After Donald went off to morning rounds, Ian found Conan Doyle in his office, studying a medical textbook, a smoldering pipe by his side.
“Ah, Hamilton!” he said, ushering Ian into the cramped interior, the desk piled high with medical textbooks. “Good of you to come by.”
“Do you not find that an unhealthy habit?” Ian said, pointing to the pipe.
“We all must have our vices, mustn’t we?” Doyle said with a boyish grin. “Surely you have one or two? Or are you all purity and innocence?”
“Innocence, hardly. As to purity, I have been accused of aspiring toward it, but I can assure you I fall far short of it.”
“Quite right, too. Purity is for saints and martyrs. And you don’t strike me as the martyr type.”
“Certainly no one could accuse me of being a saint.”
Doyle leaned back in his chair, stretching his athletic form. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“I have a case involving blood evidence and thought it might be instructive to design a series of experiments involving bloodstains.”
“Capital idea! Medicine moves forward through experimentation, yet the science of forensics lags far behind.”
“I know of only one case in which blood evidence was presented in court.”
Doyle leaned forward. “Do tell, dear fellow!”
“It may strike you as rather obvious, but still—”
“I’m all ears.”
“In 1514, a London merchant by the name of Richard Hunne was found hanging in his jail cell, and at first it was deemed to be suicide. But the presence of large amounts of blood in the cell indicated something more sinister.”
Doyle smiled. “That is the clumsiest attempt at covering up a murder I have ever heard of.”
“It was worse than that. The noose was too small to fit over his head, his hands showed signs of having been tied, and there were multiple other clues leading to a verdict of murder.”
“Still, the presence of blood is common at so many crime scenes, and yet no one has made a discipline of studying it.”
“Precisely. I propose a series of experiments that will begin to throw a scientific light upon the subject.”
Doyle puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “There are some intriguing advances in forensics on the continent. Have you heard of Alphonse Bertillon?”
“The French policeman who pioneered the use of photography to identify criminals?”
“The same! He is working on a system of physical measurements to identify miscreants.”
“That is exactly the kind of scientific precision lacking in forensics.”
“I should be glad to—” Doyle began, but a commotion in the hall outside interrupted him. They could hear a woman’s shrill voice just outside the office.
“He’s deid, I tell ye! Deid as a doornail!”
Doyle rose quickly and opened the door. In the corridor stood a short, dark-haired, middle-aged woman. She wore a white apron over a plain black frock and was clearly distraught. Two nurses were attempting to soothe her, which caused her to protest more loudly.
“Calm yourself, now, dearie,” said the older nurse.
“I found him this mornin’ when I come in t’clean ’is hoose,” she wailed. “Lyin’ there in ’is study!”
“Found whom?” said Doyle.
“The major!” she cried, clinging to his sleeve. “Saints preserve us—gun still in ’is hand, bluid everywhere!”
“Take me to him,” said Ian. She looked at him wildly, terror in her large brown eyes. “Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton, Edinburgh City Police,” he explained.
Her body relaxed somewhat, but she clutched his arm with a clawlike grip. “Mary, Mother of God! Will ye come wi’ me?”
“I will.”
“God bless ye, sir,” she said, not releasing her grasp on his arm. “I’m fair puckled!”
“It’s no wonder you’re short of breath,” he said, gently removing her hand. “You’ve had quite a shock. I’ll fetch a cab straightaway.”
Her lip trembled and tears spurted from her eyes. “Per’aps we should bring a doctor along,” she said, wringing her hands.
“I’ll go,” Doyle offered.
“But you’re—” Ian began.
“I have no classes until this afternoon. And I’m quite capable of assisting in reviving a wounded man, if he is still alive. This hospital can ill spare a proper doctor for such a task.”
Ian turned to the charwoman. “Do you think he may still be alive, Mrs.—”
“McMillan,” she said. “That’s why I come t’hospital straightaway, y’see, in case there was still life in the poor man.”
“You did the right thing,” said Ian. “Come along—there’s no time to waste!”
The Royal Terrace flat was on the ground floor, and Mrs. McMillan let them in with trembling hands, dropping the keys twice before she managed to open the door. Ian sensed a preternatural stillness as they entered the well-furnished rooms, and as they approached the study, he smelled something even more disturbing. It was an odor all too familiar to him—thick, acrid, and unmistakable.
It was the smell of blood.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I’m afraid he’s beyond the surgeon’s art,” Conan Doyle said, kneeling next to the body sprawled out on the plush blue Oriental carpet. The top of the victim’s head was blown off, but the face was mostly intact. He was clad in a crimson dressing gown, and a service revolver lay next to his right hand.
“I know this man,” Ian said. “He is—was—in my aunt’s séance group.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. McMillan whimpered, wiping her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “The major was fond of his séances. Ne’er missed a session. Oh, he was a bonnie lad. I don’ know what cause he had t’kill his poor self.”
“It appears to be a single gunshot wound to the side of the head,” said Doyle.
“That’s odd,” Ian remarked. “Why aim for the side of his head? Surely the front would be easier?”
“It might have slipped,” said Doyle, straightening up and brushing off his trousers. “Sometimes people intent on committing suicide lose their courage at the last minute. I’ve even heard of people missing altogether.”
“But a military man?”
“I’ll admit it seems unlikely.”
The blood had soaked deeply into the carpet, and was mostly dry. Ian examined the pistol, which had one round missing from an otherwise full chamber. The bullet was lodged in the far wall, at approximately head level for a man the height of the major. Either he had shot himself—albeit clumsily—or the killer had attempted to make it look like suicide. Pulling a pair of tweezers from his pocket, Ian carefully extracted the bullet and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.
“That’s clever,” Doyle remarked.
“What?”
“Carrying tweezers with you.”
“You never know when they’ll come in handy. Has rigor mortis set in yet?”
“Yes,” said Doyle. “The limbs are entirely stiff.”