Gray nods. “It would have been inflicted either shortly before or after his death.”
“Can you bruise after death? I know lividity is an issue—the blood pools, which is why it looked as if his chest was bruised.”
“It is an area I have been wanting to study, along with a proper reporting of the stages of bruising. The next time you bash into furniture, rushing off after whatever catches your eye, you really must let me properly chart the progress of the bruising.”
I narrow my eyes. “I do notbashinto furniture.”
He arches one brow.
“Hardly ever,” I say. “And only when the furniture is in a ridiculous spot. There is always far too much of it. A random chair here. A stray ottoman there. Vases and statues and useless little tables. Every room is an obstacle course.”
Mrs. Rendall laughs softly, which reminds me she’s there, holding the lamp just out of our view. I settle for glaring at Gray, and the corners of his mouth twitch, and I have to admit I’m mostly grumbling because he’sright. Even with layers of Victorian clothing, I get enough bruises that he really could start his study there.
“As for this,” he says, tapping the bruise on Sinclair’s back. “It’s more of an impression than a bruise. Do you note the shape of it?”
I need to move to check it from a couple of angles. Then I say, “Foot-shaped. Or boot-shaped. Not a kick—that would only be the toe. More like someone stepped on him.”
“Or…?”
“Put their foot on his back to hold him down.” I move for a closer look and Mrs. Rendall adjusts the lamp without prompting. “It’s a light bruise. Would death affect that?” I look up at Gray and clarify, “Would the fact that Mr. Sinclair was either dead or close to death affect lividity? Making what might become a deep bruise normally seem light?”
“Excellent question,” Gray says. “And one to which I do not have a definitive answer. I will add it to my proposed study. You will recall that we saw bruising in the murder of Sir Alastair, where the killer appeared to use his foot against the victim’s back.”
“For leverage.”
“In that case, the purpose seemed clear and the strength appropriate. The bruising was not significantly less than I would expect. However, we do not know what amount of force that killer used.”
“How did it compare to the bruises on my back?”
Gray hasn’t been standing there, talking. He’s been poking and prodding at the bruise. Now he stops. “Bruises on your back?”
“From when the same was done to me. I survived, which provides a comparison.”
Mrs. Rendall gives a quick intake of breath, and I realize that may have sounded cavalier.
Hey, remember when I was strangled, a would-be killer’s foot on my back for leverage? How did those bruises compare?
It’s not just Mrs. Rendall who reacts, though. Gray goes ashen and the fingers on his extended hand curl under.
“That was thoughtless of me,” he says, his voice low. “I did not intend a reminder of your ordeal.”
I smile up at him. “I didn’t take it as a reminder. Not an unwelcome one,at least. It only made me think that the two incidents provide a comparison that could be helpful here.”
“Yes, well, still, I…” He trails off and then clears his throat. “It was still a reminder, and for that, I apologize.”
I peer at him, his gaze on Sinclair but unfocused, his hand fisted, and I realize that the recollection bothers him more than it does me. Yes, I was strangled, but it sent me back to my own time, where I resolved the issues that had kept me from settling into this world.
It’d been less a death than a rebirth, if you want to be poetic about it. But to Gray, I’d nearly died. Or, at the very least, I’d nearly disappeared forever, back to my own world, and when I look at him now, his gaze distant, that hand fisted and shaking slightly, I want to send Mrs. Rendall on some errand. I want to stop and take a moment and pursue this.
Apologize for bringing it up? Reassure Gray that I’m fine? Or just take a moment, free of distractions and witnesses, to absorb that look on his face, to wonder exactly what he felt when he thought I was gone, why the reminder would still affect him so much?
But I’m not getting that moment, am I? Oh, Icouldsend Mrs. Rendall off on some pointless errand. Yet the moment I think that, guilt jabs through me with an ice-water reminder that this is an autopsy, damn it. A good man—a friend of Gray’s—is dead, and that is all that matters.
I shake my head. “It would hardly signify anyway, I suppose. While the intent was the same, it wasn’t the same circumstances or even the same actor, so it would be a horribly flawed scientific comparison.”
“I fear so,” Gray says, his voice scratchy. “It was a good idea, though.”
“The point being simply that my question has no definitive answer. The bruising here is light, which may or may not indicate the amount of force used.”
