A thin beam of sunlight struggled through the recently opened hole in the roof to illuminate the nave of the church.
Merlin stood by the open cardboard coffin, regretting his decision to bring Robinson along with Bridges. As Air Warden Webster had explained, the corpse had been got at by a band of rats and the result was not a pretty sight. Merlin could not recognise in the mush of the ravaged facial features the young man in Kilinski’s file photo. The corpse was wearing a filthy RAF uniform on which the badge of rank and name seemed to have been unpicked. The man’s pockets were empty according to the medic in charge, Lieutenant Ross, a stocky, red-faced man with a limp. Webster said that he had not had time to do a proper search around the area as the bombs had started dropping again, but he had noticed something unusual near the body and he had given it to the lieutenant.
“Here it is, Chief Inspector. Very decent of Webster to hand it in – I’m sure many men would have pocketed it for themselves.” Webster blushed and shuffled his feet. Ross reached into his jacket and produced a small gold bar.
Merlin felt a strange sensation of excitement as he took the bar from Ross and turned it in his hand. “Madre de Dios! I suppose we should now call this a ‘Stanislawicki ingot’.” He held it up for the sergeant and constable to see. “So, Mr Webster, can you tell me exactly where you found this body?”
Webster struggled to restrain a yawn. “Sorry, sir, a long night. I found this chap in the rubble of a building just off the Marylebone Road.”
“That’s interesting. And where was the gold ingot?”
“Just below the body, sir. Perhaps a yard or less away.”
“Could it have fallen from his hand or pocket or somehow otherwise been dislodged from his clothing?”
“Quite possibly, sir.”
“I’d appreciate it if you could show us where you found him when we are finished here.”
Webster nodded wearily.
“Bridges, your eyes are better than mine. Have a look at the badge on the collar. It’s a bit grubby and torn, but tell me what you can see.”
Bridges bent down and brushed some dirt from the badge. “I can make out three letters – ‘L’, ‘N’ and I think that’s an ‘I’.”
“Kilinski then?”
Merlin’s two colleagues nodded.
“Looks to me like an attempt might have been made to obliterate the name deliberately, sir. Though, then again, it could just have been the rats.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. What’s the set up, Lieutenant? I know this is only a temporary location. Where do the bodies go from here?”
“We send them up to the St Pancras mortuary. If they are not claimed in a few days, they are buried.”
Merlin moved back as a couple of wardens pushed past with a loaded stretcher. The stink of putrefaction mingled with the smoke drifting down from the smouldering rafters. He could feel his stomach churning and his eyes beginning to water.
“Please pass instructions to St Pancras not to dispose of this body. Any views on cause of death?”
Ross smiled ruefully. “How about falling under the proverbial ton of bricks?”
“But you haven’t examined the corpse.”
“Inspector, look around you. Do you think I have the time to examine the dead ones? I have been up to my ears for the last forty-eight hours concentrating on the survivors. Somehow my superiors expect me to keep an eye on this place while also performing my duties with the injured arriving at St Barts. No, I haven’t examined the corpse.”
Merlin reached out to touch Ross’ shoulder. “Sorry, Lieutenant, I didn’t mean to suggest any negligence on your part. It’s just that I’ll need to arrange a post-mortem for this chap. Perhaps you could mention that to the authorities at St Pancras. Is Bentley Purchase still the coroner?”
Ross wiped some grime from his cheek. “He is. Sir Bernard Spilsbury also does much of his work there.”
Bridges eyes widened a little. “Isn’t he the pathologist chap who nailed Crippen, sir?”