“Doctor,” Greeno said.
Greeno knew not to call Spilsbury “Sir Bernard” here; the pathologist considered that out of place at a crime scene.
“Inspector,” Spilsbury said. He was lugging the almost comically oversize Gladstone bag that was his trademark. Then the pathologist raised one eyebrow and tilted his head toward the brick shelter.
Greeno nodded.
And this was the extent of the inspector briefing the pathologist.
Greeno followed Spilsbury through the narrow doorless doorway into the brick structure. The pathologist knelt beside the dead woman, as if he were praying; perhaps he was-one could never be sure about what might be going on in Sir Bernard’s mind.
Then Spilsbury snapped the big bag; it yawned open gapingly to reveal various odd and old instruments, including probing forceps of his own invention, various jars and bottles (some empty, some full), and a supply of formalin. Also, he withdrew rubber gloves from somewhere within, which he snugged on.
Not all pathologists went the rubber-glove route. But Greeno knew Spilsbury-unlike many who should’ve known better-could be trusted to touch nothing at this crime scene other than the body, and even then with gloved fingertips. Any other evidence gathered by the pathologist would be preceded by a request to the detective in charge-in this case, Greeno.
The gloom of the shelter required Spilsbury to withdraw, from the seemingly bottomless bag, an electric torch, which he held in his right hand, using his left for other examinations. The pathologist was adeptly ambidextrous.
Never rising, Spilsbury started at the woman’s feet and, bathing her selectively in the torch’s yellow glow, closely looked at the clothed corpse as carefully as an actor studying his curtain speech. There was no rushing the doctor, although his methodical approach was diligent, not laggard.
It was Spilsbury, after all, who had taught Greeno that “clues can be destroyed through delay, and changes in the body after death… and the body’s removal from where it was found… can confuse the medical evidence.”
“With your permission,” Spilsbury said, “I’m going to remove this watch.”
“Please,” Greeno said.
“I’ll hold on to it, if I might.”
“Do.”
“I will pass it along to Superintendent Cherrill for fingerprint analysis and other testings.”
“Fine.”
Carefully, the rubber gloves apparently causing him no problem, Spilsbury removed the watch from the dead woman’s wrist. He turned it over.
“We may have just identified the poor woman,” Spilsbury said. “Take a look.”
Spilsbury held the item up and Greeno leaned down.
On the back of the timepiece was engraved: E.M. Hamilton.
“It’s not a cheap watch,” Greeno said. “Odd our man left it behind, when he took her purse.”
“Dark in here,” Spilsbury said, making the same assumption Greeno had earlier. “He may simply have missed it.”
The doctor was placing the watch in a small jar; this he labeled with a pen. Greeno knew material evidence was safe and sound in Spilsbury’s keeping-whenever a case on which Spilsbury had worked came to court, the chain of possession of the evidence was flawless… only the great man himself and the laboratory analyst would have handled the stuff.
“On such and such a date,” the familiar testimony went, “I was handed so many jars by Sir Bernard Spilsbury….”
Spilsbury’s mournful, chiseled countenance looked up at Greeno. “Have you taken photographs?”
“One of my men has, yes.”
“Then I’m going to unbutton her blouse, and may need to remove or undo an undergarment. Please block the doorway so that we’re not interrupted.”
Greeno did.
Finally, Spilsbury sighed as he rose, taking off the rubber gloves. He indicated the corpse, whose rather full breasts were exposed, though the pathologist largely obstructed Greeno’s view. “I’d like more photographs, please.”
Greeno made that happen, and briefly flashbulbs worked their lightning in the little space, strobing the corpse white.
Then the inspector and the pathologist were again alone with the victim. With Greeno’s permission, Spilsbury took a sample of sand from a spilled sandbag, and placed individually the scattered items from the woman’s missing purse into small manila envelopes. All of these potential exhibits disappeared into the massive Gladstone bag.
The pathologist took no notes. It was his practice not to impair the keenness of his senses with the distraction of note-taking, and would not do so until later, sometimes as much as days hence. Greeno was not disturbed by this: he knew Spilsbury wouldn’t forget a damned thing.
“I’ll leave the silk scarf for you to collect, Inspector.”
“All right.”
“Do be sure you have a photograph of the knot before it’s undone.”
“I will.”
Spilsbury, who had tucked his rubber gloves away in that magician’s bag, now stood and ritualistically placed his hands in his pants pockets-as he always did, once his medical examination was finished at a crime scene.
“Strangled, of course,” Spilsbury said. “But you knew that.”
“I prefer hearing it from you, Doctor.”
“From the marks on her throat…” Spilsbury removed his left hand from his pocket, and held it out in a choking manner, by way of demonstration. “… I believe her assailant was a left-handed man.”
“You rule out a woman attacker?”
“It’s unlikely. This is a powerful individual-much more likely a male. On the other hand, despite the disarray of her clothing, I see no sign of rape or sexual attack. The autopsy will tell, of course.”
“Of course.”
Spilsbury nodded down toward the corpse. “Note the bruises on her chest…. Come closer.”
Greeno did and winced. “My God…”
“He probably knelt on top of her, pinning her down, while he was strangling her.”
The inspector shook his head. “It’s a right wicked world, Doctor.”
“It is indeed…. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Spilsbury had been at the Hampstead Road crime scene, as well.
“… Dare we think that?” Greeno asked.
“The other young woman, Maple Church,” Spilsbury said, and the older man’s ability to recall the name was no surprise to the younger one, “was also strangled and robbed. But, in that instance, there had been sexual activity.”
“Not rape, though.”
Spilsbury nodded. “No evidence of such, anyway. But sexual congress did occur, perhaps with the young woman’s consent.”
Perhaps was an understatement, even for Spilsbury. Maple Church had been a prostitute in Soho. Several hours before her death, she’d been seen talking to potential mugs (as the London ladies called their clients) not far from where her body would shortly be found. Several servicemen had been on hand, among them American soldiers.
“I don’t believe any suspects made themselves available,” Spilsbury said, drawing a fine line between tact and sarcasm.
“We didn’t get anywhere on that one, no, sir. With so many servicemen in the city, it’s difficult to impossible, sometimes…. But if we would happen to have a boyo who’s preying upon prosties, this woman…” He nodded toward the austere-featured victim. “… would hardly seem to qualify. She’s handsome enough, but rather old for the game.”
“This was a respectable woman,” Spilsbury said, agreeing but in a dismissive manner. “Her clothing attests that… but in a blackout, a woman walking the street… and she was, as you say, handsome….”
“He could easily have mistaken her for a tart.”
Spilsbury nodded curtly. “But two killings don’t a Ripper make.”
“No. These could be isolated instances. Robberies gone out of hand.”
“In hand, I should say,” Spilsbury said, repeating the choking gesture. “I would hate to think the fog of Whitechapel has a counterpart in our blackouts.”
Greeno grunted a humorless laugh. “That’s where I started out, you know.”