The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [10]
Christison shook the excess water from his hands, then took up a towel and rubbed them vigorously.
“As to the cause of his death, I have nothing to offer beyond the obvious. In my experience, God did not see fit to furnish we humans with the natural equipment to inflict this kind of damage, and we must therefore suspect an animal of some sort. The marks on the arm in particular are clear. There are indentations on the cervical vertebrae that I would take for the results of teeth as well. Muscles, larynx, trachea all torn or displaced. Blood vessels severed. This was brutal, brutal work. Quite horrible. Quite remarkable.”
For a moment, his detachment faltered, as he cast a somewhat uneasy glance towards the covered body.
“I’d say it was the work of a wolf, if we’d not rid ourselves of such vermin two centuries gone. And they were never what you might call frequent in the streets of Edinburgh, to the best of my knowledge.”
“Not a blade, then, or an axe?”
“Certainly not. This unfortunate had his flesh torn, not cut. Do we have a wild beast of some sort loose in the Old Town, Sergeant?”
“I don’t know, sir. Of some sort, perhaps.”
“I’ve never seen a dog running about the streets that looked a likely perpetrator of a crime such as this.”
“No. Nor I,” Quire said quietly.
The professor carried the tools of his trade with all the care of a minister of the Kirk bearing the paraphernalia of communion. He laid them out once more on the trolley, and then began to place them one by one into a polished wooden box.
“Well, I do hope you resolve this conundrum,” he said. “I’d not want to be looking fearfully over my shoulder the next time I’m on the Old Town’s streets after dark. Though if a beast is responsible, perhaps we must call this poor man’s end misadventure rather than crime, eh? Not a matter for the police, some might say.”
“Some might,” shrugged Quire. “Still, he’s likely got a family, wondering what’s become of him. They deserve to know. And those still alive deserve protection, if it’s a thing that might happen again unless prevented. Seems to me that’s what the police are for.”
“Laudable,” Christison said. “Have you a name for him, then?”
“I’m not sure of that yet. It might be he’s John Ruthven. That was the matter that kept me busy earlier: consulting the roll of electors. There’s a John Ruthven at an address in the New Town.”
Christison cocked a sceptical eyebrow.
“I’d not have taken him for a householder with such a distinguished abode. Not with those hands, or with the apparel in which he was found.”
“No. Nor I.”
“Well, let us hope the truth will out. It does on occasion.”
Christison closed the box in which his implements were now once more safely nestled. It clicked solidly shut and he turned a tiny golden catch to secure it.
“Tell me, did you see a porter loitering out there in the corridor when you arrived?” he asked Quire.
“No one, sir.”
Christison gave an irritated grunt.
“Would you care to walk with me, then? I must find one of my assistants to close this poor fellow up, make him fit for the grave. And a porter to take him on his way.”
Quire fell into step at the professor’s side. He was not sorry to leave that place.
“At least if I put a name and a family to him, he’ll not find his way on to a slab in a lecture theatre,” Quire said.
“My anatomical colleagues would have little use for such a damaged cadaver, in truth. But you would be surprised, I suspect, at how many families are willing to sell the deceased for that very purpose.”
“Not those as have a house in the New Town, though. Takes a deal more poverty than that, I should think.”
“No doubt.”
Christison glanced sideways at Quire, and read something there in his face.
“You disapprove, Sergeant. Surely