Blind Justice by Bruce Alexander

well, awkward, I’m afraid.” The surgeon sighed. “What I propose is what in my Vienna studies was called an obduktion.”
    “You must speak plain, Mr. Donnelly,” said Sir John, somewhat in exasperation. “I have a little Latin, less French, and no German at all.”
    “I wish to perform an autopsy.”
    “You mean that in the medical sense? You wish, in other words, to cut open Lord Goodhope’s body and examine his inwards and organs?” He thumped his walking stick on the rug, not as I thought at first in anger, but rather to give sharp emphasis to what he next said: “That is not something to which I can give a yea or nay. To be honest, if it were the corpus of some poor soul picked up off the pavement at Seven Dials, I would have no objection to you cutting at will. But damn, sir! Lord Goodhope is Lord Goodhope, after all. It’s not entirely up to me, it may not be up to me at all, to give permission. This must be Lady Goodhope’s decision, and I doubt, frankly, that she will look favorably on your proposal.”
    Again, Mr. Donnelly sighed prettily, like some unhappy lover. “Well, Sir John, let me at least try her on the matter.”
    “I’ve nothing against it, and good luck to you. You’ll find her in the sitting room just off the street door. That, at least, was where I last encountered her.”
    Gabriel Donnelly turned and started from the room. I spied Potter at the door, intent upon all that transpired. He would have heard as easily as I.
    But then Sir John called after the surgeon: “Mr. Donnelly, two things I would make clear to her, if I were you.”
    “What are they, sir?”
    “First of all, that you are not some sawbones sort of barber-surgeon, but a doctor of physic with a diploma from Vienna. And second, that if she gives permission, your autopsy will be conducted for purposes of this investigation only and not before students or apprentices for their education.”
    Mr. Donnelly considered that for a moment, then said he, “Agreed. Thank you. Sir John, for your advice.” And then he walked through the still gaping and splintered doorway to the library, barely brushing the butler, Potter, as he walked out.
    The magistrate settled back into his chair facing opposite and called out, “You may enter now, Mr. Potter.”
    “Thank you, m’lord.”
    “A simple ‘sir’ will do. Now, if you will take this seat across from me, I have a few questions.”
    “Certainly, sir.”
    “But only a few. First of all, is there a plan to this house?”
    “A plan, sir?”
    “Yes, of course, an … architect’s map, a design, so to speak.”
    “Oh, I understand, sir. No, sir, none: none that I know of.”
    “Well, one must have existed.”
    “Oh, yes sir.”
    “It may still exist.”
    Potter thought on that for a moment. “Yes, sir.”
    “Find it.”
    “Sir?”
    “Find it, I say. Ask Lady Goodhope, though I daresay you’ll not get much from her. But you are the butler, are you not?”
    He pulled himself to his full height. “Indeed I am, sir.”
    “Then you know all the likely places such papers are likely to be kept. Go to them, look through the documents. Find the plan to the house.”
    “Uh, all right, sir.”
    “My next question,” said Sir John, “concerns the age of the house. When was it built?”
    “In the last century, sir, as I understand.”
    “Very good, but when in the last century.”
    Potter seemed troubled, almost vexed, by these questions of Sir John’s. Yet he answered meekly, in due respect to the magistrate’s position: “Well, it is difficult to be exact without the architect’s plan in hand, yet my understanding is that it was put up early in the reign of the first Charles.”
    “As you suggest. Potter, all this will be made clear when you find the plan.”
    “Uh, yes sir.”
    “Now, one last question. Has this house a garden?”
    “Oh, indeed, sir, and a lovely one it is, sir. Lady Goodhope takes a special interest in it.”
    “I’m sure,” said Sir John,