The Dr Benjamin Bones Omnibus by Emma Jameson

Author:Emma Jameson [Jameson, Emma]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lyonnesse Books
Published: 2018-10-18T04:00:00+00:00

Cadaveric Spasm

The suspicious red spot had stood out to Juliet not because she was a preternaturally gifted detective, but because she’d been searching high and low for something to complain about. Lady Maggart was unbearably smug about her beauty, her style, her country estate, and apparently even her future second husband, if that nauseating remark about attaining “true joy” was any indication. It infuriated Juliet, who yearned for beauty, style, a more attractive country estate, and—most especially—a second husband. Relegated to observe silently, she’d cast about for some imperfection in the servants’ domain. The walls were spotless and the lino betrayed no flaw. Just as Juliet had been ready to concede even the bowels of Fitchley Park were exemplary, she spied a spot no bigger than a sixpence.

It was on the stairs, a splotch on the pale blue carpet runner. At first glance, she took it for a bit of jam, too trivial to mortify the baroness or her butler. Only when Ben raised a perfectly reasonable supposition—that a maid had sneaked Bobby Archer into the servants’ dormitory for a rendezvous—and Mr. Collins started tutting about good girls and sordid escapades, did Juliet decide the man was definitely lying. And that gave the round red stain an entirely different meaning.

Ben looked the spot over. “Could it be blood?” he asked Mr. Collins.

The butler folded his arms. “Certainly not. It’s a bit of wine from last night’s supper.”

“You can tell without looking?” Juliet raised her eyebrows.

Mr. Collins advanced on her with measured steps. She wasn’t easily cowed, but he came so close, glaring at her with such intensity, her heart sped up. This wasn’t the sort of polite contempt that well-bred servants routinely visited on dishonored guests. This was genuine menace.

“I can tell,” Mr. Collins said, “because Gertie dropped a tray while bringing up last night’s supper. Surely you make no accusations?”

“Lady Juliet merely asked a question. There’s no reason so take offense over so small a thing,” Ben said firmly.

Mr. Collins took a step back. Unclenching his hands, he folded them together, perhaps to keep from balling them into fists again.

“Did you pack the phenolphthalin?” Juliet asked Ben. He nodded.

The chemical reagent called phenolphthalin was a key part of the detective’s armamentarium, as Juliet had recently learned. Ever since she’d helped Ben catch his wife’s killer, she’d been eagerly studying the art of private detection. Finding crime fiction thick on the ground, but manuals for aspiring detectives almost nonexistent, she’d enrolled in an American correspondence course called Private Dick Academy.

The course promised to transform an ordinary citizen into a steely-eyed gumshoe in just thirty-six monthly lessons. That amounted to three years, or the time Ben had spent in medical school, but Juliet was undaunted. She’d inhaled lesson one, The Kastle-Meyers Scientific Test for Confirming the Presence of Blood, successfully performing it in Ben’s office while his back was turned. Now she longed to try it “in the lawbreaking arena,” as Private Dick Academy’s founder, retired American police sergeant Dirk Diamond, called a crime scene.

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