Renegade by Amy Carol Reeves

undisturbed.
    That was, if I could get past the curious crowds. It was no later than six o’clock in the morning, and in spite of the rain, a small but crushing group of journalists and others stood outside Highgate Cemetery. Constables were working hard to barricade the entrance.
    There would be no possibility of penetrating through the pressing crowd, but I watched as a small group of medics arrived, stretchers and medical bags of supplies in hand. The bodies must not have been removed yet. I wondered if Dr. George Bagster Phillips, the mortuary surgeon, would be performing the autopsies on the bodies as he had done for the Ripper case.
    Quickly throwing aside my umbrella and pulling my cloak’s hood up with purpose, I attached myself to the six medical workers who had just exited their carriages and were confronting the small crowd. I quickly told one of the nearby constables blocking the gate that I was from the mortuary; he looked at my black dress and pinafore, typical nurse’s attire, and nodded. I was, after all, a hospital worker, and under the circumstances, no one questioned me further.
    The inside of the cemetery seemed almost as crowded as the outside. Constables seemed to be everywhere as I moved forward with the tiny cluster of medical workers.
    We were ushered toward the tombs in the Egyptian Avenue section. They stood out from the foliage around them, giant, chalky. A small path split off from the main one; it was the path leading to Mariah’s grave. But at the point when I might have easily slipped unnoticed in that direction, I decided to press on with the main group, toward the spot where the bodies lay. I could not shun this opportunity to see firsthand what had happened the night before.
    The first sign of violence in the scene was a bloodied handprint, rust-brown in the rain. The print stood midway up a looming, tall grave shaped like an angel. The granite being held a sword in one hand; the angel’s other arm was outstretched, the palm upward in an inviting gesture of protection and peace. It was as if the fleeing body-thief, in desperation or perhaps in panicked repentance for disturbing the dead, had appealed to the useless stone being.
    Almost immediately after passing the blood-stained tombstone, I came upon the murder scene. A photographer was taking the crime photos—blinding all around him with great white flashes. Some of the medical workers stood by with the stretchers; others, and a few constables, held umbrellas over the bodies. Every single one of us covered our noses with handkerchiefs. The slaughterhouse odor, even in the rain, was overwhelming. Even with the cloth over my nose, I felt my stomach convulse a couple of times.
    Dr. Phillips crouched over the two corpses to begin his initial medical examination. I listened, averting my eyes from the bodies—ragged wounds at their throats, open caverns in their stomachs.
    “Two males—one early twenties, other late forties. Possible relatives,” I heard a familiar voice saying to the crouching Phillips.
    Abberline! I pulled my hood further around my face. I did not want the Inspector to see me. He would know that I did not belong with these forensic workers. And I did not wish to speak to him, particularly given my experiences with him in the past.
    But for the moment, at least, Abberline knelt near Phillips, all his attention consumed in the scene before him. His voice came out loud and gravely. “One source has already identified them as a father and son, Felix and Thaddeus Cruncher—though I would like to verify this further. We will make efforts to locate families later today. A cemetery worker discovered the pair at four thirty this morning.”
    “The stage of rigor mortis shows me that they have been lying here all night,” Phillips said in dry assertion. “Death occurred sometime between eight o’clock and ten at night.”
    I stepped a few feet away, worried that Abberline might decide to look up and see me. Furthermore,