Carrington. He had heard that name alright. The death of the murderer Carrington had been all over the newspaper. He turned to look at the lady. She didn't look like the criminal type herself. Rather like a broken creature, perhaps not in dress, but certainly in demeanor, and Tristan couldn't help feeling some compassion. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Carrington?" he asked gently.

The woman looked up, pressed her trembling lips together and lifted her handkerchief to wipe away a fresh tear. "M-my hus-.... s-someone pulled my arm, fiercely, and I am in pain, doctor. I cannot lift it properly."

Tristan suppressed a grimace. He had seen enough of the world to know that violence and brutality did not restrict itself to slum dwellings, but was just as likely to take place in mighty mansions. It was just that the latter had higher walls and greater front doors to conceal it.

"I'm very sorry to hear that, ma'm," said Tristan and he turned back to the constable. "Yes, I shall need to a look at her arm."

And of course he could never ask a lady to scandalously expose her arm in public.