on printed forms, and collected by hand by the police.’ He handed the diary across. ‘The dates where the thefts
occurred are marked by a large exclamation mark in the top right-hand corner,’ he said. ‘While you take a look I’ll go and check on that kettle.’
Sherlock went backwards through the dates, starting that day. The entries were in neat, precise handwriting. They mainly covered meetings with the police or with the medical authorities in the
hospital, dates for inquests or court appearances, dates blocked out for autopsies to take place, with the names of the deceased carefully recorded, with the occasional note for
‘reception’ or ‘dinner’. Whenever Sherlock came across an exclamation mark in the top right-hand corner of a day he made a note in his own notebook of the date, the day of
the week, the phase of the moon (which was conveniently noted by the diary’s printers by means of a small illustration showing what the moon would have looked like on each day) and what
Lukather had been doing on that day and on the day before, just in case that was relevant. There was, as Lukather had said, no obvious relationship between the dates. Sherlock looked in particular
at the numbers of days between the incidents, but they varied – sometimes thirty days, sometimes forty, sometimes only eight.
Except . . .
Except that something was bothering Sherlock. There was a pattern there, somewhere – he just couldn’t see it. He needed time to concentrate.
Lukather came back then with another tray of tea and biscuits. Sherlock opened his mouth to say, ‘I’m really sorry, but I need to go . . .’ but then he saw from the
pathologist’s eager expression how much he was enjoying having the unexpected company. If Sherlock left now, then, he suspected, Lukather would just sit there for a long time, alone, drinking
the tea and eating the biscuits, maybe staring at the portrait of the woman hanging on the wall. ‘Are you sure I’m not imposing on your time too much?’ he asked instead.
‘Not in the slightest,’ the pathologist replied. ‘I have a foreign student from the University, a Mr Daniel Hussein, on my table at the moment. He arrived but recently from the
Middle East, and then dropped dead at a market at Rokeby, nearby. I suspect a pre-existing disease, which is why I have taken precautions to isolate the body and wash it with carbolic acid. I will
sterilize my tools afterwards, twice, just to make sure. But yes, Mr Hussein can wait while we finish our tea and biscuits. He isn’t going anywhere.’
A thought came to Sherlock that really should have occurred before. He frowned, considering it. ‘If the thefts happen at night, he said, ‘then that means the bodies are actually
stored here. I mean, they aren’t taken away as soon as the post-mortem examination has taken place.’
‘That’s correct,’ Lukather confirmed. ‘Sometimes, if there have been a lot of deaths, then I have a queue waiting for my attention, so they have to be stored in a
separate room. The room is cooled with ice, to prevent . . .’ he hesitated, ‘. . . to prevent the natural processes of decomposition from taking place. Also, I sometimes finish a
post-mortem examination late in the day, after the funeral directors have closed, and the body has to wait to be collected the next day. On rare occasions, if I cannot determine a cause of death,
then another pathologist has to be called in to examine it, and that also takes time. So, for all these reasons, there are always bodies in the mortuary. It is no stretch for the thief to know
that.’
They sat there for the next forty-five minutes, with Sherlock asking as many questions as he could about death, the various ways it might happen and the evidence that would be left behind in
each case. In particular he found that the pathologist was very experienced in poisons that mimicked symptoms of disease, so that a woman who had died from drinking a tea made
occurred are marked by a large exclamation mark in the top right-hand corner,’ he said. ‘While you take a look I’ll go and check on that kettle.’
Sherlock went backwards through the dates, starting that day. The entries were in neat, precise handwriting. They mainly covered meetings with the police or with the medical authorities in the
hospital, dates for inquests or court appearances, dates blocked out for autopsies to take place, with the names of the deceased carefully recorded, with the occasional note for
‘reception’ or ‘dinner’. Whenever Sherlock came across an exclamation mark in the top right-hand corner of a day he made a note in his own notebook of the date, the day of
the week, the phase of the moon (which was conveniently noted by the diary’s printers by means of a small illustration showing what the moon would have looked like on each day) and what
Lukather had been doing on that day and on the day before, just in case that was relevant. There was, as Lukather had said, no obvious relationship between the dates. Sherlock looked in particular
at the numbers of days between the incidents, but they varied – sometimes thirty days, sometimes forty, sometimes only eight.
Except . . .
Except that something was bothering Sherlock. There was a pattern there, somewhere – he just couldn’t see it. He needed time to concentrate.
Lukather came back then with another tray of tea and biscuits. Sherlock opened his mouth to say, ‘I’m really sorry, but I need to go . . .’ but then he saw from the
pathologist’s eager expression how much he was enjoying having the unexpected company. If Sherlock left now, then, he suspected, Lukather would just sit there for a long time, alone, drinking
the tea and eating the biscuits, maybe staring at the portrait of the woman hanging on the wall. ‘Are you sure I’m not imposing on your time too much?’ he asked instead.
‘Not in the slightest,’ the pathologist replied. ‘I have a foreign student from the University, a Mr Daniel Hussein, on my table at the moment. He arrived but recently from the
Middle East, and then dropped dead at a market at Rokeby, nearby. I suspect a pre-existing disease, which is why I have taken precautions to isolate the body and wash it with carbolic acid. I will
sterilize my tools afterwards, twice, just to make sure. But yes, Mr Hussein can wait while we finish our tea and biscuits. He isn’t going anywhere.’
A thought came to Sherlock that really should have occurred before. He frowned, considering it. ‘If the thefts happen at night, he said, ‘then that means the bodies are actually
stored here. I mean, they aren’t taken away as soon as the post-mortem examination has taken place.’
‘That’s correct,’ Lukather confirmed. ‘Sometimes, if there have been a lot of deaths, then I have a queue waiting for my attention, so they have to be stored in a
separate room. The room is cooled with ice, to prevent . . .’ he hesitated, ‘. . . to prevent the natural processes of decomposition from taking place. Also, I sometimes finish a
post-mortem examination late in the day, after the funeral directors have closed, and the body has to wait to be collected the next day. On rare occasions, if I cannot determine a cause of death,
then another pathologist has to be called in to examine it, and that also takes time. So, for all these reasons, there are always bodies in the mortuary. It is no stretch for the thief to know
that.’
They sat there for the next forty-five minutes, with Sherlock asking as many questions as he could about death, the various ways it might happen and the evidence that would be left behind in
each case. In particular he found that the pathologist was very experienced in poisons that mimicked symptoms of disease, so that a woman who had died from drinking a tea made
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