A Late Phoenix by Catherine Aird

…”
    That was a relief, thought Sloan. One formula—if it was as complicated as Hasse’s—was quite enough to be going on with.
    â€œI can’t tell you anything about her build or coloring. The earth in which she was buried was evidently not damp enough for adipocere …”
    Sloan could see Crosby having a lot of difficulty in spelling that one.
    â€œThe teeth are consistent with the age suggested by the state of development of the iliac crest,” went on the pathologist. “They were well-looked after and had been treated for caries at early stages.”
    â€œThat suggests a certain level of income and intelligence,” said Sloan, “in those days.”
    Detective Constable Crosby, who had a small hole in his left eyetooth, closed his mouth and kept it closed.
    â€œAnd an interest in her appearance,” agreed Dabbe. “Dentists were more … aggressive then than now.” He peered inside the jaw and called out the state of each tooth. “My secretary will give you the dental picture, Inspector, before you go.”
    â€œThank you, Doctor.”
    The pathologist acknowledged this gloomily. “I don’t know that we’re likely to pick up any other clues as to who the poor creature was. Just the teeth and perhaps the pregnancy.” He turned his attention back to the rest of the skull. “No fractures. Cranium normal. No fracture or dislocation of the cervical vertebrae.” He poked and probed. “No fractures of upper limbs, shoulder blades, sternum—rib cage complete except for …” his voice died away as he peered forward.
    â€œExcept for what, Doctor?”
    â€œExcept for her left fifth rib which appears to have been chipped by something.”
    â€œChipped?”
    â€œLook. The upper aspect has been damaged. There’s a bit missing.”
    â€œYesterday’s digging,” suggested Sloan. “After all, they didn’t know she was there.”
    â€œNo.” Dabbe shook his head and said firmly, “This is an old chip.”
    â€œWhat does it mean?” asked Sloan.
    â€œSomething hit it from an angle.” Dabbe picked up the nearest instrument to hand. A wicked-looking bone saw. He reproduced the angle of the chip with the saw. “Like this. See? And whatever did it chipped a bit out of the bone. Interesting.”
    The pathologist’s idea of what was interesting wasn’t Sloan’s. “That little chip wouldn’t have killed her, Doctor, surely? I mean, if the whole house came down on her in an air raid it would have been more than just …”
    â€œIt’s what caused the chip. Not the chip itself. A retractor, Burns, here and here, please.”
    His assistant moved obediently forward.
    With unexpected gentleness Dr. Dabbe adjusted the angle of the rib cage. “Now a light …”
    Instead of peering between the ribs the pathologist was squinting up under them from where the deceased’s stomach had been.
    â€œMirror,” he said tersely.
    Burns supplied it.
    â€œProbe.”
    â€œProbe.”
    Dr. Dabbe’s head had almost disappeared now. “Forceps.”
    â€œForceps coming.”
    â€œNot these, Burns. Give me a Spencer Wells.”
    Burns selected a different pair. “Spencer Wells, Doctor.”
    â€œGot to get a grip,” came the muffled voice of the pathologist. “Ahah …” he gave a long drawn out sigh. “I thought so.”
    â€œWhat, Doctor?”
    With the air of a conjuror drawing a white rabbit out of an empty top hat the pathologist withdrew his hand from the rib cage, straightened up, and waved the forceps in front of Sloan. “Here’s your cause of death, Inspector.”
    It was a bullet.

Strain the pulp
    C HAPTER S EVEN
    â€œA bullet, Sloan?” echoed Superintendent Leeyes over the telephone.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œA German bullet? Were they machine-gunning too,