Free The Anatomy of Death by Felicity Young Page B

chum of the landlord—a gentleman who had fallen upon hard times and who kept to himself when not playing the piano.
    “Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a small stipend, Captain?” Brockman asked not for the first time.
    “Against the law, I’m afraid. Police officers aren’t supposedto take other forms of employment.” Though with the appalling pay and working conditions of the lower ranks, they often did, and found themselves compromised because of it. For the first time since he’d started playing, his mind drifted back to Lady Catherine’s autopsy. If accurate, the report ruled out bludgeoning by a uniformed officer’s truncheon, but it did not eliminate plainclothes members of the force. Although better paid than the uniformed division, any member of the detective force might have been willing to stir up trouble for the sake of a few bob. So far he had not recognised any in the surveillance photographs behaving with impropriety, but he had yet to see the last batch of pictures. The death of Lady Catherine might have been unintentional; but in the heat of the moment boundaries are blurred, mistakes made, a brick or club impulsively grabbed.
    If the autopsy report was accurate.
His doubts over Mangini’s competency took on more weight when combined with the woman doctor’s concerns. Her reservations had made sense to him. The wisest course of action, he decided, would be to continue with his enquiries as if there had been no autopsy at all. He would begin by following up Mr. Hugo Cartwright’s allegations and pay the gentleman a visit first thing in the morning.
    “Have another on me, mate,” Brockman broke into his thoughts. “And try one of the missus’s fancy pies for your supper; she’d be mighty offended if you turned one down.”
    “Indeed I will, thank you, Mr. Brockman.”
    Brockman bellowed towards the bar for the servant girl to fetch over a pie, quick smart. Pike sank his teeth into the flaky pastry and savoured the succulent filling. He waved hisappreciation to Mrs. Brockman, busy thumping slopping glasses onto a table in the far corner of the room.
    He squinted through the smoky gloom. There was something familiar about one of the men she served: the rakish insouciance of the cap, the defiantly long hair tied back and snaking down his spine. The man raised his head. Dark brows knitted as he returned Pike’s stare. Did he recognise Pike for what he was? Pike doubted it. Dressed in collarless shirtsleeves and with his cane out of sight, Pike doubted even Sergeant Fisher would recognise him from this distance.
    He cocked his head towards the table and said to Brockman, “Those three men over there, are they wedding guests?”
    Brockman squinted through the smoke. “Never seen them before, must be from off the street. This isn’t a private function; I can’t afford to turn people away. Maybe the missus knows—I’ll call her over.”
    Mrs. Brockman joined them at the pub door. “Irish by the sound of their voices, and not regulars, neither,” she said. “Say, Captain, what did you think of my pheasant pie?”
    Pike tore his gaze from the strangers and dusted pastry crumbs from his shirtfront. “Best I’ve ever had.”
    “Then I’ll get you another. You’re looking a bit peaky, if it’s not too presumptive of me to say so. I reckon you need fattening up. I’ll put another by the pianner for you. That landlady of yours certainly ain’t doing the job proper.”
    Pike sat down at the piano and began the next bracket, the bawdy drinking songs the dockland crowd could not get enough of. His mother would turn in her grave if she knew how he employed his talents now. From the far table, he could feel the black eyes of the Irishman burning into his back.
    His subconscious took over. Against his bidding, his fingers picked out “Whiskey in the Jar.” It was like a prompt. Now he knew the identity of the shadowy face. It belonged to a onetime Fenian, Derwent O’Neill. He’d seen it