Hy had just put the badly shaken butler into a cab when Lightner stepped out of another carriage.
“You just missed Keen,” Hy said by way of greeting.
“And?”
“He said it was Beauchamp. After he threw up.”
Lightner grimaced as the two of them headed back toward the entrance to Bellevue. “What does K-Kirby make of it?”
“He’s never seen anything like it.”
Hy could see by the Englishman’s face, a few minutes later, that he hadn’t, either.
“I understand you have medical training, my lord,” Kirby said after the two men introduced themselves. “What do you think?”
“I’ve n-never seen anything like it. Outside of a b-butcher’s,” Lightner added.
Kirby, a tall, barrel-shaped older man with a constitution of iron, chuckled, but Hy shuddered at the too-apt description. With the exception of his head, Beauchamp’s corpse resembled a pile of smoked meat.
Lightner frowned at the collection of body parts. “Where is his r-r-right hand?”
“Ah,” Kirby said, his grin that of a showman about to reveal what was behind the curtain. “It is missing.”
Hy met Lightner’s questioning look and shrugged. “I wasn’t there when the crate broke, sir, but I find it hard to believe either of the dock workers who loaded the, er, parts into a new crate would have stolen a hand. But I’ll go back around and make sure neither of them took it as a, well—”
“Gruesome souvenir?” Lightner suggested.
“Aye.”
Lightner turned to the doctor. “What can you t-tell us about his d-death, Doctor Kirby?”
“Judging by the knife wounds here,” he pointed to the torso, “he probably died of stabbing—I count six wounds and this one here”—he pointed to a blackened cut between two ribs—“would likely have been enough to kill him on its own.” He hesitated and then added, “Or he may have died when the decapitation was commenced.”
All three of them stared at the headless stump.
Albert Beauchamp was currently comprised of six pieces—well, seven counting the missing hand. The killer had severed the legs and arms from the trunk, removed the head from the torso, and then cut off the right hand.
Rather than stinking like a corpse, it smelled like something Hy had salivated over more than once in his life: salted pork. He doubted that he would ever again eat pork. Or maybe any meat.
“Does the manner of the c-cutting tell you anything?” Lightner asked.
Kirby stared at the pieces as he considered the other man’s question. He glanced up. “You mean does it look like the killer knew how to dress a carcass?”
Lightner nodded.
Kirby inhaled and let out a gusty sigh. “The killer certainly chose the easiest spots on the body to make their cuts. As to whether that takes knowledge or is just plain common sense, I couldn’t say. As for the cuts themselves, they are remarkably clean looking. Still, the salt has done its trick, and it’s damned near impossible to get any information from the wounds. From what I can tell of the cuts, a saw was used—rather than an axe or knife—something with a fairly fine-tooth blade.”
Hy grimaced; it just got better and better.
Lightner took a small velvet case from his pocket. “It’s a m-m-magnifying glass,” he said at Hy’s questioning look. “It has a c-collapsible stand.” He showed Hy how the instrument could be made to sit on the palm of his hand by turning a small bronze screw in the side. Then he collapsed it, and leaned close to Beauchamp’s various pieces, examining each of the cuts.
“I c-can’t see much definition in the wounds,” he said when he stood up. He offered the glass to Hy. “Have a l-look.”
Hy took it reluctantly. He wasn’t sure why this murder was so unnerving to him, but he was in no great hurry to examine the corpse any closer. Still, it was his job …
The degree of magnification was impressive, but he couldn’t see anything that would tell him about the saw blade or whether the person who’d wielded it would have done so with skill or was a novice.
“Saws aren’t the sort of thing most people have just lying around,” Kirby pointed out. “They’re expensive, and the finer the blade, the more they cost.”
“What s-s-sort of occupations utilize saws?” Lightner mused.
Kirby held up a thick fingered hand. “Let’s see, there’s carpenters, loggers,” he paused for effect. “Doctors.” He dramatically yanked the cloth cover off his tray of instruments.
Hy gawked: there had to be at least ten different saws.
The big doctor picked up a strange-looking saw with a blade no wider than a lead pencil. “This is a general amputation saw,” he said, handing the item to Hy, who took it without thinking.
Jaysus. Why was everyone giving him these things?
The saw had surprising heft, for all that the frame was delicate. “Who else has access to these? Besides doctors?” Hy asked.
“Butchers, c-cooks,” Lightner suggested.
“Slaughterhouse workers, hunters, joiners,” Kirby added, not to be outdone.
“What about taxidermists?” Hy asked. He was amused—if a bit insulted—when both men gave him looks of surprise. “I just heard about it today,” he confessed. “One of Beauchamp’s tenants does it—out in the shed behind the house. I glanced inside and there were all sorts of tools—also a headless cat.” Hy had been glad this was before he’d gone to get something to eat. “He must have used a saw for that, right?”
“Aye, stuffers,” Kirby said, nodding. “They’d use ’em. They’re a queer lot. My aunt got her dog done.” He shivered. “Gives me the woolies looking at the thing. Got it stuffed holding a bone in its mouth and keeps it on her mantle.”
Lightner stared at Kirby for a long moment, his mind clearly elsewhere, before turning back to the corpse, his forehead furrowing as he once again inspected the neck. “D-Do you think you could get more information if you r-re-hydrated a piece?”
Hy’s jaw dropped at the gruesome suggestion, but Kirby nodded eagerly, as if the question were perfectly normal. “I was thinking that,” he said, looking from piece to piece. “It couldn’t hurt trying it.” He glanced up and said, “The trunk?”
Lightner studied the various body parts before responding. “Yes, I think so.”
The two men talked for a few more minutes, using so much doctor jargon Hy didn’t understand a word. His eyes kept being drawn to the body parts on the table.
Keen, the butler, hadn’t needed more than a few seconds to confirm it was Beauchamp. Hy had to admit that the face, other than looking a bit shrunken in the cheeks, beneath the eyes, and around the temples, looked almost lifelike. He could have identified him from the portrait of Beauchamp that hung in the man’s bedroom, right above the bed.
What kind of man did that—put his own picture above his bed? And it wasn’t as if Beauchamp had been much to look at, either. In life, the older man had been no more than five foot five or six. Though, in the numerous portraits around his house, he’d been depicted as closer to six feet.
The portrait artist had given him thick, chestnut hair, but the head on the operating table showed a sparsely covered pate—as had several of the photographs—with roots that looked more ginger than brown. Hy found the notion that Beauchamp had tried to hide his natural hair color offensive; the man had actually dyed his hair brown.
Hy realized he’d been unconsciously smoothing his own ginger whiskers and dropped his hand.
“Thank you, d-doctor.”
He looked up at the sound of Lightner’s voice, and the Englishman gave Hy one of his rare smiles. “I sense that you are ready to leave, D-Detective.”
“Is it that obvious?” he asked as they headed for the door.
When they were out on the street again Lightner raised his cane and a hackney rumbled to a stop beside them. “The Eighth Precinct,” he told the driver.
Once they’d climbed inside, Lightner took out his book, grinned at Hy, and said, “Let me tell you about m-m-my very interesting m-morning.”