Page 12 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

TWELVE

This first thing Gray does is check for signs of life. Yes, Sinclair is cold. Yes, his eyes are open. Yes, he’s in rigor. None of that will matter to loved ones who will want to be absolutely certain they didn’t miss a chance to save him.

Once that’s done, Gray eases back onto his haunches, and McCreadie lays a hand on his shoulder. I let them have a moment of silence before I say, quietly and respectfully, “You’d known him a long time.”

“Since we started school,” McCreadie says. “Duncan and I were friends with Ezra in those early days. It was often the three of us…” He trails off as his throat clogs. He clears it. “That was very long ago. I have known Archie even longer, from our parents’ acquaintance, and there was a time when the four of us attempted a rather awkward quartet, before…”

“Before Archie and I collided one too many times,” Gray says, rising. “We simply could not get on. When the dust settled, Ezra had broken off with Archie.” Gray pauses. “That was understandable, I fear. Hugh and I were better friends. Ezra sometimes felt like…”

“A third wheel?” I say.

When their brows rise, I say, “I’m guessing that idiom gains popularity with the rise of two-wheeled conveyances, like bicycles.”

“Ah,” McCreadie says. “Yes. I see. A third wheel on a bicycle is superfluous, and the idiom would apply. Whenever three children are friends, it is likely that two will be closer, and that was myself and Duncan.”

McCreadie clears his throat. “And that is a poor eulogy for a good man—reminiscences on his early life as a ‘third wheel.’ We have not seen much of Ezra since school, but our paths did cross sometimes, and I was always glad of it.”

Another moment, and McCreadie shakes himself. “We will need to report this, both to the household and to the authorities, as it is obvious he did not inflict that injury himself.” He looks at me. “Could this have been who you saw last night? Ezra in Archie’s coat? It is very distinctive, and their hair would appear a similar color in the dark.”

“I didn’t actually see anyone,” I say. “I noticed Archie’s coat was gone, so I presumed it was on him, because I’d seen him out wearing it the night before—along with Ezra.” I look down at Sinclair’s body. “But the mistake would be easy to make.” I ease back. “Archie said Ezra was fond of night walks. He goes out last night and takes Archie’s warmer coat. Anyone seeing him could, I think, mistake him for Archie. He’s a couple of inches shorter and somewhat slighter, but like the difference in hair color, that would have been less obvious at night.”

“Also he was attacked from behind,” McCreadie says. “His killer did not see his face, and likely mistook him for Archie.”

“We did see someone last night,” I say. “A woman. We couldn’t tell who it was. We didn’t mention that because, well, we presumed whoever we saw was headed out to meet with your sister’s fiancé.”

McCreadie nods, looking down at Sinclair, as if deep in thought.

I glance at Gray. “We’re going to need to get our story straight, and I suggest we stick with the truth.”

Gray frowns. “About noticing the missing jacket and seeing a woman? Certainly.”

“She means about you two being out,” McCreadie says. “I will not be in charge of the investigation, which means you will be interviewed. In order to say you saw a woman—which you must—you need to explain why you were out. I would strongly suggest, as Mallory implied, that you do not attempt to make up some more comfortable excuse.”

I nod toward Sinclair. “This is a murder investigation, and I have no idea what to expect from the local constabulary.”

“Not much, I fear,” McCreadie mutters. “Even admitting you were out of doors last night will brand you as suspects.”

“But we do need to admit it,” I say. “Both to mention the woman and to avoid later being caught in a lie.”

“All right,” Gray says. “So we admit we were out together… accepting whatever scandal follows.”

“Better scandal than murder charges,” I say. “We tell the truth. I didn’t sleep well the night before, which multiple people know. You offered a moonlight walk. I have the note, which says exactly that.”

Gray glances away, his jaw working.

I lower my voice. “If this would hurt your reputation—”

He looks back sharply. “You know that is not my concern, Mallory. And it will not hurt mine. ”

“It’s probably only going to be misinterpreted as wooing.”

“It would be highly inappropriate wooing, taking you out alone at night.” He waves it off with obvious irritation. “But you are correct. Lying would be dangerous. I will do as you say. For now, though, I would like to examine the body, if I may.”

There’s a moment of silence, before Gray turns to McCreadie with another burst of irritation. “Yes? Or no?”

“Oh, was that an actual question?” McCreadie says. “I took it as annoyed sarcasm.”

Gray exhales. “You are right that Mallory and I need to be honest, and I should not blame you both for pointing it out. The question was an honest one. Am I liable to endanger the investigation by examining the body?”

“It will take hours for anyone to arrive,” McCreadie says. “And even then, we will be lucky if they know the meaning of ‘rigor’ or ‘time of death.’ Go ahead and examine him.”

This isn’t the first time we’ve examined the body of someone Gray knew. In this period, most cities are still small, and Edinburgh is no exception, the current population being about two hundred thousand. Gray has conducted postmortem exams on Annis’s husband—Lord Leslie—and a former professor, Sir Alastair Christie. This is the first time, though, that I’ve really seen him struggle.

He needs to take another moment to ready himself before he crouches at Sinclair’s head. This is not the brother-in-law Gray had only known as a bullying asshole. Nor is it a professor who was partly responsible for Gray not being allowed to practice medicine. Ezra Sinclair was a childhood friend. Now he’s dead in a field and, worse, almost certainly because his killer mistook him for someone else.

Gray takes that moment to collect himself and then clears his throat and gets to work. He begins at the obvious spot—that gash on the back of Sinclair’s head. It’s more of a bash than a gash. Something struck him hard enough to dent the back of his skull.

“Blunt force trauma,” I murmur. “Whatever the killer used, it had an edge or a point that cut open the scalp.”

Gray palpates the spot and then moves aside the hair for a better look. “Not an edge. That would leave a cleaner mark. This is more indicative of a blunt object with a protuberance.”

“A rock? Ezra was about Hugh’s height. If I came up behind Hugh, I might be able to swing a rock high enough to hit him in the back of the head.”

“But I would prefer you didn’t,” McCreadie calls from ten feet away, where he’s watching for anyone who might interrupt us.

I continue to Gray, “Would I be able to get up enough force to do it, though? Maybe. A rock could also have the kind of ‘protuberance’ that would break the skin.”

“A rock is a possibility,” Gray says. “Though, with a rough-surfaced object, I would expect to see more scraping of the scalp. Also, to inflict this sort of damage, at that angle—swinging up—the rock would need to be fist-sized.”

I think that through. “Right. I wouldn’t be able to swing a larger rock hard enough to kill Hugh.”

“Could you choose another victim for your exemplar, please?” McCreadie calls.

“I’d need a rock I could comfortably and confidently grip. This wound suggests a larger object.”

Gray nods. “Also more of an oblong shape. Perhaps six inches by four, with a relatively smooth finish.”

I frown. “At that size, it’d be hard to smash it into someone’s head while gripping it. That would require swinging it. Something on a rope or—Oh! The shillelaghs.”

McCreadie turns. “The what?”

“The walking sticks. There’s a collection of them in the cloakroom. They’re shillelaghs. Irish cudgels.”

Gray looks perplexed.

McCreadie calls over, “They are wicked things. I once took one from a man who’d used it to beat a supposed friend within an inch of his life.”

To Gray, I say, “It’s a particular type of walking stick with a knobby end. They were—are—used for self-defense. I saw a few of them in the cloakroom.”

“Ah,” Gray says. “I noticed them. I thought they were simply decorative walking sticks.”

“Archie probably thinks the same, which is why he has a small collection, but they are…” I look back at Sinclair’s body. “Deadly.”

“Now that you mention it, I noticed them as well,” McCreadie says. “And even though I have seen them used as weapons, I did not consider that. Like Duncan, I presumed they were for jaunting about the estate.”

“They are. But they have heavy ends, some with knots. That would be consistent with this wound, wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” Gray says. “We will need to take a look at them.”

“Is this wound the cause of death…?” I trail off. “Sorry. Amateur question.”

It’s an amateur question, not because it seems the obvious cause, but because Gray isn’t going to make that determination without an autopsy. He’s not even going to speculate without a full external examination of the body.

He forgives my enthusiasm with, “A blow like this could be fatal. I cannot undress him for a thorough look, but we will do what we can.”

What we can do is mostly just check Sinclair’s face and hands, the only exposed skin. We can also look for damage to his clothing—maybe a bullet hole or knife slice. We find none of that, and no defensive wounds on his hands or anything other than dirt caught under his nails.

McCreadie and Gray roll Sinclair over for a better look at his face. His nose is broken and caked with blood, but it’s also caked with dirt, suggesting he fell face-first to the ground without trying to break his fall.

“Could he have died that fast?” Then I again answer my own question. “A blow to the head rarely causes instant death, but it can cause a loss of consciousness. He gets hit and passes out. Smacks facedown into the dirt. Then he either dies of the blow or his killer does something else to him. Suffocation would be most likely.” I peer at Sinclair’s open eyes. “No petechial hemorrhages.”

Gray says nothing. He’s letting his student run with this one.

“No marks around the neck or mouth,” I say. “I can’t tell about the nose until the blood is cleaned, but if anything was held over his mouth and nose, it’d have smeared that blood. The other option would be injection, but we’re unlikely to see that through his clothing, and I don’t see any marks on the exposed skin.”

“Anything else?” Gray says.

His tone tells me I’m missing something. I shift as I think it through and then talk it through. “Hit on the back of the head. Loses consciousness. Falls and breaks his nose. I don’t know how long it’d take for the blow to kill him.”

I shift my position and ponder more. “The intent wouldn’t necessarily be murder. Not with a single blow. If the blow was meant as a warning, the killer might have walked away at that point. If they wanted to be sure their target was dead, suffocation would be easiest. Manual strangulation would work. Injection would require bringing supplies. There’s no sign of a knife or bullet wound, but if you had a knife or gun, why bother with the blow to the head?”

I rack my brain. Then I look at Gray. “I give up. How else can you kill an unconscious victim?”

“Breaking his neck,” he says. “Which could happen with the blow to the head. Or it could be inflicted after.”

“Is that something I can tell without an internal exam?” I ask.

“Sometimes, but I see no sign of it here. Externally, that is. I will need to look closer. There is, however, one more thing that is odd.”

I look down at Sinclair. I could just ask for the answer. This isn’t a pop quiz. But if I’m given a puzzle, I at least want to try solving it on my own.

Gray says, “He is struck and loses consciousness as he falls. There are no signs of defense.”

“Meaning he never regained consciousness.”

“Yes.”

McCreadie clears his throat. I look over at him. No, I glower at him, because it means he is very politely telling us he knows the answer, and it’s like being in school, trying to impress the teacher, and your prime rival indicates he has the answer you don’t.

“Fine,” I say, ungraciously. “What—? Wait! His eyes are open.” I look at Gray. “If he lost consciousness and never regained it, his eyes should be closed, right?”

“There are instances where eyelids remain open—loss of consciousness due to seizures and such—but ruling that out, yes, his eyelids should be closed.”

“Opening them should mean he woke up, but if he woke up, we’d expect to see a sign of that. At the very least, the blood on his nose, again, should be smeared. Could that mean he didn’t lose consciousness? That the blow killed him instantly?”

“Likely.”

“I was going to say that,” McCreadie pipes up. “The bit about the eyes, that is.”

“We’ll split the gold star.” I look down at Sinclair. “Anything else we need to examine?”

“No, I believe it is time to notify the household,” Gray says.

“Which means it’s time for Hugh and me to do our crime-scene detecting, leaving you to run to the house.”

Gray’s mouth opens. Then his eyes narrow, and I know he wants to say McCreadie or I can handle processing the scene alone, so he can stay and participate. But two sets of professional eyes are better, and we are the professionals.

He settles for, “I will not run. But yes, I will leave the scene to the two of you.” He pauses, and then can’t resist adding, “And I will examine it later.”