Page 7 of Courier of Death
“But surely, the likelihood is high.”
If he had been held against his will and abused, then there was a story of violence behind John’s actions. One that might explain why he’d done what he had. It might account for his distraction and expression of fear when Leo had seen him. She also wondered if that scowling man had anything to do with the bomb being brought to Scotland Yard.
“The report must only include known medical facts and evidence.”
Claude needn’t have reminded her. She’d been transcribing her uncle’s examinations and typing his postmortem reports for nearly five years. Conjecture was not tolerated, nor should it be.
With every death inquest, Mr. Pritchard, the deputy coroner, presented Claude’s postmortem findings at the coroner’s court. The jurors who were present at these inquests were given the medical findings, and it was paramount they reach a verdict based on facts, not speculation.
“The facts,” Leo began, “are that the victim sustained bruising consistent with a fistfight or beating and a ligature mark on his left wrist consistent with being bound by a thin rope, less than twenty-four hours before his death.”
Claude assented with a nod. “That is correct.”
And that would be what she wrote in the report. But her own mind was hers to fill with as much speculation as she wished.
She tapped the tip of her pencil to the paper, thinking. Claude had cut the clothing from the body first thing, and Leo had gone through the pockets, noting the contents in the morgue’s possessions register. Besides his policeman’s warrant card, there was nothing but a single coin in John Lloyd’s pockets. It was unlike any coin Leo had seen before. The circle of brass had been stamped with the image of a fox and a crane standing together. It was a token of some sort, though she didn’t know for what. Asking Dita would have been the most direct way to find an answer. But as she was grieving, Leo didn’t wish to bother her friend.
Just then, Tibia, the morgue cat, leaped agilely onto a vacant autopsy table next to the constable’s corpse and began to purr, seeking attention. Or more likely, her lunch. The gray tabby lived in the morgue, and though she was welcome to wander the postmortem room, she preferred bedding down under the desk in the back office, where Leo kept a small coal brazier stoked to warm her feet in the colder months.
The cat’s paw instantly found the odd token on the table and batted at it, sending the round of brass to the floor.
“Tibby, no,” Leo said, leaning down to retrieve it. Her ruptured eardrum throbbed as she bent, sending a flash of pain through her head. And then, the pealing of a bell joined the ringing in her ears. Someone had arrived through the morgue’s front door and entered the lobby.
Wincing, she put the token into her pocket. “I’ll go see?—”
Raised voices cut her off. There was a sign on the postmortem room door, asking visitors to please wait to be welcomed. However, the agitated tones of a man’s deep tenor and the pleading one of a woman were worrisome. There were some who, in their grief and panic, would ignore the signand barge straight in—only to be traumatized by what they found. Currently, there were three corpses on tables whose examinations Claude had put on hold to address the police constable’s postmortem.
She set her clipboard down and started for the lobby. But her concern had been warranted as a young man pushed his way into the postmortem room, his eyes red and wild.
“Sir, please wait outside,” Leo said as Claude hurried to lift a sheet over the constable’s remains.
The man paid Leo no attention and stalked forward, ripping his hat from his head. “Is that him? Is it our Johnny?”
Oh no.Constable Lloyd’s family had arrived.
“Family must wait in the lobby,” Leo tried again as a woman entered the room on the man’s heels. Her face crumpled, even though Claude had successfully covered John’s ruined body.
“Where is he?” she asked, voice trembling, her hands clasping her handbag to her chest in trepidation. “They’re saying he had a bomb, that he set it off!”
The man arrived at the table, his eyes riveted to the sheeted body.
“Sir, please, this isn’t something loved ones should see,” Claude said, but the man, who was most likely a brother of John’s, was oblivious to their warnings. He tore back the top portion of the sheet. Leo had already seen the remains, of course, but now she seemed to look upon them with fresh eyes. It was truly horrific what the blast had done to his body. The woman’s scream and the grief-stricken moan that came from the man made the moment even more wretched.
Claude drew the sheet back up as the man staggered away, and Leo attended to the woman, whose legs were going soft. She placed an arm around her shoulders and led her back into the lobby, depositing her into the nearest chair. Appearing to be about fifty years of age, Leo presumed she was John’smother. The man came into the lobby next, guided by Claude. The coroner exchanged a quick glance with his niece before retreating and closing the door to the postmortem room behind him.
“Can I fetch you some tea, Mrs. Lloyd?” Leo asked, sitting in the chair next to her. “You are Constable Lloyd’s mother, correct?”
She sniffled, her eyes closed and a stream of tears flowing past her lashes. “I am,” she gasped. Then, she shook her head. “No tea, thank you.”
“I knew he would get into trouble,” the man said as he began to pace the small lobby. The grieving tended to do one of these two things: either sit still in bereft shock or explode with restless energy and fury.
Leo focused on the man. He wasn’t much older than John, and they shared similar physical features. “You are his brother?”
“He should’ve come with me to my shop instead of joining the bloody, no-good police,” he said as though he hadn’t heard her question.
“What is your work, Mr. Lloyd?” Leo asked. At this seemingly offhand question, the man slowed his pacing. He blinked as he looked at her, acknowledging her for the first time.
“I’m a carpenter,” he answered. “Like our father, but Johnny, he wanted to be a bobby. Always wanted to be a bobby.”
