Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [36]
Somerton certainly suffered. But not for long, Joe estimated, staring down at his corpse. The pathologist in charge of the case who had officiated at midnight the night before had returned, he now told Joe, straight after breakfast to continue his examination. Le docteur Moulin was wearing the white overall, cap and gloves of a surgeon and was as cheerful as the depressing circumstances allowed. His intelligent brown eyes were the only source of warmth in the whole building, Joe thought. He was expecting Joe and looked only briefly at his identification before leading him past three other livid corpses laid out in a row to a marble-topped, channelled table where the body of the Englishman was laid out.
‘Were you gentlemen acquainted?’ asked the doctor, extending a hand to Somerton.
‘Not in the slightest. I’m here to investigate, not identify. He has been named by the man who discovered the body and his papers confirm his identity. The widow, Lady Somerton, is on her way and will attend this evening to sign any documents you may present. Before she turns up, I’d like to familiarize myself with the details, so that I can guide her through it, if you have enough to go on . . .’
‘Oh, yes. More to do, of course, but peripheral to the police enquiry, I’d say. I shall be obtaining a toxicology report, checking stomach contents – the usual – but the cause of death I think you’d agree is pretty obvious.’
Joe stared with pursed lips at the body laid out on the slab. He was struck by the way in which the hair and moustache, retaining their luxuriance and dark colour, were at odds with the waxen flesh from which the humanity seemed to have drained away. What was the dead man telling him? What could he possibly learn from the already decaying features of a man he’d never seen alive, had never heard speaking? Joe recalled a phrase the usherette had used in her statement: ‘Visage de fouine.’ Weasel-faced. Yes, he could see why she might say that. The sharp nose and chin in a narrow face offered a contrast with George’s broad and handsome features. The expression and animation of the living man would also most probably have coloured the girl’s impression of him and on this Joe would never be able to form an opinion. The eyes were closed, the thin, well-shaped lips set in a tight line.
The five franc tip, Joe remembered. What a frightful epitaph!
The knife slash that had killed him went from ear to ear. Cleaned and closed, it was still a fearsome sight. Joe could only imagine the shattering effect on George of discovering his friend – dead? dying? – with blood pumping by the pint from the gaping wound.
‘Have you any views on how the wound was administered?’ Joe asked.
‘I have. Dealt from behind, I’d say. I understand the victim was watching a performance at the Folies? In a box either by himself or accompanied by a young lady? A question for the police to clear up. Obviously, if she were sitting or standing next to him the lady would be drenched in blood. When she went to the vestiaire to retrieve her coat, someone would have noticed her state.’
‘He’s quite a tall man, the victim?’
‘About five feet ten inches and, though he must be in his mid-fifties, his musculature is in good condition.’
‘Difficult to subdue a man of that height unless you are yourself taller and more powerful, you’re thinking?’
‘As are you, Commander. He’s hardly likely to oblige by standing there, sticking out his chin and closing his eyes! A man like this would have fought back against a perceived assailant.’ The pathologist pointed to the hands and forearms. ‘No signs of wounds received during