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Uncle jerked his head once in affirmation. “Indeed. In instances where a victim’s ingested too much to drink prior to death, it’s not unheard of to smell the alcohol in their blood.”
Without meaning to, my lip curled. Some scientific facts, no matter how intriguing, were horridly gruesome. “Why didn’t we notice that in Miss Brown’s room, then?”
“It might have been too faint with the ale that had spilled. Or we might have thought it was simply the upturned pail.” Uncle adjusted his apron, retying its strings. “It’s imperative to always take into account the scene. Little details which might seem unrelated often are pieces we’ve yet to fit into the puzzle.”
Thomas marched into the carriage room, his face an unreadable mask. I stood there, apron splattered with innards, trying to dissect any hint as to how his meeting with my father had gone. It was like the months of learning his quirks vanished at once. Apparently, he’d granted me those insights and had now withdrawn that luxury.
I tried catching his attention, but he stubbornly pretended not to notice. I couldn’t help but feel a slight sting. Thomas Cresswell could still be that same cold person in the laboratory and society; I just hadn’t expected him to be that way with me anymore. Especially not on the day he asked my father for my hand. His attention finally flicked to me, before landing on the cadaver. Clearly it was business as usual.
“Who’s this?” he asked, tone neutral, curious. “Is it another…”
He needn’t inquire aloud what we all feared. I wiped my own expression as clean as my blade, then lifted a shoulder. “At first glance? No. However”—I moved from the stomach to her head, pointing out the marks on her person—“she’s been strangled. Petechial hemorrhaging is present. As are slight abrasions around her neck. See?”
Thomas drew closer, attention fixed on the injuries. “Where was she found?”
“Not far from where Miss Brown’s body was discovered,” Uncle said. “Though she was dumped in an alleyway near Mulberry Street.”
“The Italian slums?” he asked. “Do we know her identity?”
Uncle shook his head. “Police haven’t been able to
locate anyone who knew her. Might be a new arrival.”
“I see.” Thomas’s face betrayed the slightest hint of emotion. “They won’t do much searching, will they?”
I turned my attention back on her, brow crinkled. “Why wouldn’t they? She’s got every right to the same sort of investigation as anyone else.”
Uncle offered me a sad look. “They aren’t always keen on wasting time on immigrants.”
“‘Wasting’?” Something red-hot and boiling bubbled inside me. I was shaking so hard my hand slipped and I almost cut myself with the scalpel. “She’s a person who deserves to have her story told. What does it matter where she was born? She’s a human, same as the rest of us. Doesn’t that grant her a proper investigation?”
“Would that the world lived by that notion, we might all find peace.” Uncle motioned to a journal. “Now, then. Be sure to write down every detail, Thomas. Let’s give the police more than enough reason to keep searching for her family or loved ones.” Uncle turned his gaze back on me, narrowing his eyes as I slowly returned my focus to the stomach. “You ought to stand by the fire awhile, else your leg will be in a miserable state later.”
I was already in a right miserable state; I didn’t see any reason why my leg shouldn’t join the celebration as well. I lifted my chin. “I’ll live.”
“Not as long as you’d like to, should you keep that attitude up,” Uncle replied coolly. “Now, then. If we’re all feeling less ornery, let’s continue with the internal examination.”
Annoyed with my uncle, Thomas, and the ways of the world, I picked up my blade and sought justice the best way I knew how.
Skull and Rose Tattoo
ELEVEN
SKULL AND ROSE
AUDREY ROSE’S ROOMS
FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
22 JANUARY 1889
I was too stubborn to admit it, but Uncle was correct again—tonight my bones ached worse than they usually did. Standing for extended periods was difficult enough without wintry weather sinking its claws in, wreaking more havoc on me.
After we’d sewn up the last cadaver, I made my excuses to my family and had the kitchen send a dinner tray to my room, hoping my warm quarters and thick blankets might help. Once I finished eating, I sat in front of the fireplace, scalding tea in hand, and accomplished only burnt fingers. The aching chills refused to leave. Knowing I’d hurt worse in the morning, I limped to the bathing chamber and turned the copper faucet, filling the bath for a good, hot soak.
I stepped out of my robe and gingerly maneuvered into the water, wincing a bit until I acclimated to the heat. I leaned my head against the lip of the porcelain tub, my hair piled in a messy knot, and inhaled the pleasing herbal scent. Liza had taken to concocting more than tea blends—she’d made the loveliest aromatic salts for me, claiming medicinal properties would help different ailments. This particular blend would assist with drawing out toxins and calming my nerves, amongst other things, she told me.
Whether that was true or not, it smelled divine. Steam rose in fragrant tendrils of lavender, lemon balm, and eucalyptus, relaxing both my muscles and my soul. I was constantly moving as of late, always rushing from one problem to the next without pausing to restore myself. I wasn’t used to taking careful note of each of my movements, and found the learning of it to be tedious at best. Though my body was a stern professor—it let me know when it had had enough and would continue teaching the same lesson until I became an apt pupil. I must learn to pace myself or suffer the consequences.
