The Black Hand

2

There is nothing an east-ender likes to do more than gawk; and if the sight is gruesome, so much the better. The Thames constables, with the peculiar water-spider insignias on their uniforms, kept the crowd pressed behind a barrier; but still every man, woman, and child was afforded a clear view of the late Mr. and Mrs. Serafini being extracted from the barrel. One of the constables even set up a tripod and camera to record the victims in situ, but whether it was for official purposes or a personal souvenir I could not say.

Theoretically, we were gawking with the rest of them, though we had been given a closer view. So far our agency was without a client, though I was certain Victor Gigliotti would be interested in hiring our services. However, if I knew Cyrus Barker, he would refuse such an offer, since the Camorran would undoubtedly set his men loose upon Serafini’s killer like a pack of hounds. Beneath his rough-hewn exterior, the Guv’s scruples grind exceedingly fine.

We departed ahead of the barrow, bound for the Poplar Morgue, a ten-minute walk. Barker knew the way better than I, for I had not yet developed the mastery of London streets that he has, being content with a skeletal knowledge of the main thoroughfares and the use of the odd map. Barker’s method involved tacking an ordnance map to the wall at knee level, sitting on the floor cross-legged, memorizing street by street for an hour, as if the map were a Tibetan mandala. The position gives me leg cramp.

When we arrived, the coroner for the East End, Edward Vandeleur, was occupied with another postmortem. We cooled our heels in the main corridor, while the assistants, in gutta-percha aprons, brought in the bodies and washed them down with more carbolic. I sat and pondered the fact that there was at least one occupation worse than mine to be had in London.

One of the doors in the hall opened suddenly and Vandeleur appeared, his long laboratory coat heavily stained with gore. His appearance always reminded me of Franz Liszt, with his sharp features and shoulder-length white hair combed severely back. Vandeleur was a perfect choice for an East End coroner, having both a law and a medical degree, no small feat. The latter is not a requirement for the position, and most coroners depend on hired surgeons to do their postmortems for them, at two pounds apiece. By doing them himself, Vandeleur was not only saving the government two quid, but also was able to draw his own conclusions, which was far more important.

“Barker!” he said, when he’d noticed us sitting on the bench. “What are you doing here already?”

The Guv frowned. “I came to see about a postmortem.”

“I’ve just finished it. Come have a look.”

Confused, we stood and followed him into the room, to the spattered table where a corpse lay. I had reached that state in my experience as an enquiry agent where the sight of a body no longer made me ill. On the marble slab, its fluids draining into the troughs on the sides, was the body of a man in his early sixties. His nude form had been savaged by the examination process, and the top of his skull lay in a pan. The neatly trimmed gray beard and the state of the nails and hands informed me that this was no common East-ender but a man of substance, a merchant, perhaps, or a banker.

“What have we here?” Barker asked, looking at the corpse.

“Don’t you recognize him?” Vandeleur asked. “It’s Sir Alan Bledsoe.”

“Director of the East and West India Docks? He’s one of the most powerful men in the East End. What’s his body doing here?”

I concurred with my employer that the sight of a man so important to Her Majesty’s government lying here in the Poplar Mortuary was unexpected. Men like Bledsoe died in their Pall Mall clubs or their manors in Hampshire. This corpse was on the wrong side of town.

“His body was found yesterday afternoon in Victoria Park. He went there every day after lunch to read the newspaper. In fact, The Times was still open in his hands when he was found. All factors point to heart failure. He’d already had one a year ago, and was taking digitalis for it. Since the death occurred nearby, the body was brought here, but I’ve had a devil of a time getting permission to do the postmortem. The examination itself was rather routine until about fifteen minutes ago, when I discovered the actual cause of his death.”

“What caused you to doubt it was heart failure?” the Guv asked.

“I found ash on the man’s lips. As luck would have it, I’d seen that sort of thing before. I inserted a long forceps into the throat, and what do you suppose I found? The fag end of a cheroot.”

“He’d swallowed it?” I asked. Sometimes I speak before I think. “Was it lit?”

“It was. Singed his throat, though he was beyond caring by that time. With an infarction of the heart, there is often a constriction of the chest cavity, producing a cough. But if the victim is shot or stabbed, there is an involuntary, sharp intake of breath, and the jaw unclamps. The result is that the cheroot or cigarette may be swallowed. It happens more often than one might think. It’s not conclusive in a court of law, of course, but it was enough to send me looking for an alternative means of death. I methodically examined the body from scalp to sole but found no external wound. I thought perhaps my hunch was wrong.”

“You’re rarely wrong, Dr. Vandeleur. What was the actual cause of death?” Barker asked.

“Something had been inserted into his ear, penetrating the brain; some kind of stout wire perhaps, or an ice pick. Killed him instantly.”

“Wouldn’t that result in an issue of blood?”

“It did. There was a small amount in the ear canal, but the outer ear appears to have been wiped clean. Someone came up behind him while he was reading and killed him so quickly he never even had time to drop his newspaper.”

“The thing that strikes me,” the Guv said, “is the only person I know in London capable of such a subtle method of killing is in the other room there, being disinfected at this very moment, an Italian assassin named Serafini. In fact, it was Serafini’s postmortem I was coming here to speak with you about.”

“That’s more than a coincidence,” Vandeleur said. “Was he killed the same way?”

“No, but he was definitely murdered.”

“Let’s take a look. I don’t suppose Sir Alan will mind if I sew him up later.”

The doctor led us across the hall. If possible, the odor of the corpses was even stronger in the confines of the examination room. Serafini’s form lay stretched on the table, a mountain of mottled flesh. Beside it, the coroner’s assistants bent over a second table.

“What’s going on here?” Vandeleur asked curiously, looking over their shoulders before stepping back with a start. “Ye gods! What is it?”

“It’s a woman, sir,” the first assistant said. The man’s name, I knew, was Trent, and he had helped us on a previous case. Medical students were always queuing up to work under Vandeleur. He was the best coroner in London. “Most of the bones have been crushed. There’s no way we’ll ever get her stretched out, I’m afraid.”

“It’s Serafini’s wife,” Barker supplied. “He never went anywhere without her, not even into the afterlife.”

“It’s obvious both were dispatched by shotguns, though it won’t be official until I file my report. Your Italian assassin took a gun blast to the chest.”

There was no doubting it, for a purplish wound cratered his left breast and another was found among the ribs on his right side.

“I beg your pardon, Dr. Vandeleur,” Trent put in, “but there’s another in his back and two in the woman’s as well.”

“His flesh is all churned up,” the coroner said. Pulling the forceps from his pocket again, he began poking about the wounds. In a moment, he held up a round, metal ball.

“Lead shot,” he pronounced. “His internal organs are peppered with it.”

Barker crossed his arms. “Two blasts; four, if you count his wife. Even if one were to discharge one barrel at a time, it would require reloading.”

“I cannot imagine either one of them giving someone sufficient time to reload,” I hazarded.

“Very true, Thomas,” my employer said. “This was done by two men, then, who would have to be professional killers. For all his girth, Serafini was quick and deadly, and his wife every bit as dangerous as he. Only professionals could have killed him.”

“Three assassinations in London in a day?” Vandeleur remarked. “What is the city coming to?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out. So, shall you give a verdict of willful murder regarding Sir Alan?”

Vandeleur stepped into the corridor, and my employer and I followed him, leaving his assistants to their grisly task.

“I am not in the habit of sharing my conclusions before rendering a verdict, Mr. Barker,” he said cautiously, putting the forceps back in his pocket, “but the evidence seems conclusive enough.”

“Is there no possible way that he could have had a seizure which produced bleeding in the brain?”

“Keep to your own field, Barker, and leave the diagnoses to a trained pathologist,” Vandeleur snapped. He could be quite waspish at times.

My employer hesitated. “I was merely thinking of your reputation. In your shoes, I would not wish to render a verdict based upon a wound so small it is barely visible. I wonder how you even spotted it, despite the convolutions of the brain.”

“It was the blood in the ear canal. What are you getting at?”

“I’m afraid no good can come of declaring it a murder. Sir Alan was a very important man. Is there proof it will hold up in court? Most likely, the government shall think you mad despite your reputation, and your position will be in jeopardy.”

“Are you suggesting I render a false verdict?” Vandeleur snapped. “I have never done so in my life and shall certainly not start now.”

“I was thinking of Sir Alan’s wife and Scotland Yard. They will wish to avoid a scandal at all costs. The wound is too small to appear in any photograph. As far as I can see, you won’t have enough proof to convince your peers.”

“For once, I don’t require it. A half hour ago, a representative of Her Majesty’s government arrived informing me that Sir Alan’s death was now a government matter. I don’t know how he knew the man had been murdered. He said he sent for you, as well. That’s what I thought you were here about when I saw you in the corridor.”

“I’d like to speak with this gentleman,” my employer said. “Where is he now?”

Vandeleur led us out of the room and down the main corridor, while I contemplated what it would be like to work all day in a place that smelled of carbolic and moldering bodies. Just before we reached the desk, where an orderly watched like a sentinel, Vandeleur turned and opened a door on the left.

A man stood up in the room beyond, but I could not see him. Barker is over six feet, and Vandeleur approaches it. As unobtrusively as possible, I tried to peer over their shoulders. I was expecting a stranger, but in fact I knew the man. Coupled with what I had seen so far that day, I rather wished I didn’t.