Mr Lynch's Prophecy Page 8

  In the familiar, comfortable territory of the parlour, he flicked through the street directory looking for the doctor’s name.

  Dr Ralph Finnigan had been the man to see Lynch through his last illness. Clara had found a number of notes, prescriptions and invoices from him among the random papers that had been kept after Lynch’s death. Though they were hardly relevant to Lynch’s astronomy career, they were useful to her. They gave her a link back to the past. Without those scraps of paper, it was uncertain she would have been able to discover who had been Lynch’s doctor twenty years ago.

  Professor Lynch had died in 1902. Tommy had not been able to find Dr Finnigan in the 1900 directory in his father’s library. The next edition they had was for 1909, so he was just hoping Dr Finnigan was still practicing in that year. He was in luck; Dr R. Finnigan was listed along with the address of his surgery under the ‘professionals’ section of the book. Of course, after twenty years the surgery may have moved or closed, but it was a start. There was also an alphabetical list of residents in Brighton at the back of the directory – you could look for someone based on their occupation, street address, or name. Tommy found a number of Finnigans listed, and two were noted as doctors. He took down both addresses as they were a starting point, at least.

  With this information to hand, he headed out to see if Dr Finnigan was still alive and remembered Professor Lynch.

  ~~~*~~~

  The address of the surgery was in a road Tommy knew, but he did not recall the practice. When he arrived and located the correct building, he found it was now an undertaker’s shop. That seemed ever so slightly ironic. He went in, nonetheless, to see if anyone remember Dr Finnigan. The shop exterior was very fittingly painted black, with the shop name written in gold Gothic style lettering. A window display showed a range of coffin fittings, mounted on a tiered stand covered in green baize. Weeping cherubs perched at each end of the display, with a row of crepe squares in various grades of black laid out between them.

  Tommy felt a little uncomfortable as he entered the premises. The interior was lit by electric lights, as the shop window was completely blocked off for the purposes of the display and also, Tommy guessed, to give customers additional privacy while making arrangements. A gentleman in a black suit sat behind a tall shop counter, there was little else in the front room, except for some framed scripture quotes on the walls which Tommy imagined were meant to be comforting to the bereaved.

  “How may I help you?” The shop clerk asked in a quiet, respectful tone.

  “Sorry, I’m not here about a funeral,” Tommy hastened to explain. “I am trying to find a gentleman named Dr Finnigan. He used to have his surgery in this building.”

  The clerk frowned.

  “I’ve only known this place as an undertaker’s,” he said.

  Tommy was disappointed. Dr Finnigan had clearly retired a long time ago.

  “But let me ask Mr Burke, he is the director of this establishment and may remember the gentleman you are referring to,” the clerk was very keen to assist and disappeared through a back door.

  Tommy caught a glimpse of coffins as the door swung shut. There would be a showroom out the back for all the funeral paraphernalia people would need to buy. Even though Tommy knew there were no bodies in those coffins, that they were display items and would likely never hold a corpse, he felt a shiver go down his spine.

  “Someone walked over my grave,” he muttered to himself, rather wishing he had not been left alone in the dimly-lit room that was feeling more and more like something out of a Dickens’ novel.

  He was relieved when the clerk returned with an older gentleman.

  “This is Mr Burke,” the clerk introduced the older man.

  “You were asking about Dr Finnigan?” Mr Burke said.

  “I am trying to find him,” Tommy nodded. “I’m afraid, the only addresses I have for him are probably terribly out of date.”

  “May I ask why you are looking for him?” Mr Burke asked cautiously.

  Tommy had not expected the question and did not have an immediate answer, fortunately, like his sister, he had a quick imagination.

  “My dear great aunt has just passed over,” Tommy said. “She lived in Brighton until 1902 and was a patient of Dr Finnigan. She made a private request to the family for some of her personal belongings to be distributed to people she wanted to be remembered by. Dr Finnigan helped her through a serious illness and she remembered him all these years. She wanted him to have a pocket watch that had belonged to her late husband. It is not worth a great deal, but it is a sentimental gift. I have been charged with distributing these little bequests. Unfortunately, my great aunt did not leave details of where to find Dr Finnigan.”

  “I find that is often the way,” Mr Burke said sympathetically. “Was it a local funeral?”

  “No,” Tommy quickly added. “She had moved to Ireland to live with her daughter. She was nearly ninety, you know, when she passed. I happen to be her sole relative in the south of England, so I have been asked to take care of things here.”

  “Naturally. Older people become very sentimental and develop strong attachments,” Mr Burke said, sounding as if he was talking about an animal rather than a person. “You have my sympathies for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Tommy responded.

  “Unfortunately, Dr Finnigan has not had a surgery here since 1911. I believe that was the year he retired from medical practice,” Mr Burke continued. “I took over the lease for this property in 1912.”

  “Oh dear,” Tommy didn’t have to try hard to look glum at this news.

  “I can give you Dr Finnigan’s address, however. At least the last one I have for him,” Mr Burke folded his hands together as he spoke. “We were asked to forward any post to him that might arrive here by mistake. Even three years after he had given up the surgery we were still receiving letters for him. Would you like the address?”

  “Would it be in Honeysuckle Avenue?” Tommy asked, taking the slip of paper from his pocket where he had written down the two addresses belonging to a Dr Finnigan. “Or Beresford Drive?”

  “Ah, you have already done some research?”

  “I took a look at an old street directory,” Tommy replied. “My great aunt didn’t leave any real details.”

  “You will find Dr Finnigan in Beresford Drive, if he is still alive, of course. Not that we have heard any different. We certainly have not had cause to arrange his funeral,” Mr Burke’s tone suggested he would be affronted to discover another undertaker had been employed to deal with the doctor’s final affairs.

  “Thanks anyway,” Tommy told him, before leaving the shop.

  He pulled the old street directory from his pocket and consulted the map in the back to work out where he needed to go next. Fortunately, Beresford Drive was not far from where he was. Dr Finnigan would not have wanted to walk a great distance to get to his surgery.

  Tommy walked to Beresford Drive in fifteen minutes and found the house easily enough. All the houses in the row were grand Victorian buildings, with tall bay windows and great chimneys rising from their roofs. The one listed as Dr Finnigan’s home address had a white pebble path leading to a front door with colourful stained glass panels. The lawn was immaculate, as if someone had gone on their hands and knees and trimmed it with scissors. Tommy felt a little intimidated by the grandeur of the place. He wondered if Clara ever felt that way, and then guessed it was unlikely. Clara was rarely intimidated by anything.

  He walked to the front door and knocked. Only a few moments passed before a woman appeared. She was wearing an apron over her skirt and had the appearance of a housekeeper.

  “Sorry for the intrusion,” Tommy said quickly, feeling awkward, “I am trying to find Dr Finnigan.”

  “He’s working at the hospital at this time of day,” the woman told Tommy.

  Tommy frowned.

  “I was under the impression he had retired?” He said.

  “Oh, you are looking for the
old Dr Finnigan?” The housekeeper’s eyes lit up with understanding. “I thought you might be after his son, who is still a practicing doctor. You best come in, I’ll have to ask Mrs Finnigan before we let the old doctor see any visitors.”

  Tommy was shown into a front room and was then abandoned. He stood uneasily near a large fireplace, listening to the irritating tick of a grandfather clock that continuously reminded him of how long he had been there. How did Clara manage to intrude on other people’s lives with such confidence and ease? Tommy felt very nervous, even though he was not doing anything wrong or sinister. All he wanted to do was speak to the old doctor, so why did he feel as if he was there to impart bad news or something similar?

  A middle-aged woman finally appeared in the room, just as Tommy was wondering if he could bear the anticipation any longer. She had a smile on her face which made him feel better.

  “I understand from Nancy that you want to speak to my father-in-law?” She said.

  She was a kindly-faced, plump woman with a pair of gold spectacles hanging from a chain around her neck. Tommy relaxed.

  “Yes, I know it is rather out-of-the-blue,” Tommy said sheepishly. “What it is, is that I am trying to find out information about Professor Lynch, the astronomer. I am tracking down anyone who knew him when he was alive.”

  “Ah, so someone is writing a biography of the man? About time, he made some truly important contributions to the field of astronomy,” Mrs Finnigan clapped her hands together in delight.

  “You knew Professor Lynch?” Tommy asked her.

  “Only by reputation and through the stories my father-in-law has told. He was good friends with the professor.”

  Tommy tried not to appear too excited as he realised he was on to something at last. If anyone would know if Lynch was of sound mind in his final days, it would be one of his closest friends, who also happened to be his doctor.

  “Could I speak with Dr Finnigan?” Tommy asked.

  Mrs Finnigan’s enthusiasm waned a fraction, she glanced over her shoulder towards the big staircase in the hallway of the house.

  “Time has not been kind to my father-in-law,” she explained sadly. “Mentally he is as alert as ever, but physically he is very unwell. He is embarrassed by his infirmity and rarely sees visitors these days.”

  Tommy tried to mask his disappointment.

  “I really need to speak to him, to better understand Professor Lynch,” Tommy insisted. “He need not be embarrassed, I have known what it is to be an invalid. After the war, I was crippled and it took a long time for me to learn to walk again. I still have a limp. I know how frustrating it is to be confined by the limitations of a weak body.”

  Mrs Finnigan listened keenly and seemed to mellow.

  “Why don’t you come upstairs and we shall see what my father-in-law says?” She suggested.

  Tommy followed her up the staircase and towards a front bedroom, which was brightly lit by one of the tall bay windows. It was a huge room and served as the entire world to the ailing Dr Finnigan. Here was his sitting room, his bedroom, and his bathroom, all in one space.

  Dr Finnigan was visible through the partially open door, sitting by the fireplace in a bath chair. He was hunched forward, reading a newspaper, his hands gripping the edges of the pages like the talons of a bird.

  “Father?” Mrs Finnigan approached him. “Father? This young man wants to speak with you. He wants to ask you about Professor Lynch.”

  Dr Finnigan turned in his chair and looked towards the door. His eyes were bright as buttons, even as his body failed him.

  “Professor Lynch?” He said, then he smiled. “It’s about that damn box? Isn’t it?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The morgue was in a separate building to the police station and was built below street level as a natural means for keeping the rooms chilled. This was especially essential in summer, when the only other option to natural temperature control was expensive mechanical refrigeration systems. In hot weather, storing the dead could quickly run up the electricity bills.

  Fortunately, Dr Deáth was rarely troubled for storage space. There were not that many murders or suspicious deaths in the town to cause the narrow, brick chambers he placed bodies in to end up over-subscribed. Dr Deáth was kept busy, but not to the point where he was concerned about the bodies piling up. In fact, he sometimes went over to the hospital morgue and helped there when they were overwhelmed. As the coroner cheerfully said, he liked to keep busy.

  Dr Deáth was just in the process of sewing up the torso of a young woman who was laid naked on a metal table. He glanced up as he heard Clara and Inspector Park-Coombs enter.

  “Heart attack caused by a blood clot in the main artery,” he informed the inspector casually. “Could have happened at any moment. Nothing anyone could have done.”

  “The woman collapsed in the street yesterday,” the inspector explained to Clara. “Was all very puzzling, seeing as she was apparently young and healthy, so of course the police had to take an interest.”

  “Just one of those things,” Dr Deáth said with a shrug. Death did not trouble him greatly, it was just a part of life and one he approached with a sunny attitude. He did not see tragedy or release when he studied his corpses, he saw facts and details, and he recorded them for others. “How can I help you?”

  “Its about that stabbing the other night. The woman in the alley,” Park-Coombs said.

  “Our Jane Smith?” Dr Deáth nodded, he had given the corpse the token name they used for unidentified people. “Why don’t you go into my parlour and put the kettle on? I shall be with you in just a minute and we can talk.”

  Clara and the inspector wandered into the coroner’s cosy parlour, set just behind the morgue. It always felt odd to Clara stepping from the white, clinical tiles of the morgue, into this warm, carpeted room, that looked like a snapshot of a Victorian lady’s sitting room. The walls were covered in a dark red wallpaper, with flowers picked out in velvet, and the fireplace was constructed of a deep brown wood and pond weed green tiles. There was a bookcase and several low side tables lining the walls and positively overflowing with what Clara could only term knick-knacks. They were not the usual seaside souvenirs or porcelain shepherdesses most similar collections comprised of, but a macabre assortment of anatomical items – odd small bones in class cases, wax models of various body parts, a collection of framed illustrations of diseases of the lungs, a porcelain phrenology skull with a pair of glasses perched on its nose, and a variety of similar items. Clara guessed they all meant something to Dr Deáth, but the chaos with which they were arranged on the side tables made her brain itch. She also observed that nothing had been dusted in quite some time. It was a far cry from the immaculate, almost barren morgue in which Dr Deáth conducted his work.

  Inspector Park-Coombs was grumbling to himself as he dug out the kettle from beneath a stack of medical journals.

  “I keep threatening to get him a cleaner,” he told Clara as he headed into a bathroom that opened off the parlour and filled the kettle with water from the sink. “Trouble would be finding someone brave enough to work here. Takes a certain kind of person to be comfortable cleaning around the dead.”

  Clara thought what Annie would say about undertaking such a task. She suspected the appeal of sorting Dr Deáth’s vast collection into some sort of order would be enough to override any anxiety Annie had about hanging around corpses. Then again…

  The inspector returned with the kettle and hung it in the fireplace. There were two armchairs either side of the hearth and Clara took one, while the inspector sat opposite. The kettle was just beginning to whistle when Dr Deáth appeared.

  “Now, how may I help? Oh, hang on a minute,” Dr Deáth spun on the spot and went to a cupboard near the door. Opening it, he produced a large, yellow tin, that bore the text in bright red of ‘Mr Mercer’s Rat Formula, for the dealing with all types of pest. Contains Arsenic.’ Dr Deáth popped off the lid of this tin and held it out towards
Clara and the Inspector. It contained homemade biscuits.

  “Help yourselves.”

  “Isn’t that a slightly risky place to store them?” Park-Coombs flicked his moustache anxiously at the sight of the tin.

  “I sterilised it thoroughly,” Dr Deáth said with a grin of amusement. “And if rats can read, this tin will certainly fox them. Clara?”

  “Thank you, but not right now,” Clara refused politely.

  “Suit yourselves, it really is fine,” Dr Deáth returned the tin to the cupboard. “Now, you want to know about the stabbing?”

  “We don’t yet know who the woman is,” Park-Coombs elaborated. “No one has come forward to say a relative or friend is missing, and the woman did not have anything on her that suggested a name. Have you found out anything more about her?”

  The coroner settled back against a sideboard opposite them, displacing a couple of his collectibles, and began to speak.

  “Let’s begin with the obvious. She was aged between thirty and forty, of average build and well fed. Her teeth were badly stained with nicotine and she had lost two at the front. There was evidence of old bruises on her arms, but I’m not sure what that would imply. It didn’t happen when she was stabbed, they were older than that and had faded. Possibly someone had held her hard, but it might also have been the result of a fall. The bruises were too faint to be clear on what had caused them.

  “Aside from that, the only sign of violence on her was the knife wound to her belly. It was a deep stroke that perforated the intestines. Even if she had not bled to death, there is a good chance she would not have survived. Once the intestines are pierced the body is exposed to all sorts of nasty things, and you can guarantee peritonitis.”