After arriving home near dawn and changing into dry, warm clothes, Leo had sat near the kitchen stove with a pot of tea while telling her uncle everything. He’d been horrified, to say the least, but in his usual patient manner, he’d let her tell the whole story before asking questions. One of those questions had flummoxed Leo completely: “Why that woman?”
She hadn’t known how to answer that. Initially, she’d assumed the man had randomly chosen someone to sacrifice so that his orders would be taken seriously. But seated at the kitchen table with her uncle, safe and warm, Leo was able to look back on the moment with more clarity. The killer had taken three or four strides to stand directly behind Mrs. Seabright’s chair. Why hadn’t he selected the middle-aged man with muttonchops and a pair of gold spectacles who’d been seated at the table right in front of him?
Perhaps he had wanted to persuade them all by showing his willingness to kill an unarmed, helpless woman.
So then, why had he overlooked the woman with a peacock plume spearing her upswept hair who was seated next to the man with the gold spectacles? Leo could see them all in her mind; each guest seated at the table, their neighbors, their clothing. And that woman would have made a closer target. So would have Leo.
“My grandfather was speaking to the poor woman before dinner,” Connor commented as he pulled on his surgical coat.
“I noticed,” Leo replied. “Did you happen to overhear any of their conversation?”
It was a prying question and perhaps a little strange. A twist of Connor’s mouth seemed to say as much. But he then shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. Why do you ask?”
She shrugged off his inquiry. “No reason. Just curious.”
Connor stepped into a pair of tall, vulcanized rubber boots. “It was the detective inspector who found you?”
“In a manner of speaking.” She didn’t want to get into too much detail about how she’d spent the night in the Battersea police station. Or that she’d confessed to a non-existent murder.
“He was in high dudgeon after you were taken,” Connor said, going next to his tool kit. A full postmortem was required, even though the woman’s cause of death was apparent—and had been witnessed by them both. “He wasn’t in a much better mood before that, however, when we first saw him in the front parlor.”
Jasper had appeared strained, Leo recalled. But likely so had she. She’d waited too long to speak to him about their kiss and her decision to either forgive him and move forward…or not to. She hadn’t yet made her decision, even a month later.
“I could be wrong, but I think Inspector Reid is under the impression that I took you to last night’s benefit dinner with romantic aspirations,” Connor said, an amused grin cinching the corner of his mouth. “And he didn’t like it one bit.”
Leo met his mischievous look and tried not to grin. She’d perceived that too. It had irritated her as much as it had given her a little thrill to see Jasper wrestle with unexpected jealousy. She had no right to indulge in such a feeling though, when she was guilty of indecision.
“I think that might just be his usual demeanor,” Leo said lightly, brushing off the comment. She didn’t wish to discuss Jasper with the coroner, even if she was starting to consider Connor a friend. But then, she considered something. “Youdon’thave romantic aspirations toward me, do you?”
She’d certainly never sensed them, if so.
Connor laughed as he opened his kit and selected a scalpel. “Miss Spencer, I like you very much, but no, my feelings toward you are strictly professional.”
It was what she’d thought, and it was a relief. “As are mine toward you,” she replied. “Now that we’ve cleared that up, I think you should know something.”
Connor drew back the sheet, exposing the corpse beneath. “Yes?”
“Someone broke into the morgue this morning.”
He released the sheet and lowered the scalpel. “What? Are you sure? Has anything been taken?”
“I don’t think it was a thief.” She told him about the back door being ajar, the strong scent of perfume left behind, and the positioning of Martha Seabright’s hand upon her chest.
“I noticed that before we undressed her,” Connor said.
“Her handbag still has two shillings inside, so whoever it was took her hand, placed it on her chest, but did not rummage through her things,” Leo explained.
“A loved one, maybe?” he suggested. “Though, breaking into the morgue makes little sense. Why not wait for someone to arrive here this morning and ask to see her body?”
Leo didn’t have an answer. As they quietly began the postmortem examination, they stayed in their own thoughts about the break-in. However, their focus soon became directed toward the corpse. With her pencil and paper, Leo documented his findings, though she did stand further away from the table than usual. Not once in the five years of assisting her uncle had she grown queasy during a postmortem. However now, her exhaustion, coupled with an empty stomach, worked against her.
Connor cited the obvious cause of death—a single bullet discharged into the brain, entering through the left parietal bone. He also found evidence of heart disease and cancer of the lung, both of which, given time to progress, would have eventually killed her. More interesting, however, were some markings on Martha Seabright’s bare skin: circular scars scattered across her chest and arms, and even on her thighs.
A suspicion sank through Leo. “The shape of these scars… Are you thinking what I am?”
Connor sighed. “Unfortunately, I believe so. The burning tip of a cigar, left against the skin for any length of time, would certainly leave such marks.”
This wasn’t the first time Leo had seen burn marks upon a corpse’s skin. Scores of women and children had lain on the morgue’s tables with similar scars. Their abusers often kept the evidence of their cruelty hidden from sight: on the torsos, arms, and legs of their victims.
