Despite a complete overhaul of the hospital and new renovations that added several new surgery wards, the morgue remained stubbornly locked in the 19th century. Half of the beds were still made of wood instead of the now standard and easier to clean metal, and the air suffered from poor ventilation. The one advance was the new tiled flooring and plumbing that made washing up after autopsies significantly easier, along with the white ceramic coated steel gurneys that could be cleaned with a spray hose. The black and white ceramic floor tiles were matched with new ample lighting which put the space into a strange spotlight that no hint of darkness could contaminate. Surgeries were more successful as a result, with a healthy sixty percent of patients surviving.
Dr. Ziegler was a fixture of St. Bartholemew Hospital for nearly thirty years. Somehow he'd never managed to lose his thick German accent, and Mycroft often wondered if it was through the decades of communing with the dead rather than the living that gave him this habit. The dead weren't exactly talkative. A one way conversation was no way to practise English. He was a tiny, wiry little man with thick round glasses perched on thin gold frames on his long nose. There was a riotous thick collection of grey, tightly curled hair on the top of his head. Lestrade often joked the man looked like a cross between an owl and a sparrow and as he looked on him now Mycroft had to concede the comparison was accurate.
"It's a bloody winter storm out there!" exclaimed Detective Inspector Harding, who was more Dr. Zieglar's assistant than an officer of the law these days. He stalked the small suitcase placed on the metal gurney with eager expectation. He even rubbed his palms together. Harding had always been more suited to this kind of forensic work, and word was he never shied from a corpse.
"We don't get too many of these. Most of the murders on the rails are exactly that--Splat! Onto the tracks!"
He clapped his hands for emphasis and Mycroft winced.
"Too small for a full body, though. The leakage suggests it wasn't in the luggage compartment long, despite the proximity to your crates. No time for it to freeze. The sour smell of blood is also a sign of this being recent, for we are well aware what actual human decomposition stinks like. I wonder, Dr. Zieglar, are we about to find parts? I predict a head. Maybe a limb. There might be more suitcases with bits in them, though it's a strange way to dispose of an entire person. Pretty costly, even with a set of used ones. Would have been better off to wrap them in burlap and drop them in the Thames with some rocks, like most of the career criminals do."
"You make assumptions," Dr. Zieglar snapped at him. "Every time, always with the long descriptions! Nien, this is no chop upped corpse. Come, be of some use instead of talking so much and help me undo this case. Let's see what the unfortunate business is inside, ja?"
Inspector Harding took no offence to Dr. Zieglar's chastising and with cotton gloved hands he carefully udid the buckled straps that held the suitcase closed and then used a small paring knife to pop off the lock tucked in the gap within the leather handle. It was a medium sized, simple brown rectangle comprised of cheap leather and well worn straps, evidence it had seen much use and the perpetrator was a traveller. But there were no stickers on its surface to suggest it had ever left England so the travel was strictly limited to their fair island and its associated neighbours.
"Battered up pretty good," Lestrade observed, eyeing Mycroft beside him. "But this is a domestic wanderer. Not fancy, but functional enough to go from place to place with limited clothes and belongings. Someone had been living out of this suitcase. They'll need to replace it."
"Not an expensive piece, but not the cheapest," Mycroft further observed. "This was probably an older extra, brought out for smaller trips."
"Which suggests our murderer has a permanent place somewhere," Lestrade poked at the straps with the heel of a pencil. "They were once destitute but have moved up in the world. Or are planning to soon. Possessions like this aren't easily discarded, not even for the act of murder."
Dr. Zieglar swung around to the other side of the gurney and both he and Harding carefully peeled the suitcase open, the soft contents within near tumbling out. A thin silk material covered the small parcel and Mycroft felt his heart sink. Lestrade let out an audible curse beside him.
"Ja," Dr. Zieglar agreed. "It is a terrible result. I can already feel the limbs, this one, it is intact."
The blood drained from Harding's face as he looked on the contents. "Oh, bugger," he said, all passion for the morgue eradicated. "Oh damn. Damn, I hate these ones. You don't usually find them like this. It's the Thames that takes them."
A dreadful pall overtook the morgue, despite its bright new lighting. All four men stood in silence as they looked on the gurney between them, a deep and suffocating sense of dread squeezing Mycroft's lungs. He coughed into his fist and forced the unnatural sensation away. This was London. Despite it being his beloved roost he had to admit, brutality made its home here as well.
Mycroft sighed and breathed in deeply before leaning hard on his cane. He didn't need a close up view until it was absolutely necessary. He stepped away from the gurney. In his office as a Judge of the Assizes he came across countless of these such cases per year. Infanticide was close to an epidemic in London, even with better social programs and orphanages in place. That familiar, weighty weariness suddenly overtook him, and he stumbled slightly as he headed towards the fresher, colder air near the door. He couldn't count how often small parcels such as these assailed his sleep, the ruin of their tiny lives a mere footnote in the despair that caused it. The mother, if she could be found, was usually a prostitute with a dozen half dead children already in her charge. Sickness and disease would take most of them. The unfortunate who survived into adolescence would be expected to work to feed their mother's habits or they would outright escape. There were plenty of dark corners in London to prop up a waif.
"It's a strange way to dispose of a child," Lestrade coldly observed. "As Harding said before, better to wrap it up in burlap and toss it in the Thames. Why pack the poor imp in a suitcase and take all that risk? The murderer could have buried the child and be done with it. I half wonder how many such graves are under the feet of picnic parties, how many little bones are just under the dirt of blankets topped with bottles of wine and pork pies."
Dr. Zieglar and Harding carefully lifted the bundle out of the suitcase, and to everyone's surprise the package seemed to grow in their hands as it was freed, the weight and length more significant than either of them were expecting.
"This doesn't feel like no baby," Harding observed. "No toddler neither."
"Ja. Much older."
Mycroft bit back bile. Leaning on his cane he returned to the gurney. "What are you saying?"
"Eet is a strong person who did this. Zee bones are broken to make the body fit. This will be a mess, I think, ja, ja. Help me, my friend. Careful, like a glass puzzle."
Dr. Zieglar, wielding a scalpel, cut the thin, but strong ribbon that held the silk in place, the body within it sagging into its larger proportions and spilling out onto the cerramic coated slab in a wet mess. Mycroft turned away, unable to watch as they gradually brought limbs out of their confined prison, elongating the broken body until its full length lay upon the cold, white surface, surrounded by folds of bloodied silk and what looked like a cotton sheath with a delicate flower print design. Mycroft squinted to see it better. Lilac flowers, in perfect, tiny purple detail.
Mycroft had been on the periphery of corpse investigations long enough in his career to pick up the more unfortunate clues. It was not cold enough to freeze the body, and it was free of rigour, and as a result the limbs became malleable as the small body was gently unfolded onto the slab. This suggested the victim had been dead over twenty-four hours. The fresh appearance of the blood was due to the winter weather, keeping it cold enough to prevent it from spoiling. Contrary to Harding's original assumption, the body did indeed partially freeze.
"What was the time of death?"
Lestrade remained impassive, the unfortunate corpse now fully unfolded and the true tragic nature of his demise exposed.
Dr. Zieglar nodded at the small body. "Ja, ja...You are an impatient man. I do not rush, Inspector, and your murderer, they did not either. The blood flowed post mortem, due to the injuries sustained when fitting him into that suitcase. I give the timeline within the last twenty-four hours but it is hard to say, he was partially frozen and as a result this will confuse it. We must think of the weather, which has been colder than usual this past week, but did not get to freezing temperatures until two days ago. So I will be conservative and accomodate this. I give time of death anywhere between forty-eight to twenty-four hours."
"Possibly longer," Lestrade added. "Depending on how long he was placed on that luggage rack. It's in the open air, and that kind of cooling could give the corpse more than a couple of days."
"That is also a possibility. Let us extend the time to seventy-two hours, given the cold temperature. You will have to determine when the luggage was dropped off and it can be narrowed further from that point. I can only tell you the condition I find him in now, and he is fully defrosted. I can tell you I see no evidence of full freezing. It was mild on Monday, but not enough to fully thaw a previously frozen corpse, and the temperature dipped again on Tuesday. The body has been kept fresh."
'Like a piece of mutton in Mrs. Hudson's pantry,' Mycroft shuddered. He gestured to the body. "Cause of death?"
"Strangulation," Inspector Harding quickly said. "You can see the lines along his neck. The act was done with a garrotte, though not by a rope. If the murderer had used their hands there would have been clear fingerprint marks arranged like a necklace of bruises along the throat." He pointed at the thick wide line around the child's neck, the width indicative of a belt. Harding instantly surmised this was Mycroft's assumption so he quickly corrected it. "That is not a bruise made by a leather belt. A belt garrotte would leave a deep imprint of a buckle, usually along the side of the neck, the metal causing significant scratches. No, I suspect some sort of material, such as a scarf." He paused, looking on the sad serenity of the victim's face. "Despite the post mortem injuries there is little evidence of physical abuse. No marks on his hands or signs of any struggle. He has a thin neck, it would have been easy to subdue him. Still, you'd think he'd get in a scratch or two."
Harding's observations cascaded over Mycroft in a blur. Though the officer was trying to remain removed from the situation it was clear to Mycroft that Harding was uncharacteristically rattled. Perhaps it was that eerie angelic peace that remained, the boy's face strangely relaxed and unmarked despite the brutal way his body had been shoved into the suitcase, like a broken wooden marionette.
A child. Healthy and cared for. As is the case for good men this made the crime instantly more difficult. The angelic expression he held belied a peacefulness that the violence enacted upon his young life was difficult to reconcile.
"He was drugged," Lestrade said.
Frowning, Harding bent low and sniffed near the child's nose and mouth. He stood back, surprised.
"Chloroform," he confirmed. "Administered shortly before his death and in a significant amount. The scent of it remains on his skin."
Dr. Zieglar shook his head. "Why should anyone kill a child? An infant...Well...We get a lot of those. But a child of this age? He is not well fed but he is not starving. His clothes, they are not threadbare. I will need to inspect his organs, but I suspect I will find only healthy specimens. This is a shame, gentlemen. Such a handsome child would have grown into a strong man."
"Drugging him first suggests it was done quickly," Harding offered. "They didn't want a fighter on their hands."
"The murder was fully premeditated," Mycroft added.
Lestrade frowned. "Why did he end up in our luggage?" He paced back and forth at the base of the gurney, ruminating on the circumstances and timing. "Where are Harvey and Willhelm? Are they still waiting outside?"
"I will fetch them," Mycroft said.
"No." Lestrade sadly eyed the boy on the slab. "I could use some air. You can follow me out if you want."
The crisp, cold outdoor air was a welcome respite from the scent of sour iron and rubbing alcohol that permeated the close cave-like innards of St. Bart's morgue. He cast Lstreade a sidelong glance, taking in his stiff posture and the determined clench of his jaw.
"This case will be difficult," Mycroft observed.
"Not if I can help it," Lestrade asserted.
Willhelm and Harvey shared a cigarette as Lestrade approached them, the light snow dusting their broad shoulders. Willhelm made a move to open the car door and was stopped by Lestrade.
"I'm afraid we're going to be here the rest of the night." He cast a glance at Mycroft who was feeling increasingly ill at the prospect. "You might as well park the car at the garage and head home until we ring for you."
"Of course," Willhelm said, while Harvey hesitated, only to remain silent.
Lestrade observed them carefully and Mycroft, being not just a judge, but a judge of character, could spot guilt across four courtrooms. "You are not to drive that car."
"Of course not, sir," Harvey agreed.
"Gentlemen, I am not stupid. You are young and enterprising and I know you fashion yourselves to be experts in the means that can be gained via motorcars. If you are offering a service with the vehicle when it's supposedly not in use I suggest you put it off at least for tonight. No one wants a murdered ghost riding with them."
Willhelm paled. "Is that what that was, sir? A dead man?"
"A potential one."
They wisely kept mum on the details, for Willhelm was a sensitive soul. He'd wept over the now retired Mr. Pinter's deceased horse for days. He would never recover from such a morbid discovery. He would have to learn about it in the papers like the rest of London, the sensationalism a barrier against the raw facts.
"There is one other thing," Lestrade said. "That suitcase with our unfortunate soul folded in it--Did it come off of the train?"
"I didn't see it unloaded," Harvey answered. "There was a lot of luggage already there when we arrived to pick you up. I can say it was tucked in the back and as it was grouped with your crates we figured it was part of your trip."
"You didn't check the labels?"
"We figured it was just an oversight. It had none, but it was the same colour and similar in make to your other baggage, so we assumed it was yours."
"It was there before our bags were added to it." Lestrade observed.
"Most definitely," Harvey agreed. He tossed his spent cigarette and stubbed the lit tip with the toe of his polished black shoe. They were new, Mycroft observed. "People's baggage gets left behind all the time, usually from the previous train. I'm not entirely sure of the schedule but the train from Liverpool to London runs about three times a day."
"This is incredibly helpful information, Harvey," Mycroft said.
"Glad to be of service, your Honour. We'll take the auto back to the garage and get it cleaned up for the morning for you."
"No," Lestrade said. He gave their quizzical looks an annoyed glare. "That car is now part of my crime scene. I wish to go over it again in the daylight." He shook a determined finger at them. "Do not touch that boot. Understood?"
They nervously nodded in unison. Mycroft felt a pang of empathy for them, as they weren't used to being a part of an investigation but more the gossipers around one.
As they made their way back into St. Bart's, Lestrade hesitated, looking over his shoulder at their drivers. "Those two are thick as theives and might be of their ilk. They are up to some mischief."
"They are loyal employees who have been of great service to us. Do you forget how instrumental Willhelm was in capturing Mr. Valance, the Village Bakery Butcher?"
Lestrade bristled at the moniker. "Times are changing very quickly, Mycroft, and enterprising young men will take advantage of any opportunity that will afford them easy wealth. You have said it yourself, they are young and intelligent."
"So?"
"So they will be keen entrepeneurs."
Mycroft still didn't understand what Lestrade was hinting at as he couldn't envision the two men being interested in anything other than motor cars and possibly aviation. Certainly, they had plenty of work thanks to both himself and Lestrade, as having a personal driver meant driving from one investigative place to another--A great convenience that no longer involved ridiculous miles of walking and horse manure.
Harvey's shoes were exceptionally shiny. And new.
"They are racers," Lestrade said.
Mycroft followed close behind him, the narrow hallway leading into the cavern that was the morgue amplifying Lestrade's pique. "These are not men content to simply putter about London. Did you see the look Willhelm gave me when I told him to leave the car as it is? I guarantee you, Mycroft, they use the car when we are not in it!"
Mycroft scoffed. "Whatever for?"
"For business, Mycroft! Do keep up!"
"I don't think it's right for you to make assumptions about our drivers, they have been nothing but loyal and knowledgable employees. Racing our motor car, really Gregory, what nonsense!"
"It's not wrong of me to acknowledge the intelligence of our associates. The facts are, Mycroft, Harvey has a baby on the way and Willhelm longs for excitement. I daresay this unfortunate murder is creating a measure of adrenaline unprecedented in his limited experience of being our driver. He had plenty of drama driving Dr. Watson's patients about, especially considering many of them had homicidal tendencies or were masters of self harm. The touring bus was always bustling with singing and mad arguments he had to quell while concentrating on operating that behemoth of a vehicle. And now he is enamoured with Mrs. Hudson's plans to throw herself from the skies! Truly this sort of dogged pursuit of danger must be some sort of mental ailment."
"He did come to us from Dr. Watson's employ," Mycroft reminded him.
"Bugger the man. We've been cast his hopeless case!"
"I still can't see him racing our car, it's hardly suited for that purpose."
"Of course they aren't racing it. Did you not see how easily they transported our luggage, despite the unfortunate extra baggage they brought with them? They are under public employ, Mycroft, using our car to transport luggage from Picadilly station to all manner of houses all over London. I would not be surprised if they offered a taxi service as well!"
It certainly had to be lucractive work, Mycroft mused. Harvey's new shoes weren't cheap.
They were quiet a long moment as they continued down the long, damp corridor that led to the morgue. "What of this unfortunate?" Mycroft asked. "That poor child. Who could possibly do such a thing."
Lestrade shrugged. "Plenty of the desperate, I imagine. Your court cases are full of infanticide. The fatal abuse of a child is hardly anything new. I do admit this case has a twist in it that disturbs me a great deal. Not just his age but the condition of him. He was no street urchin, begging for scraps. The lad had muscle and though he was small in stature he was as Dr. Zieglar observed, a healthy specimen who would have filled out into adulthood. It makes no sense to kill a child like that. They are assets. Strong enough to work and bring home money to a poor, overly large family."
Mycroft thought about the poor lad sitting cold on Dr. Zieglar's slab, the indignity of his body broken after death, the pooled bruising its macabre footnote . "There's been no call to look for a missing child. That doesn't bode well for his family."
Lestrade shook his head. "There is no evidence of prior abuse. No, this boy was murdered by someone he did not know well. This will be a difficult case, Mycroft."
The echo of Mycroft's cane as they walked down the damp corridor that led into the morgue cast a further eerie pall upon their descent. His steps were slow and it was not due to being tired or longing for his bed. He could sense that Lestrade was in agreement, that this case did not hold the same measure of excitement that others had and was instead tainted with an unfortunate sadness that simmered atop an unspoken rage by those who investigated it.
Infant. Toddler. Adolescent. No child should be treated this way.
As they returned to the morgue, Dr. Zieglar was in eager conversation with a now familiar sight, their Jack, who was now an interning surgeon at St. Bart's. Mycroft's rage felt stoked as he thought on the child Jack had once been, abandoned to the streets, his brilliance reduced to the dangerous work of a chimney swift, an enterprise that left him with permanent damage in his left leg. His limp was not pronounced, in fact barely noticeable, but it became slightly exaggerated when he was tired, as he was this evening. His days in surgery were often long and arduous.
He was not as boisterous in his affection for his fathers as he had been in the past and their sudden appearance here after being overseas for several months was met with warm acknowledgement and a promise to stop by Baker Street for tea. He had grown into a thoughtful man in the last five years, the nature of his profession creating a brevity within him that gave him the air of a true English gentleman.
Was he bragging in silence to himself? If Jack had flaws it was his stubborn determination, a trait he shared in full with Lestrade, who despite not having seen his son for what was an extended amount of time was focused solely on the subject of death.
"We're not even off the train five minutes and London has me working my ass off. It seems she's a hard mistress to you as well. Are you starting your shift or ending it?"
Jack grinned at Lestrade's observation. "I'm here so often I don't know any more. I've done two appendectomies and a liver bisection. I'm dealing with a lung tumour later on this afternoon."
Mycroft frowned. "But you specialized in cardiology."
"Apparently so, but my slicing skills have to be up to snuff first before they'll trust me with a person's ticker." He turned back to Dr. Zieglar. "Ingrid is ready for you in the x-ray room. She's curious about this case."
"How is Ingrid?"
Mycroft fought the urge to give Lestrade and his thoughtless question a whack from his cane.
Jack was too quiet for too long a moment. "She's all right, I suppose. We don't see each other much any more. She's a bone specialist so our work doesn't really overlap much."
A lie. Everyone in St. Bart's overlapped, from the x-ray technician missing most of his fingers to the head nurse who ruled her fleet like a campaigning general. Mycroft felt a heavy wave of sadness over thier split from each other, for they had been very close when studying in Toronto and only broke apart the minute they hit English soil. Perhaps there was some poison in the air that had tainted the affection between them, or Jack's urchin history, his life as a child of the East End rearing its ugly head in his adult relationships. They had both been abandoned by their parents, Jack literally and Ingrid emotionally, and this had somehow spoiled the easy love between them, the background of it placing an impenetrable wall.
"Emily is here as well," Jack cheerfully announced and Lestrade visibly snarled.
Mycroft tempered the ill mood. "No one has reported this child missing and her help will be much appreciated. Identifying him will lead us closer to his murderer."
"Momento Mori," Inspector Harding muttered.
Lestrade perked up. "Not a portrait any parent would want to put on their mantle. I don't understand these sorts of morbid keepsakes, they celebrate death with a pathological eagerness. It's bloody distasteful." He crossed his arms over his wide chest. "Emily is here, you say? Of course she bloody is."
"That might be true, sir," Inspector Harding added. "About the memento mori. But I'd venture to say that this is one that will cause a real tug on the withered remnant of London's heart. His face, sir. The rest of him is broken into shards but his face looks so peaceful, like he's having a lovely dream."
It was an unsettling truth. Mycroft was moved to visit the enshrouded lad at the table, his heart aching at the thought that he could easily be their Jack at one point in his young life. The thought sent shivers down his spine.
"I've chatted with Emily," Jack said. "She's here at the hopsital doing a piece on nursing students. She was pretty excited when I told her you were both here and there had been a murder."
Lestrade made a sour face. "I bet she's licking her chops over it."
Mycroft pinched him. "Gregory, please..."
Harding piped up at this. "Emily is here?" He smoothed down his hair and brushed imaginary lint off of the shoulders of his uniform. "I'll have to put on some tea."
"Not a drop for that hustler, she's only here to get a story and make some money off of it. They'vre vipers, the lot of them. You don't have to go and tell her about our business, Jack, the corpses don't get colder over time."
Mycroft bit his tongue as Jack gave Lestrade a tried sigh, the argument already spent ages ago when Jack and Emily became an item. "I know you don't like that she's a reporter..."
"Harpy. Viper. Obstructor. There's plenty of names for what she is."
Jack's jaw was firm as he continued through Lestrade's interruption. "As a reporter, she can be of invaluable use in finding out the identity of this boy. She's brought her camera. By morning the London Gazette will feature his face on the front cover and someone out there will recognize him." Jack lay the gauze Dr. Ziegler had lightly covered the body in back over the child's face. "He's healthy and not starved by the look of him. A family is missing him.'
Dr. Zieglar eagerly nodded his head. "Ja, ja, you have excellent observation skills, good for a surgeon, ja? You should accompany me here, we can always use an extra set of eyes to look upon the bodies and find what killed them. Yours are well trained. Like my dear friend Harding, here, you do not mind the blood and the guts."
"No," Jack replied, paling at the suggestion. "I'm afraid I'm a lot more interested in keeping people alive. I would hate to be at cross purposes by coming down here too often, and for the sake of my reputation I hope my patients never meet you."
Dr. Zieglar chuckled at this and adjusted the thin glasses perched on the tip of his nose. "Ja, ja, Leid odor Freud, in funfzig Jahren ist's alles eins. You should all be so lucky not to know about me. Tell me about this Emily...Harding sweats like a schoolboy when you bring up her name. Are you dating her? You young people and your flirting and your crazy relationships with each other, and old man like me can't keep up with it all. Where is Ingrid? You must tell her to visit me. In fact, I could use her expert eye on these broken bones, all post mortem but perhaps she could find some further injury I have missed, one that happened when alive."
Jack visibly bristled at the mention of Ingrid's name and he forced cheerfulness into his voice as ignored Dr. Zieglar's last request and talked of Emily instead. "I wouldn't say we are dating, but we have become closer. We are good friends. Maybe a little more as time goes on." He blushed and scratched the back of his head. "I haven't broached the topic of being an item, as they say. Timing isn't quite right yet."
"I'll break a bloody clock to make sure it never will be."
"Gregory, seriously, hold your tongue." Mycroft turned to Jack. "Don't mind him. His prejudices against the employees of the London Gazette have been half a decade in the making, ever since they referred to the bakery murderer as a--You remember him, Jack, the fellow who murdered those men in the village near the estate, the baker, Mr. Valance..."
"They wouldn't call him a man." Lestrade rapped his knuckles on the rim of the gurney, the sound like iron nails echoing in the poorly lit space. "He dressed like a man, introduced himself as a man, lived as a man, and died as a man. That rag ignored every important detail of that case, specifically the monstrous behaviour of the husbands that were done in and the larger issue of his being a gun for hire. But oh no, his slit was more important than actual murder! I don't agree with a thing he did, there were ways around it to protect those women from awful men and surely Mr. Darling did not deserve his fate, but damned if it isn't a stupid thing to focus on private bits instead of a larger issue. The London Gazette treated homicide and the abuse of poor wives as a joke. I won't forgive them or any of their ilk."
"I'm to remain your sinner, then."
Emily Montague, as if on cue, stood at the morgue entrance, writing pad already in hand as she took notes. It was already half full thanks to her in-depth reporting of the nursing students upstairs, and she had half a page full of indecipherable squiggles, a shorthand only she understood. She confidently walked past Lestrade who refused to get out of her way, her chin held high as she slid her arm into Jack's, resting her wrist on his elbow in lazy familiarity.
"You got a murder for me?" she asked, grinning up at him, thin lips painted cherry red. She was dressed smart, in a tailored wool jacket and matching skirt, the high couture quality revealing her wealth.
Mycroft leaned heavily on his cane as he approached her. "This is a very unfortunate, pitiable case. If you aren't up for it, no one will judge you for bowing out."
She held up her camera, a bulking monstrosity with a huge flash affixed to it. "I've been at plenty of crime scenes, as your Inspector Harding can attest. I sleep just fine after seeing every one of them."
"I think of all the things I do not like about you, that last bit is the one that bothers me most."
"Dad," Jack implored Lestrade. "Please, Emily is here to help."
"To get her name on the front page, I imagine."
"Yes," Emily said, smirking. "I'll make sure of it."
Emily's appearance in their lives was mostly due to Jack, who had met her after performing surgery on a crime kingpin who was shot in an East London alleyway. She was bold and ambitious, but not in the brash, strange way that Ingrid was. Her confidence was borne of a rich upbringing and an especially doting father who had showered all manner of education and fabric upon her like a diplomatic princess. She wore simple wool skirts and heavily tailored jackets, her hair tied in a tight bun at the back of her head and hidden beneath an understated felt brown hat. Sparkling brown eyes full of mischief met homicide detectives and suffering family members alike, her brash search for a story holding no punches as she demanded every detail. She was a skilled enough wordsmith, but Lestrade found her articles wordy and in need of humility. Every quote she made clinked like coins when read aloud.
Jack had a type, it seemed, and it was ambitious, socially awkward women overflowing in ego and confidence.
"Is this a child?" There was no hint of concern in her voice. She poised her camera in front of her and focused on his face. She gave Harding the go ahead to remove the gauze covering him.
She hit the shutter, sending the flash crashing through the small space in a crescendo of light.
Emily brought her camera to her hip to get a better look at her subject. "Oh. What a handsome kid. He almost looks like he's sleeping. Lower that gauze down a bit, I want to get a head shot that includes his shoulders. I want a good angle on that bruise right there at his throat. He looks too peaceful otherwise. We have to jolt the punters into reality."
"The death of a child should be enough," Lestrade snapped.
"Meaningless in London," she quipped.
Mycroft shivered, unsure if it was due to the damp in the morgue or Emily's cold demeanour.
"The average London Gazette reader is seeking novelty, not information. You have to entertain and shock their tiny minds before they react to anything. There'll be a buzz about this." She angled her camera and took another long snap from her favourite angle. "That ought to do it. Inspector Harding already gave me the details earlier while you two were outside with your drivers. It's a nice motor car. And isn't that Wilhelm Baur, the racing car driver? Is it true he's thinking about aviation?"
"Ask him yourself," Lestrade replied shrugging.
"I'll be sure to," she replied, still smiling. Lestrade looked about ready to smack it off of her. Thought it was heavy, Emily waved her camera back and forth in triumph. "Thanks for the news."
"I can't bloody stand her!"
Mycroft, finally in his night clothes, wiped his face with his palms, fighting to keep wakefulness afloat. "Gregory, I am not arguing with you, she is not my favouorite choice either, but Jack is possibly dating her and we can only hope it fizzles out as time goes on. Please, for the love of all things you and me, come to bed and get some sleep."
"Bloody viper," Lestrade muttered as he struggled with the belt of his robe and tossed it off onto a nearby chair, the seat stacked high with newspapers. "If she had a heart it would be lost. Did you see the way she looked at that child, as though he were a stack of pound notes! What is wrong with our Jack that he would trade over a gem like Ingrid for a monstrous hydra like that?"
It was a question Mycroft couldn't answer. Lestrade huffed and collapsed onto his side of the bed, his head hitting the pillow like a brick. It had been a terribly long and exhausting journey home and the dead boy was a rude homecoming. An equally arduous day was laying in wait for them, and when Mycroft closed his eyes it was no wonder he was instantly whisked into that common oblivion, devoid of dreams or consciousness, the nothingness a healing, resetting relief.
This is part two of the new, third novel in the Judge Mycroft Holmes series. The first two novels are complete and can be found on my Ko-Fi shop here: http://ko-fi.com/writermjones If you are enjoying this story, be sure to comment!