Gabriel stared at the detective closely, thinking there was something familiar about him.
“Have we met before?” Dr. Gibson demanded of the detective, evidently thinking the same thing.
“We have, doctor,” Ransom replied. “A year and a half ago, Mr. Winterborne asked me to watch over you and Lady Helen, as you went on an errand in a dangerous part of town.”
“Oh, yes.” Dr. Gibson’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the man who stalked after us and skulked in the shadows, and interfered needlessly as we went to hire a hansom cab.”
“You were being attacked by a pair of dockyard navvies,” Ransom pointed out gently.
“I had the situation well in hand,” came her brisk reply. “I had already dispatched one man, and was about to put away the other, when you jumped into the fray without even asking.”
“I beg your pardon,” Ransom said gravely. “I thought you might need assistance. Obviously my assumption was incorrect.”
Mollified, Dr. Gibson said in a grudging tone, “I suppose you could hardly be expected to stand by and let a woman do all the fighting. The masculine sense of pride is fragile, after all.”
A smile flashed in Ransom’s eyes, but disappeared quickly. “Doctor, could you briefly describe Lady St. Vincent’s wound for me?”
After receiving a nod of consent from Gabriel, Dr. Gibson replied. “It was a single acute puncture just to the right of the neck, entering an inch above the clavicle and extending three inches deep. It pierced the anterior scalene muscle and lacerated the subclavian artery. Had the artery been severed completely, it would have caused unconsciousness in ten seconds and death in approximately two minutes.”
Gabriel’s stomach dropped at the thought. “The only reason that didn’t happen,” he said, “is because Dragon blocked the forward tug of the knife with his arm.” He glanced at the footman quizzically. “How did you know what she was going to do?”
Dragon spoke while tucking in the loose edge of the makeshift bandage over his arm. “As soon as I saw Mrs. O’Cairre aim for the top of the shoulder, I thought she would jerk the knife down like a pump handle. I once saw a man killed that way in an alley near the club, when I was a boy. Never forgot it. An odd way to stab someone. It made him drop to the ground, and there was no blood.”
“The blood would have drained into the chest cavity and collapsed the lung,” Dr. Gibson said. “Quite an efficient way to murder someone.”
“It’s not the method of a street thug,” Ransom commented. “It’s . . . professional. The technique requires some knowledge of physiology.” He sighed shortly. “I’d like to find out who instructed Mrs. O’Cairre how to do it.”
“Can you not question her?” Dr. Gibson asked.
“Unfortunately the detectives with the seniority are managing the interrogation, and they’re fouling it up so badly, it almost seems deliberate. The only real information we’ll end up with is what Mrs. O’Cairre told Dragon when he caught her.”
“Which is?” Gabriel asked.
“Mrs. O’Cairre and her late husband were part of a group of Irish anarchists who aspire to overthrow the government. Caipíní an Bháis, they call themselves. A splinter group of the Fenians.”
“The man Lady St. Vincent saw in the warehouse is a collaborator,” Dragon added. “Mrs. O’Cairre said he’s a man of position. When he feared his anonymity had been compromised, he told Mrs. O’Cairre to take a knife to Lady St. Vincent. Mrs. O’Cairre says she’s sorry it had to be done, but she couldn’t refuse.”
In the silence that followed, Dr. Gibson glanced at Dragon’s bandaged arm and said, “Has that cut been seen to?” She continued without waiting for an answer. “Come with me and I’ll take a look at it.”
“Thank you, but I don’t need—”
“I’ll disinfect and bandage it properly. You may require stitches.”
Dragon followed her reluctantly.
Ransom’s gaze lingered on the doctor for a few extra seconds as she strode away, the divided skirt swishing around her hips and legs. He returned his attention to Gabriel. “My lord, I hesitate to ask at such a time. But at your earliest convenience, I’d like to see the materials that Lady St. Vincent brought back from the print works.”
“Of course. Dragon will help you with anything you need.” Gabriel gave him a hard glance. “I want someone to pay for what was done to my wife.”
Chapter 22
“She’s still disoriented from the anesthesia,” Dr. Gibson cautioned as she brought Gabriel to Pandora’s private room. “I’ve given her another dose of morphine, not only for the pain but also to ease the nausea from the chloroform. Therefore, don’t be alarmed by anything she says. She probably won’t pay close attention to you, and she may jump to a different topic in the middle of a sentence, or say something confusing.”
“So far you’ve described an average conversation with Pandora.”
The doctor smiled. “There’s a bowl of ice chips beside the bed—try to coax her to take some. You’ve washed your hands with the carbolic soap? Good. We want to keep her environment as aseptic as possible.”
Gabriel walked into the small underfurnished room. The gas lighting had been turned off, leaving only the quiet glow of a glass spirit lamp on a table beside the bed.
Pandora looked very small on the bed. Her motionless body was arranged with her limbs perfectly straight, arms by her sides. She never slept that way. At night she was always curled up, or sprawling, or hugging the pillow, or kicking the blankets off one leg while keeping the other covered. Her complexion was unnaturally pale, like a porcelain bisque cameo.