The Hanged Man (3 page)

If not suicide, then murder?

But she found no trace of that either, unless that satisfaction belonged to the perpetrator. Not likely, for the emotion was well attached to the general atmosphere of the room, imprinted there by its most habitual occupant.

The man had not killed himself, nor had he been awake to resist an attacker. He'd passed unaware. Considering the agony of such a death, that was just as well, but it was impossible that he could have slept through it. Had he been in a drunken stupor?

The attacker had left no sign of himself behind. Not one hint remained of anger, jealousy, love, hate, or any of the myriad emotions that drove one human to take the life of another.

That
was impossible. There was always
something;
an action as intense as murder always left a stain. She'd never been at a scene of violence that did not have motivational emotions lingering about. They lay like shards of broken glass, and one could follow them to the source if it was a fresh enough trail.

But no such trail existed here. Had there been a psychic cleansing, then it would have removed the latent emotions of the dead occupant as well.

Opening her eyes, Alex shut down the inner mechanism of nature that others ironically called her “gift” and switched to her cultivated talent for observation.

A chest was at the foot of the bed, nearly under the chandelier hook. The dead man's right ankle brushed against the chest's side. Supposedly he stood on it, secured one end of the rope to the ceiling hook, then stepped off.

It would have been difficult to lift an unresisting body up high enough to slip a noose around its neck. Even to loop it first, then hoist the body up using the ceiling hook as a pulley would require a strong, strapping fellow. Two would have found it easier, but she could not think how one man could have erased his psychic spoor, much less two.

No shoe prints or scuffs were visible on the bare wood of the chest. A few swipes with a gloved hand would take care of that.

First things first: How had the killer gotten in and out?

The window was the likely point of entry. Perhaps the late tenant enjoyed fresh air; some hardy sorts left their windows wide open, even in this weather. She crossed the room. The latch was unengaged. He could have left it cracked and an intruder took advantage of it.

“What are you about?” demanded Lennon. He'd been quiet during her psychical scrutiny, which was now clearly over.

“Checking things,” she said, peering at the sill. It was wet from sleet melting on the relatively warmer surface of it and the floor. Had there been footprints left by an intruder, they were lost now.

He grunted and joined her. If the stench bothered him, he gave no sign. “You think someone done for him?”

“Yes. Despite appearances, this is a murder.”

“That what his ghost told you?”

“Inspector, you are well aware that I Read only the emotions left by the living, not the dead. What I found tells me that this poor man did not kill himself. He was somehow rendered insensible, then hung up like a Christmas goose at a butcher's.”

“Who done for him, then?”

“I can't tell. There's no psychical trace of the killer.”

“Meaning?”

“Whoever did this left no muddy footprints for a Reader to follow. He's psychically invisible, and that's impossible.”

“Your whole Service is impossible, and yet here you are.”

“Which is your good fortune, Inspector. This is something new; you'll have the credit for it.”

“Keep your credit. You can't see him? Then how do you know anyone was here?”

She shook her head. Trying to explain the emptiness to him would be like describing light and color to a blind person.

“If you think someone topped him, show me real proof, Miss Pendlebury.”

That might be a problem. There was no city soot on the outer sill to hold footprints either.

“My missus should clean this well,” grumbled Lennon. “Someone could have got in and out this way, but he'd have been seen. Someone in the street would have noticed a ladder where it shouldn't be. There's idlers about. We questioned them, they didn't see anything.”

“What about a misplaced mountaineer dangling from the roof like a great spider?” she asked. “People aren't likely to look up in this weather.”

“There's that,” he conceded. “Though anyone at a window across the way would notice. But at this hour and in this dark—”

“Otherwise the only entry and exit is the room's one door.”

“Unless you think there's a secret passage behind the fireplace.”

“I should be most surprised if there was.” The layout of this house was similar enough to her own, and hers had no such feature.

“You're minded that it's a sneak-thief?”

“If not a thief, then a sneak with murderous intent and the intelligence to arrange this to be taken for a suicide. I suggest sending someone observant to examine the roof, otherwise this horrid deed may have been done by a member of the household or one letting in a murderous confederate.”

Lennon's eyes narrowed and his jaw worked as he grunted agreement. He had not risen through the ranks at Scotland Yard by being a fool. While showing unflagging contempt for her psychical talent, he never discounted her observational skills.

Again, she cast about, searching every corner, every item in the room.

The table next to the bed held a water carafe and a glass on a little tray. Neither had apparently been used, but a clever killer would have tidied things.

Alex went to the bedside to examine the carafe. There were potent soporifics without color, though they were often detectable by taste or smell. If one wanted to render a person insensible, then a large amount would have to be dissolved in the carafe—and when would the killer have an opportunity to do that?

“You think there's something nasty in his water?” Lennon asked.

“It's too uncertain. How could he be sure his victim would even take a drink in the night? Or when?”

“Too true, but I'll collect it in evidence.”

Someone had silently entered the room and—what? Injected the man with some substance? If so, then the sting of the needle had not wakened him. The medical examiner might find the puncture, giving lie to this being a suicide.

“What makes this murder, eh?” pressed Lennon.

Alex checked a drawer in the bedside table. Inside was a pocket watch and a Bible. She had to forsake the scented handkerchief, needing both hands. She took a deep breath, then picked up the watch and used the small key on its chain to wind it. A quarter turn and no more, so he'd wound it before retiring, read a bit of his Bible, then put out his candle, just as a thousand other men might do.

“What suicide troubles to wind his watch?” she asked.

“Force of habit,” Lennon countered. “I've seen queerer stuff. What else?”

Her pent-up breath puffed out as she put the items back, and she did not get the handkerchief to her nose in time, catching a whiff of the stench—and something else.

She bent to sniff the man's pillow.

Sharp and astringent, no more than a whisper of it remained, and that was well masked by the stronger smell of night soil, and further diluted by the freezing air blowing in; this death might well be ruled a suicide but for that.

“Got you,” she said, pointing and stepping back to make room for the inspector.

He shot her a suspicious glare, as though expecting a trick, then bent and breathed in.

He snorted, but not dismissively. “Now
that
is interesting. Let's have another opinion, just to be sure. Brook! Up here on the double!”

Brook must have been at the foot of the stairs. He charged up in quick response to Lennon's bellow, but stopped short in the doorway to stare at the corpse, and lost much of his color.

“In here, man,” Lennon snapped. “That beggar's past harming aught.”

Brook visibly braced himself, assuming the carefully blank expression again, and came forward.

“Put your beezer to that pillow and tell me what's there.”

With puzzled reluctance, Brook did so, then straightened. “It's … like a hospital?” he hazarded.

“Yes, something you might notice in a hospital,” Lennon prompted.

“Not carbolic or vinegar.… Pungent stuff.”

“You'd think so. Ever have surgery? Of course not. I have, and when you're facing a jolly fellow in a black coat with a knife in his hand you'll bless the stink of this poison. It'll turn your belly over after, but better than being awake when the cuttin' starts.”

“Ether,” Brook said. “Of course.”

“Just so.” The two of them looked at the body and back to the pillow. No need to explain to Brook; he'd clearly grasped that foul play had been involved.

Lennon said, “Once they clean him up, they'll find ether still trapped in his lungs. Anyone will be smelling that off him for days. When I come back from getting cut, my missus had the windows up, complaining how it filled the house just from my breathing.”

Lennon's emotions were starting to contaminate the scene. He was excited, interested, and eager to press forward, having embraced Alex's conclusion as his own. Nothing left but to find the murderer so far as he was concerned. She was pleased with the validation but resisted the temptation to thank him for it.

He opened the drawer and fingered the deceased's pocket watch, showing its face to Brook. “Make a note of the time and that the smell of ether was detected on the pillow by the three of us. Then make an inventory of all the items in here, starting with this bauble. Mind you get everything down. I won't have some sticky-fingered servant claiming anything went missing while I was on duty.”

Brook produced a notebook and a pencil and wrote as instructed.

“Did the butler find the body?” she asked.

“The valet,” said Lennon. “He was doing the last rounds before turning in, making sure the windows were shut and the gas off, saw the light under the door, and looked in. Apparently it was unusual for his master to be up so late.”

“A steady fellow?”

“Seems steady enough. What's that to do with anything?”

“You can thank him for keeping the room untouched. I should think he may have had some police training at some point.”

“We'll stand him a drink at the nearest pub, then. Brook, make a sketch of the room while you're at it. Come along, ghost-catcher.” Lennon went out.

“Sketch?” Brook echoed. “I'm no artist.” He looked at Alex a little helplessly. “Do you draw, miss?”

“Not that sort of sketch,” Alex said kindly. “He wants a map of the room, approximate dimensions, placement of furnishings, window, door, and the body.”

“Oh. I can do that. Thank you, miss.”

“Two copies, if you please. One for the Yard, another for the Service. As identical as possible.”

Alex caught up with Lennon at the far end of the hall. He held a lantern and had a door open. Narrow stairs lay beyond. He bulled up, the lantern's pale light dancing drunkenly on the plain walls. She knew what would be next and cursed him. He'd take great enjoyment grumbling about the delay if she went to fetch her coat, and she refused to give him the satisfaction. She followed him to the servants' floor. To judge by the clothing left out, the females of the household had the whole of it, and it was quite nice. Only two to a room and at one end was the unheard-of luxury of a water closet. That must have cost a few pennies.

Lennon searched with no regard for the occupants' privacy until he found a bolted door that opened to the roof. Any other time of the year Alex would have delighted in such a lofty expedition, but not now.

She eased out in Lennon's wake, shrinking from the cold despite her woolens.

Ice coated everything and the wind cut like a fury.

Directly opposite was a low wall that divided this house from its neighbor. To the left was a flat space with lines strung between a braced pole and hooks piercing the main chimney. Such washing as was done on the premises would be hung here in the more clement months. Alex stepped carefully across to the low wall that overlooked the back. Below were the mews and an enclosed extension leading from them to the house, its windows lighted, probably the kitchen and quarters for the male servants. A constable paced back and forth in the small yard below.

She oriented toward Harley Street. The roof over the servants' rooms slanted up and blocked the view. Above its line, oppressive gray clouds reflected back what little glow the city possessed. The smoke from countless fires rose to combat the falling sleet, sinuous black and translucent silver writhing and twisting about each other in the sky like silk rags.

Footing was slippery. Lennon proceeded with much care toward the house's main chimney, which stood out from the lesser ones like a brick obelisk.

Alex tottered toward him and found it necessary to grab his arm to keep from falling. He glanced down at her with amusement and held the lantern so the light fell on one corner of the structure.

The chimney was black with years of soot from London's thick air. No need to clean something only the servants would see. The corners, though, had some interesting blemishes.

“Rope marks,” said Alex, forgetting the cold for a moment. “There are fibers caught in the brickwork.”

“I'll have a man collect 'em. Mind your feet.” He made his way toward the low slanting roof, dragging her along, since she still had hold of his arm. He seemed unaware of her weight. He peered at the roof, which had a dusting of ice over its dark surface.

“Someone's been here, I think,” she said.

“Let's be certain.” He held the lantern out.

She took it, thinking he wanted his hands free for climbing.

“Your pardon, I'm sure,” he said, grasping her around the waist and lifting.