A Late Phoenix Read Online Free Page B

since Dr. Tarde went.”
    â€œJune,” said Sloan.
    â€œPoor old Henry,” said Dabbe. “Now, there was a good fellow. Pint sized, but a darn good doctor. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard about him. Last person on earth I should have said to have done a thing like that.”
    â€œThis skeleton,” said Sloan, keeping to the point. “It’s not recent surely, Doctor, is it? Not when you’ve only got the bones …”
    â€œPraise-God Barebones,” murmured Dabbe irrelevantly.
    â€œI beg your pardon, Doctor …”
    â€œOne of Cromwell’s mob, Inspector.”
    â€œSo,” said Sloan heavily, “you think we should be taking an interest?”
    â€œI do, Sloan.”
    Sloan got out his notebook. “No chance of it being archeological at all?”
    The pathologist shook his head. “I can’t date it exactly for you down here in a bad light but I’d say it’s definitely within your hundred year limit.”
    Inspector Sloan sighed. “The bombing, then, I suppose …”
    â€œPerhaps.”
    Detective Inspector Sloan waved an arm. “The whole of this corner looks as if it caught a proper packet. The house came down on top of him, I expect.”
    â€œPerhaps,” said the pathologist again. “Looking at the skull generally I’d say it hadn’t been lying here more than—say—thirty years. So that part would fit.…”
    â€œSomething else doesn’t then?” responded Sloan promptly.
    â€œDon’t rush me, Sloan.”
    â€œBut …”
    â€œI haven’t seen the rest of the skeleton yet,” temporized Dabbe.
    â€œBut …” said Sloan again.
    â€œBut when I have I’ll be able to tell you a lot more.” He straightened up. “You can bring on the resurrection men now, Inspector.”
    Sloan beckoned in the direction of the ladder and two young policemen materialized out of the gloom beyond the arc lights. They were carrying spades.
    â€œTrowels would have been better,” growled Dabbe. “It’s not that deep in the ground.” He waved towards his own assistant, a perennially silent man called Burns, who had been lurking in the shadows. “We’ll have some soil samples, please, and some measurements.”
    Sloan stood by, watching, while the pathologist superintended the digging policemen. What was it that Dr. Dabbe had called them? Resurrection men? He meant Burke and Hare. Sloan took another look at the skull. The anatomists wouldn’t have had any use for that. Not now, they wouldn’t.
    â€œGently does it, Constable. The scapula should be about there—ah, yes, that’s it. Those are ribs. Now take your spade away while I have another look.” Dabbe grunted and then stood back. “Right, carry on.”
    Sloan murmured “The deceased’s age, Doctor …”
    â€œAge?” said Dabbe. “Not young. Not old. I’ll tell you when I’ve had a better look. I really need to see the wrists and hips.”
    Sloan nodded. “The age will be a help.” It made a report more tidy, did a stated age.
    â€œGood teeth,” observed the pathologist, just as Dr. William Latimer had done. “Mostly present. That’ll perhaps be how you’ll get onto the identity.”
    â€œAfter all these years?”
    Dabbe nodded. “It’ll be difficult enough. I can see that.”
    â€œStill,” Sloan looked round the site, “people often sheltered in their cellars in the bombing. They must have done.”
    â€œCareful with that spade, man,” adjured the pathologist suddenly. “You’re not digging a trench for sweet peas, you know.”
    Both constables were sweating now. Behind and beyond them the embers of a fire still glowed visibly. That would have been where the men had burnt the smaller branches of the uprooted elm tree earlier in the day.