The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(121)

The corpse he was meant to examine that morning had been discovered in Marylebone by the local police, who had handed the case over to Scotland Yard when they found it impossible to identify what kind of weapon had inflicted the wound on the victim—apparently a tramp. Garrett imagined the bobbies doing this with a wry smile, content to give the brain boxes in Great George Street a sufficiently puzzling case to make them earn their salary. It had been Dr. Terence Alcock, waiting for him at that very moment at the entrance to the York Street morgue wearing a bloodstained apron, who had confessed that they were faced with a mystery that he for one found completely baffling. And when a man as well versed as the pathologist, who was fond of airing his knowledge at every opportunity, admitted defeat so openly, it made Garrett think he was confronted by a truly interesting case.

This was the sort you might expect to find in a novel featuring his hero Sherlock Holmes, not in real life, where more often than not criminals showed a distinct lack of imagination.

To Garrett’s astonishment, the pathologist greeted him with a grim expression and guided him in solemn silence down the corridor to the autopsy room. He immediately understood that the inexplicable wound had vexed him to the point of clouding his usually excellent humor. Despite the rather alarming appearance that having only one eyebrow gave him, Dr. Alcock was a cheerful, garrulous fellow. Whenever Garrett appeared at the morgue, he always greeted him in a jovial manner, reciting in a singsong voice the order in which he considered it most appropriate to examine the abdominal cavity: peritoneum, spleen, left kidney, suprarenal gland, urinary tract, prostate gland, seminal vesicles, penis, sperm cord … a litany of names ending with the intestines. He left that part for last for reasons of hygiene, he explained, because handling their contents was a revolting job.

And I, who see everything whether I want to or not, as I have repeatedly reminded you throughout this tale, can confirm that, notwithstanding his propensity for bluster, in this instance the doctor was definitely not exaggerating. Thanks to my supernatural ability to be in all places at once, I have seen him more than once in this unpleasant situation, covering himself, the corpse, the dissecting table, and even the floor of the autopsy room with excrement, although out of concern for your sensibilities I shall refrain from any closer description.

This time, however, as he walked down the long corridor, the pathologist had a melancholy air and did not reel off his usual list, which Garrett, thanks to his prodigious memory, had often caught himself singing under his breath, usually when he was in a good mood. At the end of the corridor, they reached a large room where an unmistakable aroma of decaying flesh lingered in the air. The place was lit by several four-branched gas lamps hanging from the ceiling, although Garrett thought these were not enough for such a large room and only made it seem even grimmer. In the semidarkness, he could scarcely see more than two yards in front of him.

Rows of cabinets lined with surgical instruments filled the brick walls, together with shelves lined with bottles containing mysterious opaque liquids. On the far wall was a huge basin, where on more than one occasion he had seen Dr. Alcock rinsing the blood off his hands, like someone practicing a macabre ritual ablution. In the center of the room on a sturdy table lit by a single lamp, was a figure with a sheet draped over it. The pathologist, who always wore his sleeves rolled up, something Garrett found deeply disturbing, gestured to him to approach the table. Like a sinister still life, on a stand next to the body lay an assortment of dissecting knives, blades for cutting through cartilage, a cut-throat razor, various scalpels, a few hacksaws, a fine chisel and accompanying hammer for boring into the cranium, a dozen needles threaded with catgut suture, a few soiled rags, some scales, an optical lens, and a bucket filled with pinkish water, which Garrett tried to not look at.

Just then, one of the pathologist’s assistants opened the door hesitantly, but the doctor shooed him away angrily. Garrett remembered hearing him rail against the foppish youngsters they sent fresh out of university, who wielded an autopsy knife as though it were a pen, moving only their hand and wrist rather than their whole arm, and making timid, small cuts as if they were preparing a meal. “They should leave that type of slicing to the people who give public demonstrations in the amphitheaters,” Dr. Alcock declared. He was a believer in bold incisions, long, deep cuts that tested the resilience of an arm or a shoulder’s musculature.

After heading off the interruption, the doctor drew back the sheet covering the body on the slab. He did so without ceremony, like a magician wearily performing the same trick for the thousandth time.

“The subject is a male aged between forty and fifty,” he said in a flat monotone, “height five foot seven, fragile-boned, with reduced amounts of subcutaneous fat and muscle tissue. The body is pale in color. As for the teeth, the incisors are present, but several molars are missing, and most of those remaining contain cavities and are covered in a darkish layer.” After presenting his report, he paused, waiting for the inspector to stop staring up at the ceiling and to decide to look at the corpse.

“And this is the wound,” he declared enthusiastically, attempting to coax Garrett out of his passivity.

Garrett gulped air and allowed his eyes to descend slowly towards the cadaver, until his astonished eyes came to rest on the enormous hole in the middle of the chest.

“It is a circular opening, twelve inches in diameter,” explained the pathologist, “which you can look straight through as if it were a window, as you will see if you lean over.” Reluctantly, Garrett bent over the huge hole, and indeed was able to glimpse the table through it.