saved from replying by the fact that they had reached the steps of the morgue. He fell behind Pitt and followed him up and inside. Again the smell of carbolic, wet stone and death met them, and involuntarily they both tightened their muscles and flared their nostrils very slightly, as if somehow one could close one’s nose against it, stop it from reaching the back of the throat.
The doctor was in a small room off the main hall, sitting behind a wooden table which was covered with odd sheets of paper.
“Ah!” he said as soon as he saw them. “You on the Clerkenwell shooting? Got something for you. Very rummy, this corpse of yours. Most poetic thing I ever saw, I swear.”
Innes pulled a face.
“Shot,” the doctor said unnecessarily. He was wearing a scruffy coat splashed with blood and acid, and his shirt was obviously laundered, but no one had bothered trying to remove the deep ingrained stains from it. Apparently he had recently left some more grisly work for this meeting. He was sitting facing them, a goose-quill pen in his hand.
“I know.” Pitt was confused. “We know he was shot. What we don’t know is with what gun. The only gun in his office was a hackbut, and it was broken.”
“Ah!” The doctor was increasingly pleased with himself. “What kind of bullets though—you don’t know that, now do you, eh?”
“We didn’t see any,” Pitt conceded. “Whatever it was made a terrible mess of him. But it was pretty close range.The hackbut could have done it, only the pin was filed down.”
“Wouldn’t have recognized it if you had,” the doctor said, now positively oozing satisfaction. “Wouldn’t have thought a thing of it. Most natural event in the world.”
“Would you be good enough to explain yourself?” Pitt said very levelly, sounding each word. “What have you got?”
“Oh—” The doctor caught his exaggerated patience and realized he had tempted them long enough. “This!” He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, and very carefully unfolded it to show a bright gold guinea.
For a moment Pitt did not understand.
“So you have a gold guinea—”
“I found it in your Mr. Weems’s brain,” the doctor said with relish. “Got another, pretty bent. That one must have hit a lot of bone. Gold isn’t very hard, you know. But this one’s in good shape. Queen Victoria, 1876, thirteen years old.” He pulled a face. “Your usurer, gentleman, was shot by a gun loaded with gold coin. Someone has a nice sense of irony.”
The room they were in was bare and functional. Their voices echoed slightly.
“Poetry,” Pitt agreed with a humor that had a dark chill to it, a crawling on the skin, and a clamminess.
“Shot with ’is own money?” Innes said with amazement. “Oh that’s black, that’s very black.”
“Wouldn’t have thought any of those poor beggars would have that much imagination,” the doctor said with a shrug. “But there it is. Straight out of his brain—with a pair of forceps. Swear to it on the Bible.”
Pitt imagined it with a shiver: the quiet room above Cyrus Street, the lamps burning, gas hissing gently in the brackets, the sound of hooves from the street below, Weems sitting at his desk implacable, yielding nothing, the shadowy figure with a huge barreled weapon loading it with gold—and the explosion of the shot, the side of Weems’s head blown apart.
“What happened to the other pieces?” he asked. “You aren’t saying two gold coins did all that damage, are you?”
“No—not possible,” the doctor agreed. “Must have been four or five at least. I can only think the man, whoever hewas, picked up those that weren’t embedded too deep in flesh—if you can imagine that. Cold-blooded devil.”
Innes shuddered, and swore under his breath.
“But the gun,” Pitt persisted, forcing the picture out of his mind. “It would take a wide-barreled gun, a big gun, to shoot gold pieces like that.”
“Well it couldn’t
The doctor was in a small room off the main hall, sitting behind a wooden table which was covered with odd sheets of paper.
“Ah!” he said as soon as he saw them. “You on the Clerkenwell shooting? Got something for you. Very rummy, this corpse of yours. Most poetic thing I ever saw, I swear.”
Innes pulled a face.
“Shot,” the doctor said unnecessarily. He was wearing a scruffy coat splashed with blood and acid, and his shirt was obviously laundered, but no one had bothered trying to remove the deep ingrained stains from it. Apparently he had recently left some more grisly work for this meeting. He was sitting facing them, a goose-quill pen in his hand.
“I know.” Pitt was confused. “We know he was shot. What we don’t know is with what gun. The only gun in his office was a hackbut, and it was broken.”
“Ah!” The doctor was increasingly pleased with himself. “What kind of bullets though—you don’t know that, now do you, eh?”
“We didn’t see any,” Pitt conceded. “Whatever it was made a terrible mess of him. But it was pretty close range.The hackbut could have done it, only the pin was filed down.”
“Wouldn’t have recognized it if you had,” the doctor said, now positively oozing satisfaction. “Wouldn’t have thought a thing of it. Most natural event in the world.”
“Would you be good enough to explain yourself?” Pitt said very levelly, sounding each word. “What have you got?”
“Oh—” The doctor caught his exaggerated patience and realized he had tempted them long enough. “This!” He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, and very carefully unfolded it to show a bright gold guinea.
For a moment Pitt did not understand.
“So you have a gold guinea—”
“I found it in your Mr. Weems’s brain,” the doctor said with relish. “Got another, pretty bent. That one must have hit a lot of bone. Gold isn’t very hard, you know. But this one’s in good shape. Queen Victoria, 1876, thirteen years old.” He pulled a face. “Your usurer, gentleman, was shot by a gun loaded with gold coin. Someone has a nice sense of irony.”
The room they were in was bare and functional. Their voices echoed slightly.
“Poetry,” Pitt agreed with a humor that had a dark chill to it, a crawling on the skin, and a clamminess.
“Shot with ’is own money?” Innes said with amazement. “Oh that’s black, that’s very black.”
“Wouldn’t have thought any of those poor beggars would have that much imagination,” the doctor said with a shrug. “But there it is. Straight out of his brain—with a pair of forceps. Swear to it on the Bible.”
Pitt imagined it with a shiver: the quiet room above Cyrus Street, the lamps burning, gas hissing gently in the brackets, the sound of hooves from the street below, Weems sitting at his desk implacable, yielding nothing, the shadowy figure with a huge barreled weapon loading it with gold—and the explosion of the shot, the side of Weems’s head blown apart.
“What happened to the other pieces?” he asked. “You aren’t saying two gold coins did all that damage, are you?”
“No—not possible,” the doctor agreed. “Must have been four or five at least. I can only think the man, whoever hewas, picked up those that weren’t embedded too deep in flesh—if you can imagine that. Cold-blooded devil.”
Innes shuddered, and swore under his breath.
“But the gun,” Pitt persisted, forcing the picture out of his mind. “It would take a wide-barreled gun, a big gun, to shoot gold pieces like that.”
“Well it couldn’t
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