I had not spoken a word nor even tried to get one in edgewise. But Lestrade turned to me and said, “You are to assist.”
“I am?”
“Yes, Miss... Dr. Stamford. In light of the coroner’s background, I would like a disinterested-” he put great emphasis on this word while staring down Sherlock - “and genuinely unbiased person to observe Coroner Carttar. Mr. Holmes has a penchant, if you will, for seeing things only his way.”
“The correct way,” Sherlock said in a caustic tone through gritted teeth. “You know well my philosophy, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. I seek only the truth, the facts.”
“Well, go find them down the street at the museum. I tried to get in to see the curator to talk to him about this Buddha statue that is being replicated, but I kept being told he wasn’t available.”
As Lestrade explained that the statues left at each scene were exact replicas of an ancient Buddha that had been on display at the museum since 1859, Sherlock scribbled something in his notepad. Then he looked up and said, “But I need to be here!” His eyes pleaded with me to support him.
“I think that it’s best to do as Detective Inspector Lestrade says, Sherlock. I shall assist the medical examiner in the necropsy and you should investigate the source of these replicas.”
“Very well,” he said with a sigh. “I shall be at the British Museum to see what I can learn there.”
“Sherlock, I’m sure you are right,” I said, touching his hand. “A message is being sent by the killer and when you discover what it is, you will have your ‘why.’”
12
An older man, with grey hair and weary eyes, entered the mortuary as Sherlock left. “Good morning, Miss Stamford, Detective Inspector.”
Lestrade nodded to him and I was unsure whether to correct the use of ‘Miss’ instead of ‘Doctor,’ though it occurred to me that it might not have been meant as a deliberate slight; it could have been that the older gentleman was simply unaccustomed to addressing physicians with that title. Until very recently, medical practitioners, even highly trained surgeons like my uncle, were addressed as ‘Mister.’ The title ‘Doctor’ was generally reserved for college professors and Doctors of Divinity. Even on my degree, I was granted an ‘M.B.’ - Bachelor of Medicine - rather than the ‘M.D.” for ‘medical doctor’ that some medical schools now issued.
However, I felt certain that the way Mr. Carttar addressed me, as ‘Miss’ rather than as ‘Doctor,’ was meant as an insult. I responded in kind.
“You are the coroner, Mr. Carttar?” I asked.
A grimace, then a smug smile. Finally, a nod.
Lestrade said, “Keep me informed,” and departed.
Carttar turned to me. “Miss Stamford, would you-”
“Dr. Stamford,” I finally corrected. “I am only able to assist you because I am a physician.”
Jaw set, he replied, “Dr. Stamford, would you be kind enough to gather several large jars? Preferably new... but very clean will do. With stoppers if possible.”
I looked on the shelves and found four such jars and set them on the table next to the body.
“And now a large dish, preferably porcelain, in which to place the stomach.”
“Yes, right,” I said. I found what he was looking for and placed it on the table as well.
Carttar examined the mouth and lips “for injuries or some evidence of corrosive,” then said, “Peculiar odor given off from the deceased’s mouth.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes and I noted it as well and-”
“Miss Stamford, if you are to assist, it would be helpful if you took notes.”
I nodded and grabbed the pen and the notebook in which Sherlock had been writing. When I turned to what should have been the next blank page, I saw a caricature that, prior to being dismissed by Lestrade, Sherlock had quickly drawn of Carttar. In it, Carttar was depicted in a woman’s bathing suit, floundering in the water. A woman on the shore, dressed in surgeon’s garb, shook a pointed finger at him. I ripped out the page and tossed it away. I could barely suppress laughter and while Carttar conducted the rest of the autopsy, I took the rest of his insults as a grain of salt.
13
Carttar made the primary incision through the abdominal parietes, and again the peculiar odor emanated from the body and intensified when he opened the stomach and intestines. He looked for signs of inflammation. Then he asked me to place a ligature round the lower end of the oesaphaugus and a double one at the beginning of the duodenum between the two. He removed the stomach and placed it in the porcelain dish. He opened the stomach along the lesser curvature and removed its contents. He poured them into one of the jars.
He separated the intestines and put them aside. He asked me to use a lens to look for crystals or berries and other evidence of plants. “Sometimes arsenic and strychnine are mixed with indigo,” he said.
But we saw no fragments or evidence of pigments that might be mixed with a poison.
We noted the appearance of the oesaphagus for corrosives or irritant poisons. These could be traced from the mouth down the digestive tract. He uttered, “Hmmm,” and placed the oesaphagus in another jar.
The blood was violet in colour, just as Sherlock had predicted. Carttar was surprised. I was not.
I recorded all of the results and labeled the jars. After the autopsy was completed, I made two lists of the jars and their contents. One would be sent to an analyst - in this case, I felt certain it would be Sherlock - and the other was retained by the coroner with the jars which were stored in a cool place. I handed my record to Carttar for his perusal. When he finished reading it, we both affixed our signatures as was required by law.
Carttar looked up at me and said, “I believe your young man-”
My young
