educated women?” The earl gave a mock grimace. “It makes a man shudder to think about it.”