Hawkwood glanced around the room. It looked as though the surgeon was behind in his work. Below the curved roof, the walls were lined with bodies, awaiting either examination or dispatch to their place of interment. It wasn’t hard to see why Quill, despite their past dealings, might be irked by another one turning up unannounced.
But when he turned, the smile was back, which could only mean one thing.
“You’ve already taken a look,” Hawkwood said. “Haven’t you?”
Placing the scalpel on the examination table and removing a blood-stained cloth from behind his apron string, Quill wiped his hands. “As it’s you, I have – and it’s not pretty, though she was once, I think, poor mite.”
The surgeon moved to an adjacent table and then stepped aside to provide Hawkwood with a better view.
Covered to the neck by a grubby sheet, the body was lying on its side in almost the same position in which it had been found. Hawkwood thought about the dead woman’s naked state and the pit she’d been lifted from and how many bodies there might have been buried beneath her. Tied, thrust into a sack, cast down into a stranger’s grave and then covered with a filthy shroud that would have been used on God knew how many other remains; if ever proof were needed that the dispossessed were robbed of all dignity, even in death, this was it. The one redeeming feature, if it could be called such, was that the corpse’s eyes were no longer wide and staring, but half-closed. Presumably, Quill had taken advantage of the rigor leaving the body to make the adjustment. The cord, Hawkwood saw, had been cut from her wrists.
“You’ll appreciate it’s been only a short time since I took delivery,” Quill said, “and that my initial examination was somewhat cursory.”
“I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”
“As you wish.” Tucking the cloth back into his apron, Quill placed both hands on the table and gazed down at the remains. “We have a young female – eighteen to twenty-five years of age or thereabouts. Cause of death: asphyxia … strangulation.” The surgeon paused, as if mulling over his diagnosis. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
“There is noticeable bruising under the throat, caused by some sort of ligature.” Quill pointed towards the corpse’s jawline. “Possibly the same cord that was used to bind her wrists and ankles.”
“Her ankles were tied as well?”
Quill shrugged philosophically. “Easier to fit her in the sack.”
There was less engrained dirt than Hawkwood remembered as he gazed down upon the remains. From the state of the water in a tin bowl placed by the corpse’s feet, Quill had already made a token effort to wipe the body down prior to his examination. As a result, the discoloration in the skin was even more pronounced than it had been when Hawkwood had observed it at the bottom of the pit.
“And if it wasn’t … strangulation?”
“There are several contusions, a fracture of the zygomatic – the cheekbone – as well as dislocation of the mandible. There is also damage to the left side of the skull. Here, you see?”
“She was beaten?”
“Severely, I’d say.”
“Beaten and throttled?”
“Yes. But then you’d already guessed that before you brought her up, am I right?” The surgeon eyed him perceptively.
“I thought it was a possibility, from the parts of her I could see.”
“Which is why you referred her to me.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“The constable described the circumstances in which she was found. Clearly she was not meant to be discovered.”
“Clearly,” Hawkwood repeated softly.
“If you’re wondering about the constable, by the way, I did ask him if he wanted to wait, but he declined; said he had to make his report. I believe this was his first visit to a dead house. He did well, considering, which is more than can be said for his companion. The poor boy had to be helped out.”
He meant Dobbs. At this rate, Hawkwood thought, the apprentice’s first day was likely to be his last.
“There is more,” Quill said.
Without ceremony, the surgeon folded the sheet back to reveal the top half of the body. There was a mottled tint to the pale dead flesh. Hawkwood wondered if it was due to the candle glow. The most noticeable aberration was the dark area of what looked like bruising along the left side of the torso. Hawkwood had to bend slightly to study it. “She was hit that hard?”
Quill shook his head. “It’s called lividity. When the heart stops beating, the blood settles into the lowest parts of the body. This indicates she was lying on her left side as she is now; as she was when they found her, yes?”
“Yes.” Struck by a thought, Hawkwood turned. “Might she have been alive when she was put down there?”
Quill considered the question. “From the state of her, I’d say whoever was responsible made sure she was dead before they put her in the hole.” The surgeon sighed. “A small mercy, I fear.”
Hawkwood stared down at the body.
“There are other injuries,” Quill said, and pointed to the area below the breasts.
Hawkwood looked. Because of the way the body was lying all he could see was the discoloration caused by the blood settlement. And then he saw the lesions.
“What are those?”
“Stab wounds.”
“Throttled, beaten and stabbed?”
“She died hard,” Quill said heavily. “I’ll have a better idea of their cause when the rigor’s left her completely. That will allow me a closer examination. Otherwise I’d have to break bones. I’d prefer not to do that if it can be helped. We’re almost there. An hour or two and I’ll have her properly laid out.”
Hawkwood couldn’t think of a single appropriate reply. He looked down at the body. “Was she violated?”
“As I said, I’ve yet to make a full examination. I will check, though.” The surgeon frowned. “Forgive me asking, but why this one?”
“This one?”
“Most would have left her there.”
Hawkwood turned. “Because a brave soldier didn’t think it right that someone tossed her into a hole without due ceremony, and I didn’t want the bloody resurrection men getting to her.”
Though they still might.
Quill grunted non-committally and then Hawkwood saw the surgeon’s eyes narrow. Taking the rag from his apron, Quill wetted it in the bowl and used it to gently rub the skin on the corpse’s right upper arm. “Now, what …” he murmured softly “… do you suppose this is?”
Hawkwood moved closer.
The pigment in the skin could easily have been mistaken for a consequence of what Quill had termed the lividity process, but as the damp cloth did its work and the dirt was wiped away, Hawkwood saw that it was something else. There was pigmentation but it had been there before the body had settled.
“I declare,” Quill said, straightening. “She has a tattoo. Looks like a flower; a rose, unless I miss my guess. Nicely wrought, too. See how the petals are drawn?”
Quill’s admiration for the ink-work made Hawkwood wonder again about the surgeon’s background and if he had indeed seen naval service. He eyed the man’s forearms. There didn’t