Clara collected the evidence from her laboratory, then rang Charlie Malone to check if he was still able to see her. He wished her happy Christmas and said that he was. Charlie had no family in town. Thinking about it, he and Clara might have been able to spend Christmas together socially. It was his first without Bob and she expected it might be a sad time for him. But as it turned out, they would be meeting professionally anyway. They agreed to liaise outside his office at the medical school then walk up together to the mortuary at the hospital.
Clara turned into Percy Street and joined pedestrians walking towards St Thomas’ church. They all greeted her and one another with a cheerful ‘Happy Christmas!’ With the bells ringing and snow all around, she felt as though she were in the final scenes of A Christmas Carol, half expecting to see Bob Cratchit carrying Tiny Tim on his shoulder among the festive throng.
She would not be going to church. Clara’s relationship with the Church was complicated. Like all her family she was baptised in the Church of England and growing up had accompanied her family, intermittently, to the church on their estate. But she had never reached the point of feeling she could be confirmed. In her first year at university she had, for a while, been drawn into the social circle of the Christian Union. But the people who were most intent on befriending her were the type of Christians who believed the world was only six thousand years old and suggested that the Bible and science were mutually exclusive. She felt she had to choose: Christianity or science? She chose science. In the coming years she was to meet other Christians who had no such dissonance – they believed God had started the whole thing in motion but that it had taken millions of years, that evolution could be part of the process of creation, and that the Bible should not be read as a science textbook.
She read about scientists like Charles Babbage and Michael Faraday who were Christians and believed that science and spiritual faith were complementary rather than in conflict. And she’d been to talks at the Oxford Union by people like C. S. Lewis and J. R. R Tolkien, and even her fellow alumna Dorothy Sayers, who presented a thoughtful faith that could dovetail with science rather than clash with it. Even the great Albert Einstein, a Jew by birth, said he believes in a God who reveals himself in the orderly harmony of the world, not who concerns himself with the fates and actions of human beings.
She could understand that: God revealed through the order of the observable ‘created’ world and could be engaged with scientifically. As to Einstein’s assertion that God did not concern himself with the fates and actions of human beings, well, that was something she had not properly made up her mind about. She felt the God presented by those very enthusiastic Christian Unioners concerned himself a bit too much with what humans did: and the emphasis was always on what they shouldn’t do. Don’t drink, don’t swear, don’t – God forbid! – even think about having sex … She’d felt controlled and judged in their presence. However, if she was going to believe in a God, she wasn’t sure she would want him (if the creator was indeed a ‘he’) not to be concerned with the fates and actions of human beings. Otherwise, what was the point of believing in ‘him’ at all?
So yes, she realised, as she walked past the entrance to St Thomas’ church – she believed in God. She believed in a design to the universe. She believed – or would like to believe – in a personal God, not just a force, who cared for his creation. But she wasn’t sure about the exclusive claims of the Christian religion. And she wasn’t, if she were to be honest, sure about Jesus. The one whose birthday was being celebrated today. She had read the Gospels, and she liked what she’d read. She liked the example Jesus set of loving people and always looking out for the outcasts. And she liked how he always put the self-righteous religious lot in their place. That was an example she felt compelled to follow, even though she often failed. Like today when she chose to be kind and helpful to her sister although tempted to let her stew in her own juices.
But was Jesus really divine? Was he ‘God come to earth’ as the Christmas carols declared? And what about all that death and sin and stuff? From what, exactly, was she supposed to be saved? Of that she wasn’t sure. Come to think of it, it might be worthy of scientific examination. Or perhaps, she could get to the bottom of the case like a detective. She chuckled: the case of the self-declared God. Was he really who he claimed to be?
As she turned the corner towards the medical school she remembered something she’d read by G. K. Chesterton. ‘All science, even the divine science, is a sublime detective story. Only it is not set to detect why a man is dead; but the darker secret of why he is alive.’
However, she thought, as she waved to Charlie Malone, waiting for her: today we are to detect why a woman is dead. Why two women are dead. And the darker secret of who it was who made them so. Whether God would help her to get to the bottom of it or not, she had no idea. But she’d do it anyway.
The mortuary was as cold as the weather outside. Charlie apologised, saying the heating had been off for the Christmas holidays. ‘I’ve lit the furnace in the basement, but it will take a while to warm up. Good for the corpse though,’ he added, rubbing his hands together vigorously.
The corpse was the recently deceased Isobel Baxter, stripped of her fairy godmother dress, and laid out in much the same way as Sybil Langford had been in York. Her blonde hair was splayed behind her; tangled with tinsel, rather than weeds. She had a more dignified exit, thought Clara, but the result was the same.
‘Have her family been informed?’ she asked, wrapping her scarf more tightly around her neck.
‘Yes, I believe they have. But they won’t be viewing the body today. I was wondering, Clara, if you would like to assist me with the autopsy?’ asked Charlie. He passed her a white lab coat.
‘Oh I’d like that very much! I’ve never done one before though. Or even seen one. Only on rats. So I’m not sure I’ll be too much help.’
‘You can observe and help as instructed. I have no concerns about that. I didn’t want to bring my usual assistant in on Christmas Day, but I will need someone to hold bowls and pass instruments and such. I’m sure you’re more than qualified to do that! And if there’s any analysis or viewing under the microscope that needs to be done you could handle that too. As you can see, we have a basic lab set-up here. Anything more complicated though, we’ll have to send to pathology, and that will only be open after Christmas.’
Clara pulled the lab coat on over her thick woollen cardigan. ‘Yes, I can do all that. But before we start, can I show you what I found out last night?’
‘Please do,’ said Charlie, and pulled up two chairs and cleared some space for Clara to lay out her findings.
Half an hour later, after Charlie had read her report, checked her conclusions and examined the samples himself, he leaned back on his chair and whistled. ‘Well done, Clara. I think you’re on to something here. There’s definitely high doses of atropine in the face cream and lethal amounts in the tea. Now we just need to see if it’s present in Isobel’s body, and if so, what killed her, the atropine or the fall?’
‘Or both?’
Charlie nodded. ‘Or both.’
First they cleaned the make-up off Isobel to reveal that the rash that was visible on her chest and neck was also on her face. It did look like scarlet fever but they both suspected it wasn’t. Charlie took a small sample from her cheek, put it on a slide, and asked Clara to test it to confirm the presence of atropine. Clara consulted her textbook on the best method for testing tissue samples and got to work while Charlie continued examining the body.
‘Her pupils are definitely dilated, fixed post-mortem. That’s a classic symptom of belladonna poisoning. Did you know that it’s called belladonna because in Italy the “beautiful ladies”, the belle donne, would use it in eye drops to give them a bright, wide-eyed look.’
‘Yes, I’d heard that. Silly fools. So it’s in her eyes, and this violet colour we get after adding the potassium hydrate and alcohol,’ she said, indicating the skin sample she was examining, ‘shows it was in her skin too. So she was definitely poisoned?’
‘It looks that way. But death by topical application is not very common. She might just have become unwell. We’ll have to examine her bowels and abdominal contents to see if she ingested enough to kill her. Because it looks like the fall is what did her in last night. Her neck is broken. Whether she would have died without the fall is to be determined.’
‘Have we determined it was a fall?’
‘No, we haven’t. I still need to discuss it further with DCI Hawkes, so I don’t want to speculate on that. What we need to do now, Clara, is see what evidence the body presents to us. Pass the sternal saw and rib shears, please. They’re over there. Oh, and put on one of those aprons over your lab coat. This will be messy.’
Clara did as she was bid and then watched, in fascination, as Charlie incised the chest and then opened the thoracic cavity first using the saw then the shears, then clamping everything open to expose the internal organs. Charlie gave Clara a quick run-down of what should be there and what it should look like. The lungs, apparently, were fine. The heart, on the other hand, showed signs of poisoning. ‘See here, the terminations of the vagus nerve in the heart muscle show signs of agitation and the exciter-motor ganglion has been affected. All signs of atropine stimulation. Ultimately the heart would be paralysed, but it hadn’t reached that point yet.’
‘Yet? How long would it normally take?’
‘Three to four days. Five at the most. Depends on the constitution of the victim and the dosage of the poison.’
‘So,’ said Clara, ‘Isobel hadn’t yet died of heart paralysis, but Sybil could have. She died four days after disappearing from the theatre. Dr Bone said it was heart failure that ultimately killed her. He put it down to hypothermia. But could it have actually been atropine poisoning?’
Charlie looked at Clara over Isobel’s splayed torso. ‘A very interesting question. The short answer is yes, it could have been. I’ll have to ask Dr Bone to re-examine the body. And to test for atropine. He won’t be happy that I’m questioning his findings, but don’t worry about that; leave it to me. This second death will justify reopening the case.’
‘Good, thank you. Back to Isobel then. It could have led to heart failure if she hadn’t jumped – or been pushed – off the balcony.’
Charlie nodded. ‘That’s what the evidence so far suggests, yes. We will though need to confirm the amount of atropine in her system. And for that I’ll need to get into the abdominal cavity …’
Half an hour later, and after a messy but fascinating internal investigation, Clara was analysing the atropine level in the stomach contents, while Charlie stitched the unfortunate victim back together.
‘Good grief,’ said Clara eventually, ‘we have more than the lethal dose here. Can you check my findings?’
Charlie did. ‘Well,’ he said eventually, ‘that looks conclusive. Miss Baxter here had sufficient poison ingested orally to kill her within three to four days. Without almost immediate treatment she would definitely have died.’
‘But the fall is what killed her before she reached that point.’
‘Well, the crushed spinal cord and constricted carotid artery to be precise. But yes. Falling off the balcony is what precipitated her death, which would have happened in a few more days anyway.’
‘So, someone was impatient …’ mused Clara.
‘Possibly. Let’s write up this report and take it to Inspector Hawkes. He’ll decide what to do from here.’
‘Will he allow me to be part of the investigation?’
Charlie grinned. ‘Oh, I’ll insist upon it!’