A Rip Through Time(22)

I flip through the notebook. “So this is for police work. Observations on weapon marks.”

“Among other things. Now, if you could please make note of the damage under his fingernails.”

I lean forward to peer at dark bruises where the nails have separated from the beds. I wince. “He was tortured.”

“Tortured?”

At his tone, I pull back. “I mean, it is possible someone did that to him, perhaps as a method of extracting information, by putting something under his nails. It would be very painful. I believe I have heard something like that. Somewhere.”

“I am aware of your background, Catriona. My sister told me the full story. I understand that you may, in your felonious circles, have encountered such a thing, so there is no need to dissemble.”

Felonious circles? Well, well, you do have an interesting past, Catriona.

I nod, gaze lowered. “Yes, sir. Well, then, may I speculate that this poor lad was tortured?”

“You may, particularly as that would explain this.” He pries open the victim’s mouth to show a missing tooth, the gum still raw. “The doctor performing the autopsy speculated that it had been knocked out in a blow, but I see no evidence of a head injury. Extraction seems most likely. I have heard of that being used in torture, during times of war, but did not make the connection. Thank you, Catriona. Now if the tooth was extracted, some tool must have been used. Let us take a closer look at the gums for signs of that.”

And so he continues, quite merrily examining the victim and theorizing on how the tooth may have been removed. I take notes, make appropriate noises, and send up yet more apologies to poor Catriona, who is about to return and discover that not only is she expected to be able to read and write, but to listen to her employer speculate on methods of torture without batting an eye.

“You shall need to convey all this to Detective McCreadie,” I say when he finishes examining the mouth and hands. “It is vital information in solving the crime.”

“Is it? I’m not certain about that, Catriona. We do not know what was used to torture the poor lad, and so this cannot help Detective McCreadie.”

“It helps because it proves this isn’t a random victim,” I say. “His killer wanted information from him.”

Gray frowns at me. “What’s that?”

I hesitate. Then I plow forward. In for a penny, in for a pound. “There are two reasons to torture a person. One is sadism—the torturer enjoys inflicting pain. Two is the, well, practical purpose. Extracting information. This particular type of torture suggests the latter. The killer only damaged three fingernails and took one tooth. I probably shouldn’t say ‘only’—they are still terrible things to do—but the point is that he did not do more, which would argue against sadism as the motive.”

And now Gray is openly gaping at me.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“It … does. What was that term you used? Sad … ism? Related to the Marquis de Sade, I presume?”

I shrug. “Never heard of him. The point is simply that this is torture for the purpose of extracting information rather than extracting pleasure, either for the torturer or—” I cough. “The point is that this is not a random murder.”

“In which case, the staging could be more significant than I presumed. I thought it was simply for shock. To garner attention.”

“Could be,” I say. “Probably is. What Detective McCreadie needs to know is that the victim had something his killer wanted. That’s significant.”

“It is. Excellent work, Catriona. Now—” A clock rings the hour, and he curses under his breath.

“If you need a little more of my time, sir, I can spare it.”

“Unfortunately, no. There is someplace I need to be. The police are addressing the media regarding this.”

“A press conference?”

He doesn’t miss a beat at the modern phrase, just waves his hand dismissively. “Some newfangled idea from the commissioner. Personally, I fear it does more harm than good, but sadly, the police are not subject to the Hippocratic oath.”

I snort a laugh at that, which has him turning, brows knitting, only for him to remember what he’s doing, putting away his tools.

“On second thought,” he says, “you should come along, Catriona, if you are heading that way. Tell Detective McCreadie your theory.”

“I think it’ll hold more weight coming from you.”

He frowns at me. “But it is your theory.”

Having worked in several environments where men were quick to take credit for my theories—or restate them right after I did and win the credit—I find Gray’s genuine confusion refreshing, especially given the time period.

If he doesn’t understand why a doctor’s words would carry more weight than a housemaid’s, I won’t tell him. While I suspect it’s less a sign of enlightened thought than the obliviousness of privilege, I still grant him a point for it. And, as eager as I am to get back to my world, I am curious about a Victorian-crime press conference.

“I shall join you, sir, if that is all right, but I believe the theory should come from you. You are the professional.”

“I suppose. I will tell him without taking credit. If the lead helps his investigation, then I will let him know that it was your idea.”