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Authors: Lyndsay Faye
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Holmes, and this is my associate Dr. Watson. It is the event you speak of which brings us here.”
The constable’s relief was palpable. “Right you are, Mr. Holmes. Step through this doorway and down to the yard. Inspector Lestrade will see you’re shown the…the remains, sir.”
We hastened along the dark route through the building to the yard beyond. Holmes pushed open the swinging door at the end of the musty passage, and we proceeded down a few uneven steps into an open space paved with large flat stones, grasses pushing up through every fissure. At our feet, her body lying parallel with the short fence young Hawkins had described, was the head of the murdered woman. I saw at a glance that the lad’s mortal terror had been more than justified.
“Dear God, what has he done,” Holmes muttered. “Good morning, Inspector Lestrade.”
“Good morning!” cried the wiry inspector. “Good morning, he says! What in the name of God and the devil brings you here? Murphy! Blast it all, where are you going? Never mind about that telegram. Mr. Holmes here is some kind of clairvoyant.”
“My methods are worldly enough, I assure you. As it happens, we’ve a colleague in the neighbourhood.”
“Of all the confounded—all right, then, Murphy, you can leave us to it. See that Baxter has everything under control.”
When the constable had gone, Lestrade shook his head incredulously. “Mr. Holmes, there’s something about you that isn’t entirely natural, if you’ll pardon my saying it. But for the love of heaven! Thank God you’re here. Dr. Watson, see what you can make of her, if you’ve the stomach for it. The surgeon hasn’t arrived yet, and I am at my wits’ end.”
Steeling myself with the reminder that I had never been a victim of dissecting room nerves, I advanced toward the poor wretch lying supine upon the cracked flagstones and tried to make some sense out of what had been done to her. She appeared the victim rather of the slaughterhouse than of murder.
“Her head has been nearly detached. There are bruises on her face, which is swollen and may indicate she was choked before her throat was slashed. Rigor mortis has just begun; I should say she was killed at approximately half past five this morning. Her abdomen has been opened entirely, and her small and large intestines detached from their membranes. You see he has lifted them out of the abdominal cavity and placed them over here upon her shoulder. Her other wounds…” Here I believe I must have trailed off at the revolting realization which struck me. As I peered more closely down at the body, an icy stab of alarm shot through my spine. I stumbled to my feet to gaze numbly about the yard.
“What’s the matter, Watson?” I heard Holmes’s precise, forceful tenor as if from across a great chasm.
“It isn’t possible…”
“What isn’t possible, Watson? What has he done?”
“Her womb, Holmes.” I am afraid I could not quite keep my voice from catching at the words. “Someone has taken it. It’s gone.”
All was silence save for the rumble of carts upon the road outside and the twitter of a sparrow perched high in the tree in Sean Hawkins’s adjacent yard. Then Holmes, passing a pale, distracted hand over his high forehead, advanced to see for himself. After a moment’s scrutiny, he straightened, as stoic as ever, but his deep-set eyes betraying—perhaps only to me—his revulsion at my discovery. Handing me both his hat and his stick, Holmes began his systematic examination of the scene.
Lestrade emitted a slight choking sound and sank down upon a rotting crate, his slender profile stricken. “Gone?” he repeated. “It can’t be gone, for heaven’s sake. He’s completely gutted her, Dr. Watson. Surely you overlooked it?”
I shook my head. “The entire uterus, as well as a good portion of the bladder, have been taken.”
“Taken! Taken where ? It is preposterous. Surely it is here somewhere? Under that bit of scrap
The constable’s relief was palpable. “Right you are, Mr. Holmes. Step through this doorway and down to the yard. Inspector Lestrade will see you’re shown the…the remains, sir.”
We hastened along the dark route through the building to the yard beyond. Holmes pushed open the swinging door at the end of the musty passage, and we proceeded down a few uneven steps into an open space paved with large flat stones, grasses pushing up through every fissure. At our feet, her body lying parallel with the short fence young Hawkins had described, was the head of the murdered woman. I saw at a glance that the lad’s mortal terror had been more than justified.
“Dear God, what has he done,” Holmes muttered. “Good morning, Inspector Lestrade.”
“Good morning!” cried the wiry inspector. “Good morning, he says! What in the name of God and the devil brings you here? Murphy! Blast it all, where are you going? Never mind about that telegram. Mr. Holmes here is some kind of clairvoyant.”
“My methods are worldly enough, I assure you. As it happens, we’ve a colleague in the neighbourhood.”
“Of all the confounded—all right, then, Murphy, you can leave us to it. See that Baxter has everything under control.”
When the constable had gone, Lestrade shook his head incredulously. “Mr. Holmes, there’s something about you that isn’t entirely natural, if you’ll pardon my saying it. But for the love of heaven! Thank God you’re here. Dr. Watson, see what you can make of her, if you’ve the stomach for it. The surgeon hasn’t arrived yet, and I am at my wits’ end.”
Steeling myself with the reminder that I had never been a victim of dissecting room nerves, I advanced toward the poor wretch lying supine upon the cracked flagstones and tried to make some sense out of what had been done to her. She appeared the victim rather of the slaughterhouse than of murder.
“Her head has been nearly detached. There are bruises on her face, which is swollen and may indicate she was choked before her throat was slashed. Rigor mortis has just begun; I should say she was killed at approximately half past five this morning. Her abdomen has been opened entirely, and her small and large intestines detached from their membranes. You see he has lifted them out of the abdominal cavity and placed them over here upon her shoulder. Her other wounds…” Here I believe I must have trailed off at the revolting realization which struck me. As I peered more closely down at the body, an icy stab of alarm shot through my spine. I stumbled to my feet to gaze numbly about the yard.
“What’s the matter, Watson?” I heard Holmes’s precise, forceful tenor as if from across a great chasm.
“It isn’t possible…”
“What isn’t possible, Watson? What has he done?”
“Her womb, Holmes.” I am afraid I could not quite keep my voice from catching at the words. “Someone has taken it. It’s gone.”
All was silence save for the rumble of carts upon the road outside and the twitter of a sparrow perched high in the tree in Sean Hawkins’s adjacent yard. Then Holmes, passing a pale, distracted hand over his high forehead, advanced to see for himself. After a moment’s scrutiny, he straightened, as stoic as ever, but his deep-set eyes betraying—perhaps only to me—his revulsion at my discovery. Handing me both his hat and his stick, Holmes began his systematic examination of the scene.
Lestrade emitted a slight choking sound and sank down upon a rotting crate, his slender profile stricken. “Gone?” he repeated. “It can’t be gone, for heaven’s sake. He’s completely gutted her, Dr. Watson. Surely you overlooked it?”
I shook my head. “The entire uterus, as well as a good portion of the bladder, have been taken.”
“Taken! Taken where ? It is preposterous. Surely it is here somewhere? Under that bit of scrap
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