Chapter Seven
Brett
Miss Murphy’s knee brushed against his as their carriage pulled to a stop. “You needn’t come in with me,” Brett said. Not waiting for the driver, Brett opened the hackney door and jumped down to the street. “You can stay in the coach until I return.”
“How will you charm the information from the coroner without me by your side?” She rolled her eyes as she spoke. It didn’t seem possible, but Miss Murphy apparently didn’t count herself among the lovely young women capable of loosening a man’s tongue. She must not own a mirror.
Brett shrugged and lowered the steps. If Miss Murphy was overcome in the coroner’s office, it would be no hardship to assist her, though he suspected she was made of sterner stuff.
The coroner’s office was a one-story stone structure only a block off Bow Street. It was next to a large church and cemetery, which must make burial of some of the bodies that entered its doors more convenient.
They entered into a narrow front room, cluttered with a small wooden desk, chair, and two cupboards. A curtain hung in a second doorway, a distinct chill drifting in from that room. A brass hand bell sat on the corner of the desk with a note reading “Ring Me” wedged underneath it.
Brett picked it up and rang. “You and Lady Mary hinted that you had some experience looking into murders. What did you mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.” She didn’t add you sapskull at the end, but her tone certainly implied it.
“Earlier this year Lady Mary and I uncovered who murdered her brother-in-law. Before that, there was some incident at her club that she had to investigate.” Miss Murphy waved her hand, like that incident was of less importance since she hadn’t been involved.
Brett examined his companion from the tips of her new slippers to the way she tugged at the top of her bodice. She clearly didn’t feel comfortable in her new weeds, yet refused to be cowed. His chest tightened. It was an endearing combination. “Have you—”
“Yes?” A man in his mid-forties pushed open the curtain and stepped into the room. He wore an apron stained in places with things Brett didn’t feel the need to identify.
“Mr. Hall?” At the man’s nod, Brett continued. “We got your name from Sir Kelsey and were wondering if you had any more information regarding Mr. Trent’s death.” He tried not to feel guilty. It wasn’t outright deception, but there was a definite implication.
“Of course. Come on back.” Mr. Hall led them into the back room.
If he was surprised that a woman was one of the party, he didn’t show it.
In fact, the man barely looked at Miss Murphy.
No matter how sound Lady Mary’s theory was on the effect of a pretty girl on tongues, it didn’t seem to apply to this situation.
Mr. Hall seemed willing to talk with anyone.
Miss Murphy wrapped her arms about herself. “That is a lot of ice.”
The source of the chill in the front room was readily apparent. Large slabs of ice were set up around the room and underneath two long tables.
One of those tables was occupied. Even though Miss Murphy had said nothing shocked her, Brett noticed her gaze went in every direction except that of Mr. Trent’s body. He was covered with a sheet from his hips to his ankles, and his skin was so pale as to appear almost blue.
“I’m still uncertain about the weapon that killed him.” The coroner pointed at one of the several stab wounds on the corpse. “It wasn’t a knife, at least not one I’ve ever seen. Do you see the markings on the skin around the wounds? Almost like the flesh has been shredded.”
Miss Murphy made a small sound in the back of her throat.
Brett positioned himself between her and the body. He didn’t particularly want a close up look of the wounds, either. He’d seen enough of gore and death in the army, but he had a job to do. “What is that due to? Couldn’t it be a knife with a jagged edge?”
Mr. Hall shook his head, his face becoming animated. “No, that would only affect the skin where the one edge of the blade punctured. These marks would be where the flat sides of the blade should be. Tell Sir Kelsey I’ll be experimenting with different objects to determine the weapon.”
Brett nodded. If the magistrate did ask him about this conversation, he would tell him. “Do you think I could take a sketch of the wounds?”
“Of course.” Hall nodded approvingly.
Brett pulled out a small notepad and bit of lead. He’d thought he might want to take notes on his conversation. He hadn’t imagined drawing puncture holes, but they were unusual. As he tried his best to draw a realistic picture, he asked, “Are there any other points of interest?”
“Several.” Hall moved to the head of the corpse. “Do you see those bruises around the man’s mouth?”
Brett leaned closer. The light from several oil lamps just let him see the faint purplish marks. “Someone held his hand over Trent’s mouth, presumably to keep him from calling out and rousing the house.”
Miss Murphy inched around Brett and cocked her head. “So the killer held his mouth while stabbing him?”
“Ah, now that’s where it gets interesting.” Mr. Hall moved back down to the sheet that covered Trent’s lower half. “These wounds are consistent with an upward trajectory.”
Brett and Miss Murphy leaned forward to peer at one of the stab wounds. Brett would just have to take the coroner’s word for it. He couldn’t tell upward from downward.
Miss Murphy glanced at the notepad. “Oh, give me that.” She took the paper and lead and flipped to a new page. She began her own sketch, one that was considerably more skilled than his.
Brett tried to visualize the attack. “So either the killer stood in front of Trent, one hand pressed to his mouth and stabbing upwards with the other or…?”
“Or there were two assailants.” Hall nodded. “Either scenario is consistent with the evidence. There’s also some bruising on Trent’s arms and evidence of battery to his head.”
“He raised his arms to ward off blows but couldn’t block the knife.” Brett could see the attack in his mind. Trent looked to have been in good health, but he didn’t have the largest stature. One big man could have overcome him. Two easily.
The coroner nodded. “He tried to fight back. He failed.”
“There are so many stab wounds,” Miss Murphy murmured.
“Eight,” Mr. Hall confirmed.
“If he was stabbed in his house, how could he have made it the three blocks to Lady Mary’s?” she asked.
Mr. Hall shrugged. “Most of the stab wounds aren’t that deep. I believe it could have taken him as long as half an hour to exsanguinate.”
Giving him plenty of time to stumble his way to Lady Mary’s. But why hadn’t he called for his servants? Roused them from sleep and had them send for help?
“Here you are.” Miss Murphy handed him the pad and lead. Her face had gone nearly as pale as the corpse’s. “I believe I caught all the details.”
And probably detail enough to disturb her sleep for the next fortnight.
“Thank you for the information, Mr. Hall. It was very helpful.” Brett took Miss Murphy’s arm and guided her from the room.
He most likely shouldn’t have let her come inside.
Should have insisted she remain in the hackney.
Short of tying her to the seat, however, he didn’t see how he could have kept her there.
One corner of his mouth tilted upward. Miss Murphy was unique. And Lady Mary was unlike any other woman he’d ever worked for. He hadn’t expected his new post to be quite so interesting.
And now there was a murder to solve.
Brett waved at Ernest to keep his seat and he opened the carriage door himself, lowering the steps. He gripped Miss Murphy’s hand. “Up you go.”
She frowned, looking down at their joined hands. “I can climb up unassisted.”
“Can you?” He examined her face. “You’re still looking awfully pale and wobbly.”
She yanked her hand free. “How absurd. I’ve never been wobbly in my life.” She lifted her pert chin, glared at him from the corner of her eye…and bumped her head against the top of the carriage doorframe as she climbed in.
Brett strove to keep his lips even. “Are you all—”
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said crossly. Her face was no longer pale but a charming pink. She ducked inside the coach and flopped down on the seat, staring out the opposite window.
He let his lips smile freely as he raised the steps and jumped in himself. He settled himself across from her, his leg brushing Miss Murphy’s skirts.
She tucked her legs tight against the seat, keeping her gaze focused out the window.
Warmth spread through Brett’s chest. His mother had warned him he’d regret moving to London. Said he’d have nothing in common with city folk. That his days would be lonely and dull.
He’d have to remember to write her to tell her just how wrong she’d been.