Page 37 of Death at a Highland Wedding
He looks back sharply. “You know that is not my concern, Mallory. And it will not hurtmine.”
“It’s probably only going to be misinterpreted as wooing.”
“It would be highlyinappropriatewooing, 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?”
