Chapter 5 #2
My scrutiny returned again to her fingers, which I’d noted earlier seemed stiff.
I was well aware that rigor mortis usually began in the face and small muscles of the hand.
The rigidness of her fingers would seem to indicate that she’d been dead for some hours, but the state of the rest of her body and the corresponding damage to the surroundings said otherwise.
I puzzled over this for a moment. The eyelids and most of the face had been too damaged by the acid to assist me in figuring out time of death, but the jaw might still be enough intact.
Carefully, I used the pen to press on the corresponding tissue, able to open and close the jaw easily enough to tell that rigor had not set in.
So why were her fingers so stiff?
Leaning close to her left side, I gripped her still-warm wrist with one hand and used the pen with the other to examine her fingers.
It was then that I realized some of her digits were either naturally missing their top joints or that they were unusually rigid.
Not inflexible enough to hinder her work as a secretary evidently, but sufficient enough they might have caused her discomfort when gripping a pen or fork if the joints of her right hand were similarly stiff.
But while a curious anomaly, I couldn’t see how this discovery had any bearing on her death.
“My lady?”
My head jerked toward the door. In my preoccupation, I hadn’t heard Bowcott arrive.
The butler’s brow creased with concern, taking in the scene before him as if in one glance as I straightened.
Of all of Lord Gage’s servants, I was glad it was Bowcott who had found me, for his congenial nature stood in marked contrast to the haughty behavior of the other male members of my father-in-law’s staff.
I inhaled a shaky breath, the sight of his kind face suddenly making me want to fall to pieces. But I couldn’t. Not yet.
“Please, send someone for Dr. Clarke.” I nodded toward the doorway to the morning room and the water closet beyond as I retreated from the body. “Mr. Birnam has injured himself.”
“Of course. Shall I…?” He broke off before finishing his sentence, glancing behind him. Then he bowed and backed away as I heard footsteps fast approaching. A moment later, Gage burst into the room followed closely by his father.
At first, Gage’s eyes were all for me, scouring my face and figure for signs of injury, but they swiftly dropped to the body on the floor behind me, his features transforming in alarm.
“Good God!” Lord Gage exclaimed, finding his voice first as he recoiled from the sight of Miss Whitlock. After a moment, he recovered his self-possession, moving closer. “Is she…?”
“Dead?” I finished for him when he failed to utter the word.
“Yes.” He’d not seen the bottle on the floor, and I lifted a hand to halt him before he stepped on it.
“Oil of vitriol,” I explained, motioning to the vial.
“Presumably the cause of death.” I turned to indicate the chambers beyond.
“Mr. Birnam picked it up and burned his hands.”
Both men paused to listen, noting the muttered cursing coming from the water closet for the first time.
“Birnam was here?” Lord Gage clarified, his eyes sparking with anger.
“I found him standing over her,” I replied scrupulously. “He appeared shocked, and he seemed to grab the bottle without thinking, but…”
“He may have been trying to mask the burns he’d already received,” he was quick to point out.
I nodded, albeit reluctantly, for I was not so quick to want to cast the blame on Birnam.
Though Lord Gage was correct. Whoever threw the acid in Miss Whitlock’s face might have been splashed, particularly if they’d not been wearing gloves.
We would have to be on the lookout for burns and damaged clothing.
My father-in-law bent over, closely examining the bottle. “It’s one of Birnam’s own, isn’t it?” His mouth twisted almost in cruel satisfaction. “Rather damning.”
“Not really,” Gage said. “Birnam’s factory in Glasgow is one of the largest producers of oil of vitriol in the country.
It’s widely available. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to find one used by your staff in the cupboards belowstairs.
” He paced in a wide circle, taking in the scene before him from a different angle.
“If anything, it might be more indicative of motive.”
“Using Birnam’s own product to disfigure and murder his secretary in a sort of retaliation?” I extrapolated, trying to follow his thinking.
He shrugged. “At this point, it’s hard to tell.”
At that moment, Mr. Birnam rejoined us, holding his still dripping hands in front of him. His face was a rictus of pain.
I went to him, guiding him toward a chair far from Miss Whitlock’s body. “I’ve sent for our local physician,” I told him. “I’m sure he will hurry. In the meantime, try not to touch anything.”
He bobbed his head woodenly, though I wasn’t certain he’d heard me.