Mornaday shuddered. “I cannot endure it. Do not speak of the wax, I beg you.”
J. J. turned to him. “You are a singularly odd creature, Mornaday, that you can more easily bear the sight of a dead woman than countenance the fact that she has been dipped in a bit of paraffin.”
“Hardly paraffin,” Stoker corrected. “If she were, she would go up like a Roman candle near a flame. I think it a different substance, although I am not altogether certain what. It seems a complicated formulation based in beeswax, perhaps.”
J. J. was thoughtful. “Have you ever seen anything like it before? With Egyptians, perhaps?”
Stoker shook his head. “Egyptians removed the internal organs and dried the flesh by burying the body in natron salts. It was preservation by desiccation. This is something entirely different. The nearest thing that resembles this is a form of Spanish mummification I’ve read of.”
J. J. looked thoroughly intrigued. “How was it done?”
“Most likely via reserving solutions circulated through the capillary system. Later, any voids in the body, say spaces in the abdominal cavity, are filled with wax, and the entire body is later enrobed in wax. That seems a likely starting point for this job,” he said, nodding towards the Beauty, “but I cannot imagine how the person responsible for this was able to retain the organs. The rates of decomposition would dictate—”
Mornaday held up a hand, his complexion faintly green. “No more. I beg you. But answer me this: Do you know anyone capable of that sort of work?” he asked with a gesture in the Beauty’s direction.
Stoker furrowed his brow a moment, then shook his head. “No. It is an exceedingly complicated procedure.”
“Not the sort of thing you could do?” Mornaday asked with narrowed eyes.
“Are you accusing me of something?” Stoker asked in a deceptively quiet voice.
“I was simplywondering—”
“Well, you clearly haven’t the skill for it, so don’t tax yourself,” Stoker returned.
“Now, see here—” Mornaday was clearly squaring up for a fight, and Stoker drew himself up, nostrils flaring.
“Oh, do shut up,” I told them. “Stoker, Mornaday does not really think you are responsible. Do you, Mornaday?” I asked him in a governess’s tone.
He looked as if he would have liked to continue tweaking Stoker, but one glance at my arched brow and he dropped his gaze to his shoes. “I suppose not.”
“To answer the gist of your question,” I went on, “most natural historians are familiar with the general principles of preservation. Lepidopterists have no need for such procedures, but almost every other branch of science—zoology, anatomy, et cetera—requires specimens that have been treated with formalin or other such chemicals. This is far and away beyond that.”
I looked to Stoker, who joined the conversation with a sigh. “As I was saying, the internal organs present unique challenges, particularly those involved in digestion. With circulation, everything in the human body works on proper cycles, filtering out impure matter. But as soon as death occurs, the various systems shut down. Undigested food andother waste material, cooling blood, unfiltered urine—all of it sits, stewing away. And without the fresh blood to bring oxygen to the tissues, everything becomes so much rancid meat, a study in decay. From the moment of death, it is a race against time to preserve any semblance of life, of wholesome tissues.”
“Fascinating,” J. J. murmured whilst Mornaday looked greener than ever.
“So who is she?” Mornaday asked. “And why have you shown her to us?”
“Because we do not know her identity,” I replied. “There is nothing to explain how she came to be in this state or who is responsible. And we thought, perhaps, the pair of you might be able to lend assistance.”
Mornaday’s brow shot heavenwards. “I don’t believe it.”
J. J. fairly crowed. “You are asking us forhelp. How many times have you resisted our efforts to assist you? How many times have you pushed us away when we wanted to work in partnership?”
“If you will recall,” I replied icily, “I enlisted your help only last month at Cherboys.”
J. J. snorted. “Only because I was already there and you thought you could use me to get information.”
“Well, perhaps,” I admitted.
“I want to know her name,” Stoker said quietly. “And I want to see her buried properly. With dignity.”
J. J.’s expression softened. “I cannot make a mockery of that,” she said. “It is a noble motivation.” She canted her head as she looked at me. “What is yours?”
“The same,” I assured her. “But there is something else. She may have met with an accident. Or, in light of her pregnancy and facing disgrace, it is possible she took her own life. But we cannot rule out the possibility that she may have been murdered.”
Mornaday brightened. “Indeed? Were there signs of violence upon her?”