Why Mermaids Sing

Chapter 22

Dr. Aaron Newman was a slim man in his mid-to late forties, with the prematurely silvered hair and kindly yet strained face of a man whose job required him to witness the private joys and agonies of too many lives.

He received them in a parlor furnished simply with good, old furniture, and listened while Sir Henry explained the purpose of their visit. He offered them brandy, which Sebastian accepted and Sir Henry, predictably, declined.

“It’s been over five months now, and I still haven’t managed to come to terms with what happened to Nicholas,” said the doctor, pouring himself a drink. “Such a tragedy. Reverend Thornton and his wife were childless for so many years, and then they had the boy. He seemed a special gift from God, a child conceived so late in his parents’ lives.” Newman removed his spectacles and rubbed a hand across his eyes, his face slack with emotion. “But God took him back, didn’t he?”

Sir Henry cleared his throat uncomfortably. “How long have you known the Reverend?”

“Since he took up the living here in the village, more than twenty years ago now. I assisted with Nicholas’s delivery, you know.” Dr. Newman replaced his spectacles and came to settle in one of the deeply upholstered chairs encircling the tea table. “Tended him through all his childhood illnesses.”

Sir Henry nodded sympathetically. “I understand the Reverend found the boy?”

The doctor’s lips tightened into a grimace. “I’m afraid so. Lifted Nicholas into his arms and tried to carry him here. He collapsed halfway across the green.”

“He suffered a seizure?” asked Lovejoy.

The doctor nodded. “It affected his left side. He has gradually regained the use of his arm, but I’m afraid he still doesn’t walk well.”

“We understand the boy was left in the churchyard.”

A spasm of distaste crossed the doctor’s features. “Yes. Reverend Thornton saw him when he went to open the church that morning. It was horrible, quite horrible. The killer had left the body atop one of the old tombs near the south transept door. It’s the door the Reverend always uses.”

“Interesting,” said Sebastian. “Whoever killed the boy must be familiar with the Reverend’s habits.”

The doctor’s eyes widened. “I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“What can you tell us of your examination of the body?” asked Sir Henry.

Dr. Newman pushed up from his seat and went to a writing table covered with a scattering of books and notes, one hand restlessly riffling the pages of a worn volume lying near the edge of the table. It was a moment before he spoke. “Nicholas’s throat had been slit.”

“From behind?” asked Sebastian.

The doctor hesitated. “I couldn’t say, actually.” He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I console myself with the thought it was a relatively merciful death, considering what came after.”

“There were other wounds?”

The doctor nodded. “The torso had been slit open and the heart, lungs, and liver removed. Rather inexpertly, I might add.”

“Hacked in anger?” Sebastian asked.

Newman looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “I wouldn’t have said so, no. There were no extraneous wounds to the body. Just the slice across the throat, the opening of the body cavity, and the removal of the organs.”

Lovejoy pressed a cleanly folded handkerchief against his tightly held lips.

“Had the blood been drained from the body?” Sebastian asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes. How did you know?”

“From the condition of the two most recent victims found in London.”

“You think there’s a connection?”

“There would seem to be, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, I suppose so. But…Do you have any idea who’s doing this? Any idea at all?”

“We’re working on it,” said Lovejoy, tucking his handkerchief away. “Had the Thornton boy been bound and gagged before he was killed?”

“I’m a physician, Sir Henry, not a surgeon. I’m afraid I have never made such things a study.” It was said with gentle pride, for in the hierarchy of medicine, physicians were gentlemen. Educated at Oxford and Cambridge, they could discourse at length in Latin on the medical texts of the ancients. They used their learning—and their observations of their patients’ pulse and urine—to prescribe drugs, or physics. They did not involve themselves in such vulgar practices as physical examinations; nor did they deal with broken bones. They certainly did not perform surgeries or carve up cadavers in an attempt to learn the secrets of life. Because of the rarified nature of their husbands’ activities, the wives of physicians, like the wives of barristers, could be presented at court; the wives of solicitors and surgeons such as Paul Gibson could not.

The doctor drew a pocket watch from his waistcoat and smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid you gentlemen must excuse me, but I’ve an elderly patient I promised to see before two o’clock. I’ll ask my housekeeper to bring you some tea, shall I?”

“Thank you, but no.” Lovejoy pushed to his feet. “If you think of anything else that might be considered relevant, you will contact Queen Square?”

“Yes, of course.” Rather than ringing for the housekeeper, Dr. Newman walked with them to the front door himself. As they passed the stairs, an old beagle stretched to its feet and padded over to the physician’s side.

“By the way,” said Sebastian as he prepared to follow Lovejoy into the bright sunshine, “did Nicholas Thornton have anything in his mouth when he was found?”

“Actually, yes.” Newman bent to pull absently at the dog’s ears, his face troubled. “I can’t imagine how I could have forgotten to mention it. It…it looked like a star. A silver papier-mâché star.”