“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?”
