Depths of Deceit Read Online Free PDF Page B

Sign of the Raven
    W hen Box arrived later that day at Horseferry Road Police Mortuary, he found Dr Donald Miller waiting for him in a chilly, white-tiled room leading directly from a grim chamber where some dozen sheeted corpses lay waiting for professional attention. Dr Miller looked tired, but his boyish, clean-shaven face held an expression of bright eagerness that Box knew to be typical of him. A house surgeon at Charing Cross Hospital, he had been appointed a police surgeon, at Box’s suggestion, in the previous year. He was twenty-six years old.
    ‘I’ve done your man for you, Mr Box,’ he said, rising from a table where he had been seated. ‘It was a bit difficult at such short notice, as I had another gentleman open on the table at the time, but I fitted him in quite nicely. Would you like a cup of coffee?’
    ‘I would, Doctor,’ said Box, shivering. ‘This place always depresses me: it’s all these tiles, and the sound of running water in those sinks of yours. Even on a day like this the place is as cold as the tomb – well, you know what I mean.’
    Young Dr Miller laughed, and busied himself with a percolator that stood over a little spirit lamp in a fume cupboard. Presently, he presented Box with a very acceptable cup of hot coffee, and invited him to sit down at the table. Pulling a sheet of paper towards him, he began to speak in the formal, stilted manner that belonged to his profession.
    ‘Today, I conducted a post-mortem examination on the body of one Gregory Walsh, a man aged about twenty-five. I found the subject to have been a healthy young man, entirely free from illness, or from sinister lesions of any kind. The tips of his index fingers and thumbs were stained with chemicals, probably incident upon his profession of assayer and sampler. Beneath the fingernail of his right index finger I found a deposit of a dried crimson material, perhaps dried paint, which I have placed aside for analysis.
    ‘Gregory Walsh met his death as the result of a blow to the back of the head, inflicted with an instrument in the nature of an adze or cleaver. Death would have been instantaneous. It was not possible for me to ascertain with certainty the time of death, but one can safely assume that it was not long before the discovery of the body. In the mouth—’
    Dr Miller’s voice faltered, and he threw down his written report on to the table.
    ‘Mr Box,’ he whispered, ‘I found that his mouth was filled with honey. There was none in his throat, or in his stomach. That honey had been spooned into his mouth by his murderer…. Having felled the poor young fellow with a single savage blow, he found the time to spoon honey into his mouth. Presumably, he’d brought a jar of the stuff in his pocket for the purpose. Can you make any sense of that?’
    ‘Not yet, Doctor,’ muttered Box. ‘But I will.’
    Miller put his report into a manila envelope, sealed it, and handed it to Box. ‘His clothes and effects are in the next room. Do you want to see them now?’
    ‘Yes, please,’ said Box, finishing his coffee. ‘Perhaps you’d like to stay while I examine them? Or maybe you want to get back to your silent guests?’
    ‘They can wait awhile, Inspector. In any case, they’re not all my subjects!’
    Young Dr Miller preceded Box into another tiled room, whereGregory Walsh’s effects had been laid out carefully on a couple of trestle tables.
    ‘I’ll examine the contents of his pockets first, Dr Miller, and then look at the clothes. This is a very nice silver watch, with an inscription engraved on the back. “To Gregory, on the occasion of his 21st birthday, 7 March 1889. From Father and Mother”. So he was, in fact, twenty-six. One leather watch-guard. One plain signet ring. Coins, retrieved from pockets: one sovereign, two half-crowns, four shillings, and one and sevenpence in copper. One plain handkerchief, stained with – now what is it? Coloured dust of some sort – some kind of red