with belladonna
leaves could well be diagnosed as having died of a heart attack if the pathologist wasn’t paying particular attention to his job. Again Sherlock found himself thinking back to something that
he had been involved in, but in this case it was the death of the philanthropist Sir Benedict Ventham in Edinburgh, who had been killed in a very similar way to the one Lukather had described.
They did circle back to talking about the thefts, briefly. Sherlock asked a question that perhaps he should have asked before. ‘Is there any blame attached to you? Do your superiors think
that you should be doing more to protect the mortuary, or do they even think you might be involved?’
‘I’ve spoken to the Board of Directors at the hospital several times,’ Lukather confided. ‘I have told them everything I know, and the police have also reassured them
that I am not and never have been a suspect.’ He laughed, but there was little humour in the sound. ‘And they must be asking themselves – Where else could they get someone to do
this work? I don’t see a queue forming.’
Eventually, however, despite the conversation, the temptation to analyse the dates became too much. ‘I really will have to go,’ Sherlock said, ‘but I’d like to thank you
for a very interesting conversation.’
‘I have really enjoyed myself as well,’ the pathologist replied, rising and shaking Sherlock’s hand. ‘Do let me know if the newspaper piece ever comes out, but please
also feel free to come back for tea and biscuits any time you wish.’ He paused for a moment, thinking. ‘I could always bend the rules and allow you to watch an autopsy being
performed,’ he said tentatively. ‘It really is a most instructive experience.’
‘That really would be amazing,’ Sherlock said, touched by the pathologist’s suggestion. ‘I certainly will be back to see you, and I may well take you up on that
offer.’
Lukather smiled. ‘That would be capital,’ he said. ‘I don’t get the opportunity that often to talk with a like mind. There was a man, some time ago – Ferny Weston,
his name was. Big fellow. Very big. Policeman, he was. He stopped coming.’ His face fell, and he looked away. ‘I think I must have bored him.’
‘You won’t bore me,’ Sherlock promised.
CHAPTER SIX
Leaving the mortuary and the hospital grounds, Sherlock took the shortest route back to where he knew the river was to be found. He located a bench looking over an attractive
spot and settled down, getting his notebook out to check the dates of the thefts. Perhaps it was the talk he’d had with Charles Dodgson about mathematic sequences of numbers, but he knew
there was a pattern in this one, if only he could see it. He sat there for a long time, while the sun gradually went down and the shadows of the trees on the other side of the river lengthened
across its rippling surface. At one point he became aware that Matty was sitting patiently beside him, but he didn’t remember noticing that his friend had even arrived.
Eventually he looked up. His mouth was dry and tasted funny, and he had a slight headache, but he thought he had it.
‘There is no pattern,’ he said to Matty – the first words he had spoken for several hours. ‘That’s the pattern.’
‘What does that mean?’ Matty asked.
‘Things have been going missing from the local mortuary – parts of bodies. My new tutor, Charles Dodgson, is a potential suspect, and so is one of the students I’m rooming with
– Paul Chippenham. You remember, we saw him being taken away yesterday by the police for questioning. I’ve talked to the pathologist, and I’ve got a list of the dates when the
body parts went missing. I thought I could find a pattern, so I could predict when the next theft will occur, but I can’t.’
‘So that’s it then? You need to find another line of investigation.’
Sherlock shook his head. ‘No – the lack of a pattern is actually a
leaves could well be diagnosed as having died of a heart attack if the pathologist wasn’t paying particular attention to his job. Again Sherlock found himself thinking back to something that
he had been involved in, but in this case it was the death of the philanthropist Sir Benedict Ventham in Edinburgh, who had been killed in a very similar way to the one Lukather had described.
They did circle back to talking about the thefts, briefly. Sherlock asked a question that perhaps he should have asked before. ‘Is there any blame attached to you? Do your superiors think
that you should be doing more to protect the mortuary, or do they even think you might be involved?’
‘I’ve spoken to the Board of Directors at the hospital several times,’ Lukather confided. ‘I have told them everything I know, and the police have also reassured them
that I am not and never have been a suspect.’ He laughed, but there was little humour in the sound. ‘And they must be asking themselves – Where else could they get someone to do
this work? I don’t see a queue forming.’
Eventually, however, despite the conversation, the temptation to analyse the dates became too much. ‘I really will have to go,’ Sherlock said, ‘but I’d like to thank you
for a very interesting conversation.’
‘I have really enjoyed myself as well,’ the pathologist replied, rising and shaking Sherlock’s hand. ‘Do let me know if the newspaper piece ever comes out, but please
also feel free to come back for tea and biscuits any time you wish.’ He paused for a moment, thinking. ‘I could always bend the rules and allow you to watch an autopsy being
performed,’ he said tentatively. ‘It really is a most instructive experience.’
‘That really would be amazing,’ Sherlock said, touched by the pathologist’s suggestion. ‘I certainly will be back to see you, and I may well take you up on that
offer.’
Lukather smiled. ‘That would be capital,’ he said. ‘I don’t get the opportunity that often to talk with a like mind. There was a man, some time ago – Ferny Weston,
his name was. Big fellow. Very big. Policeman, he was. He stopped coming.’ His face fell, and he looked away. ‘I think I must have bored him.’
‘You won’t bore me,’ Sherlock promised.
CHAPTER SIX
Leaving the mortuary and the hospital grounds, Sherlock took the shortest route back to where he knew the river was to be found. He located a bench looking over an attractive
spot and settled down, getting his notebook out to check the dates of the thefts. Perhaps it was the talk he’d had with Charles Dodgson about mathematic sequences of numbers, but he knew
there was a pattern in this one, if only he could see it. He sat there for a long time, while the sun gradually went down and the shadows of the trees on the other side of the river lengthened
across its rippling surface. At one point he became aware that Matty was sitting patiently beside him, but he didn’t remember noticing that his friend had even arrived.
Eventually he looked up. His mouth was dry and tasted funny, and he had a slight headache, but he thought he had it.
‘There is no pattern,’ he said to Matty – the first words he had spoken for several hours. ‘That’s the pattern.’
‘What does that mean?’ Matty asked.
‘Things have been going missing from the local mortuary – parts of bodies. My new tutor, Charles Dodgson, is a potential suspect, and so is one of the students I’m rooming with
– Paul Chippenham. You remember, we saw him being taken away yesterday by the police for questioning. I’ve talked to the pathologist, and I’ve got a list of the dates when the
body parts went missing. I thought I could find a pattern, so I could predict when the next theft will occur, but I can’t.’
‘So that’s it then? You need to find another line of investigation.’
Sherlock shook his head. ‘No – the lack of a pattern is actually a
Similar Books
