Page 44 of Courier of Death
Grimacing, Leo entered the postmortem room. She was met with not two men, but three.
“Ah, Miss Spencer,” the deputy assistant coroner said, failing to mask his disappointment in seeing her, despite the smile he pushed onto his lips. A mustache and long beard obscured most of his mouth and weak chin.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pritchard.” She joined them around the corpse of a woman whose rib cage and abdomen were open for examination.
The second, unfamiliar man moved quickly to pull the sheet over the corpse’s head. He was younger than Mr. Pritchard, under thirty years old, with a neatly trimmed mustache and black hair that curled at his nape.
“That isn’t necessary, Mr.…?” Leo waited for someone to introduce them.
“Quinn, miss,” the young man said for himself. “Connor Quinn.”
“May I introduce my niece, Miss Leonora Spencer,” Claude said, his hands clasped behind his back as he rocked forward, heel to toe, and back again—something he only ever did when nervous.
Mr. Quinn bowed his head in greeting.
“Miss Spencer is not affected by morbid sights as most ladies are,” Mr. Pritchard explained, though by his tone, he ought to have said, “…as mostnormalladiesshould be.”
“Ah, yes, my grandfather mentioned a woman helps here on occasion,” Mr. Quinn said.
“Grandfather?” Leo echoed.
“Chief Coroner Giles,” Claude explained. His mild grin appeared to be a warning for her not to visibly react. The chief coroner directed every morgue in London as well as all the coroners and clerks employed within them. And this was his grandson.
“Mr. Quinn has recently graduated from London Hospital Medical College with top marks in surgery,” Mr. Pritchard explained, laying a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “He’s shown an interest in the work of a coroner.”
Connor Quinn smiled tightly, rolling his shoulder ever so slightly so that Mr. Pritchard would remove his hand. The deputy assistant coroner did and cleared his throat.
“As I was saying before your arrival, Miss Spencer,” Mr. Pritchard went on, “the influx of ordered inquests these last few months have quite outpaced one man’s capabilities here. And not to put too fine a point on it, you’re not getting any younger, Claude.”
Mr. Pritchard laughed good-naturedly, as though he was teasing. Leo held her breath, suddenly wary. In March, an apprentice from the medical college, Mr. Higgins, had spent ahandful of weeks working with Claude. The young man had been placed at Spring Street Morgue by his professor, who also happened to be a friend of Chief Coroner Giles. Mr. Higgins had been morose and lazy, and he’d soon moved on, but both Leo and her uncle suspected he’d witnessed the palsy affecting the steadiness of Claude’s hands. It was entirely possible Mr. Higgins had informed his professor and that the rumors had spread to the chief coroner’s ears.
“I’m placing Mr. Quinn at Spring Street for the foreseeable future under your training, Claude,” Mr. Pritchard now said. “I think it will be a good transition for everyone.”
Transition. The word spoke volumes. This young surgeon, fresh out of medical college, would be working here now. And in short order, he would replace her uncle. Leo had known to expect something like this, but it still managed to take her breath away.
“As for you, Miss Spencer,” Mr. Pritchard continued, forcing more artificial gaiety, “surely you desire to move along in the natural direction of a young woman’s life. I’ll be turning next to finding a more suitable clerk for the morgue.”
Leo held her tongue, though it felt as if the floor had started to tremble beneath her feet. So now that Claude was being pushed out, she would be as well. Of course, the only reason she’d been allowed there to begin with was because Chief Superintendent Gregory Reid had put in a good word for her with the police commissioner and the chief coroner. But during the years she’d been there, she’d worked hard and done well. Postmortem reports were detailed and thorough, the morgue was organized, as was all the paperwork. Mr. Pritchard, however, wasn’t the sort of man who would acknowledge the advantages her presence had provided.
“Now, I must be off,” he said. “Connor, I’ll leave you to receive a tour of the premises. I’m sure you’ve questions for Mr. Feldman.”
Mr. Quinn stood in place as the deputy assistant coroner left, and then the three of them were alone. No one seemed quite sure what to say until Claude finally pierced the quiet.
“I’ll find you some garments.” He went to the supply closet, where chemicals and tools were stored, along with extra tall rubber boots, vulcanized rubber gloves, leather aprons, and dark brown laboratory coats.
“You are a typist here, Miss Spencer, is that correct?” Mr. Quinn asked.
Leo bristled. “Typing is one of my duties. I also log personal possessions in the register, transcribe notes during examinations, and attend the families and funeral workers when they arrive for identification or collection.”
That she would make incisions on corpses from time to time and then close them afterward was not something the incoming surgeon would ever need to know.
“Forgive me, but when my grandfather said a woman was helping at the morgue, I could not quite imagine what it was she’d be doing. It seems a queer thing for a lady to involve herself in the business of death.”
This sentiment was no new thing. It didn’t bother Leo. What did cause her to bristle was knowing that this man would be the one to push her uncle from his much-needed job.
“But it makes perfect sense now,” Mr. Quinn continued. “It is commendable that you help your uncle when the work must be so very disagreeable for you.”
In the supply closet, Claude was whistling a made-up tune, as he did so often while working.
