Page 88 of A Treacherous Trade
“It’s a bloody mire.” He reached out as if he’d a mind to offer me comfort, but shoved a fist into his jacket pocket at the last moment. “Inspector Davies claims he did not procure pornography from Charles Hartigan. The constable who was caught with pictures did mention that we should look more closely at both Davies and Hartigan, but then alleged not to have procured his photographs from either of them. Hartigan still points a finger at Davies—however, in order to take down a member of the police, it’ll take more than the word of a desperate man caught out for his crimes.”
“You’re right, this is a mire.” I nodded, doing my best to follow. “You have Hartigan, at least. So that’s something.”
A guilty mien distorted Croft’s features.
“Tellme you have Hartigan.”
“I made a formal offer of immunity for his information. I had to let him go.”
I said a foul word that drove Croft’s eyebrows higher just as the door to the morgue swung outward. With surprising reflexes for a man of his size, Croft pulled me out of the way before the heavy door knocked me out of my boots and onto my backside.
“Stand aside!” barked an orderly with a dark, waxed mustache. He and his apologetic cohort hefted a gurney holding a body enshrouded by the conventional white sheet. Theirs was not an easy load, judging by the girth of the corpse.
Dr. Phillips lingered behind them, wiping his freshly washed hands on a crisp white cloth. His apron, however, was anything but clean, though the only stain I dared identify was blood.
“Lend me a half-hour, lads, before bringing me the next—Oh! Miss Mahoney, punctual as always.” He paused, bushy silver brows lowering over brilliant blue eyes as Croft was uncovered by the swinging door. “Inspector, did I misremember telling you I had my only morning appointment taken by Miss Mahoney?”
I leveled Croft a speaking glance. No detective wizardry after all. He’d gone straight to the source and then undermined a rejection by forcing his way intomyappointment. I’d a mind to tattle to Amelia on him so she could box his ears.
“Miss Mahoney and I are looking into the same deaths,” Croft answered, skipping over the subtext of Dr. Phillip’s rebuke. “I figured you’d be able to share more with an inspector present, so I accompanied her as a favor.”
The pompous bastard!
I’d been rendered speechless by many a ludicrous claim, but this one beat them all.
Croft, the smarmy git, knew exactly what he was doing here, and came to capitalize upon my good graces with the doctor. How dare he pretend it was otherwise?
Phillips gave the inspector a credulous glance before turning to me with a shrug.
“The inspector was kind enough to show up on my landing, unannounced, and escort me hither,” I said, with a smile that was more a baring of teeth.
Phillips nodded, scratching at muttonchops wanting a trim, and I was swamped with a warm wave of fondness for the man. Though his nose was prominent and his chin diminutive, he was a very pleasant man to look at because of how he comported himself. Much like my father had once been, he was a gentleman from a bygone era. Though he had the mind of a scientist, he had the soul of a poet, and his compassionate regard for both the dead and the living made him one of the most respected and liked surgeons in the realm. With his impeccable manners and expensive, if dated, suits, he would have been as welcome at court as in his coroner’s office.
With quick, efficient motions, he untied his apron and abandoned it to a laundry bin on top of soiled sleeve covers as he led us to the wall of drawers in which the dead were kept on slabs of ice.
“Jane Sheffield, yes?” he asked, retrieving a Globe-Wernicke clipboard from his desk.
The question had been rhetorical, as he counted four drawers from the right and two rows down, opening it with the flair of a magician unveiling his trick.
“She’ll be released tomorrow,” he informed us.
“To whom?” Croft asked.
“To the pauper’s graves, I’m afraid, as no kin come forward to claim her.”
“Such a shame,” I murmured.
“Such is often the case with these sorts of women.” Dr. Phillips efficiently pulled the sheet back, uncovering Jane’s waxen features, neck, and shoulders. Beneath the sheet, a Y incision over her chest would advertise his autopsy, the findings of which we were here to ascertain.
These sorts of women.
For some reason, it disappointed me that he’d spoken of Jane and women like her so dismissively. I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised—though Dr. Philips was a kind soul, he was still a man of prominence who considered himself so high abovethese sorts of women.
“Have you ascertained her cause of death?” Croft asked, staring down at Jane with grim solemnity.
Did he see Amelia’s face superimposed over Jane’s? A stark reminder of everything she risked when he was a boy?
“You would think I had by now,” Phillips answered. “But I’ve spent hours in the laboratory, along with a few chemist colleagues of mine, and can’t seem to pinpoint exactly what happened to the girl.”
