I'd found the right flat. All was dark, all was silent. Apparently he was not yet home. Probably out getting drunk or plotting new crimes, the bastard. I drew breath for a soft curse to express my disgust and stopped cold.
Bloodsmell-so thick on the air I could taste it. The hair on my head quivered to attention, and my knees wanted to give out as a shudder of recognition tore through me. I knew it to be human blood.
So strong was the urge to leave, I nearly faded away and shot back through the window again. When my nerves settled to the point where I could think, I held as still as possible and listened. I sensed many other people in the building, but none in this room or the next. I was very much alone. Moving cautiously and with leaden feet toward the bedroom door, I paused at the sight of a bold red smear marking the threshold. It was like a line drawn by a bully daring me to cross.
But the bully was dead, I found, when I worked up the courage to look.
The curtain for the window in here was pulled aside, allowing me ample outside light to see every horrid detail. Ridley was sprawled on his back across the bed and very much the source of the bloodsmell. His throat was cut. The blood from that fearful wound saturated the bed linens and his clothing, for he was fully dressed, and a puddle of it stained the floor. His white face was turned to one side, toward me. His were eyes partly open, sending the hackles up along my nape, for he seemed to be aware of my presence. It was fancy only, as I discovered when I stepped farther into the room, and his gaze remained fixed in one spot. Not that that brought any comfort to me; my teeth were chattering again.
It required a great effort to master myself and closely examine the room for any sign of who might have killed him and why. Ridley must have had many enemies, considering the life he'd led; I was almost certain one of them had had his fill of the man and committed the deed. Almost, for this death coming on the heels as it were of Clarinda's failed scheme struck me as being too highly coincidental for belief.
The room was bare of anything that might be helpful. Il was strewn with his clothing and other personal items in such a way as to confirm he had no servant to see to his daily upkeep. Thrown into one corner was the discarded costume he'd worn to the Bolyns' masqued ball where so much mischief had sprouted. I turned this and other things over with a gingerly hand, for I was reluctant to touch any of his property, as though what had happened to him might somehow taint me in turn.
Ridiculous thought, but there it was, joining hard and close with the leaden suspicion that I had somehow caused his death.
I searched through every cranny but found nothing that shouldn't be there. Hidden in one of his boots was a small purse with some guineas and a few smaller coins. I guessed it to have been a sort of emergency fund and put it back. Beyond that there were no papers-no letters of any sort, not even a discarded bill, which was rather odd, though I didn't exactly know what to make of it.
Going to the next room I had to find a candle. There wasn't enough light coming past its window's closed curtain to serve, and I wasn't going to change it lest the rattling of the rings on the rod be noticed and remembered later by his neighbors once word of this matter got out. Though it seemed very unlikely, someone might hear me moving around and be curious enough to investigate, and I had absolutely no desire to draw attention to myself or these rooms until I'd finished with them. With shaking fingers I coaxed a spark from my tinderbox, begrudging even that - small noise.
The single small flame was all I needed to resume my search, but if anyone had asked what I might be looking for, I'd not be able to provide a good answer.
The sitting room was not the same as I'd left it, at least to the-best of my recollection. If only I'd paid closer attention earlier I might have been able to notice more. Two things did leap forward: A chair was no longer pushed against its table, and an empty brandy bottle and glasses now on the table had previously occupied the mantel. Had the murderer shared a drink with his victim to work up the courage to kill? Or, the deed done, had he come out here to revive himself for an escape? There were four glasses, all the ones in his possession, all with traces of brandy at the bottom. Four murderers? Five, if yet another drank right from the bottle. Even six or more if they shared. Six Mohocks had chased me earlier, but why would Ridley's own men kill him? Or had those six been part of some rival group of troublemakers?
I could carry this no further without more information.
It would be instructive to speak with the other tenants to learn if they'd heard or seen anything, but any inquiry on my part would place me in a most serious position. I could influence people into completely forgetting my existence, but only for a time, and then might they not talk amongst themselves of the gentleman asking questions about a murder prior to the discovery of the body? Might that gentleman be the murderer himself? London was not so large a city that I could hide in it forever.
Ridley's acquaintances would afford another and probably better outlet for my questions, but with them lay the same danger-unless from them I might learn the name of the killer. Then could I influence the fellow into turning himself in and confessing, keeping my own vulnerable self safely removed from necessity of appearing before a judge.
All these thoughts rushed through my mind as I searched, each examined and put to one side like the items I sorted through, none of them being too terribly helpful to the present situation.
Except for the chair, table, and brandy being out of place from my earlier visit, and the fact there were again no papers to be found, nothing else seemed amiss in the sitting room. There was no more reason to delay a closer look at the most important source of information remaining to me.
I returned to the bedroom with the candlestick in hand, making sure to keep it well below the level of the window. There was close work ahead, this little light was wanted to scour away any and all shadows. There was a risk someone might see from the street, but I was willing to take it so long as I missed nothing of import.
Careful to step well over the smear of blood at the entry, I squatted and held the candle near and determined the stain had been caused when someone had stepped into the pool by the bed and then tracked it to this point. Easy enough to follow the trail he'd left, he must have realized it, then tried to wipe the blood from his shoe by scraping its sole across the wood planks of the floor.
I looked closely at the puddle next to the bed and could make out the scuffing indicative of someone having had at least one of his shoes in the mess. Why would he find it necessary to stand in that spot? In my mind I put myself forward to stand in the same place to try determining the answer. It came quickly. Ridley must have been sitting on the other side of the bed with his back to whoever else was in the room. That unknown man must have certainly leaned forward across the bed, perhaps with one knee on it, and one foot anchored on the floor for balance. With a knife in his hand, he could drag its sharp edge hard through Ridley's throat, then retreat, letting the body fall toward him. Thus would he be spared of the initial spray of blood; it would instead strike the wall Ridley faced. Indeed, to confirm this there was a fearful splashing all over its otherwise plain surface. Anyone who had ever seen a hog hauled up by its hind legs for butchering would understand how the blood would spurt from a man in much the same manner and take care to avoid it.
Then might the killer have stood a moment over his victim, looking down at the final struggles to hold on to life, waiting until it had all run out. Ridley's hands and arms were all covered in dark, dried gore. He'd put them to his throat in a futile effort to stay the flow. His last sight must have been of his murderer backing toward the doorway.
Going around the narrow bed, I now began a reluctant search of Ridley's pockets. It was impossible to avoid contact with his blood. Though my appetite was so completely altered that blood had become the single support of my existence, in this case I felt the same kind of pitiful repugnance any other man might feel. So distracting was it that I could barely control the tremor in my hands; I nearly missed the
thin fold of paper secreted deep in one pocket of his waistcoat. Surprised, I carefully drew it forth, turning it over once.
The outside surface was very damp, but it had been closely folded so the inside part had been fairly well protected from damage. Given the fact no other paper was in the whole of the place, I hoped that this one piece would provide some important insight to his death.
It did, but not in a form I could have ever expected.
I took it into the other room to spread it flat on the table. The staining had ruined a portion of what was evidently a letter. The upper half of the page was gone, the ink and blood blending and obscuring everything. The lower part was yet readable:
... an unsettling, dangerous fellow. I do not believe it will reflect badly upon my manhood to admit I harbor a certain cold fear of this Mr. Barrett and of what he might do. He is very handy with his blade, as he proved to my chagrin at the Bolyns', though I was very intoxicated at the time. Certainly upon reflection I realize now how my drunken remarks coming from so befuddled a brain insensed him to the point of giving challenge that night. But I doubt his defeating me then has ended the matter, for he and his cousin, Dr. Marling, have made it obvious they bear me much ill will I hope that by inviting Barrett to meet with me he will hear my sober apology and we might then calmly settle the differences between us, but if not, then I expect we shall have to have another trial of honor. As I am not yet fully recovered from the cut I got at the previous encounter, I cannot be certain the outcome will prove favorable to me, unless he relents and gives me leave to delay things until I am better able to defend myself. If at the conclusion of my conversation with him I must cross with him again, then I should be very desirous that you act as my second as you did before. I don't reckon him to be quite so ill-bred as to force a conflict between us without going through the proper forms, but in the event that I am wrong, I hope this letter will find its way to you so you will let others know the truth of things.
The letter had the usual closing compliments and was signed by Ridley.
If I had been cold enough before for my teeth to chatter, now was flesh and soul chilled so solidly that I could hardly bring myself to move or think.
The monstrous unfairness of it was the first thought to blossom to mind. The missive contained just the right amount of truth mixed with lie to be perfectly plausible, especially to anyone not in possession of all the facts.
The second bud to sprout was the absolute certitude that anyone finding the letter on Ridley's corpse would come to the reasonable conclusion the meeting had not gone well, and Mr. Barrett had foully murdered his host, taking a cowardly and dishonorable revenge for past grievances.
And the last bloom to burst forth was the urgent need to quit the premises and take myself directly home as quick as may be. Recognizing my own panic, I forced myself to stop and consider the even greater need for caution. Had I left the moment upon finding the body, I'd have missed this damning letter-what if another such item yet remained?
Pushing the cold, choking fear back down until it was an icy knot twisting deep in my belly, I made another, much more thorough, search of the flat and Ridley's corpse, this time looking for anything that might somehow connect me to the crime. I went so far as to turn him over and check through the bedclothes and felt a wave of relief mixed with revulsion when I found nothing more. Only then did I dare put out the candle and leave, never once stopping until 1 reached the sanctuary of home.
"Goodness, that didn't take long," said Elizabeth, looking up from her book with no small surprise. "We thought you'd be away for hours yet. Did you not find him?" Then she took a second, longer look at me and rose from her chair by the parlor fire. "Jonathan? My God, what's happened?"
Oliver, who had been much at his ease dozing in his own chair, also stood. I must have been in a very poor state indeed for them to wear such expressions, and neither improved when I stumbled out with the bad news. Their initial stunned disbelief followed by a lengthy period of shock and horror as I told them of my discovery was in every way a match for my own reaction. None of us wanted this burden, but stuck with it we were, and none was more anxious than I to be rid of it as quick as may be.
Over the course of the next hour I was questioned, requestioned, and the letter I'd taken from Ridley's pocket was read over and over again, inspected and discussed down to the most minute detail. None of it changed the fact that Ridley had been murdered, and the letter was meant to blame me for the crime.
"It explains why there were no other papers in the flat," said Elizabeth. "Anyone with half a brain would notice the lack and thus be doubly sharp to pay attention to this one. It might be thought you'd cleaned everything out yourself with the idea of disposing of just such a threat."
"But why should Ridley write a letter and then not send it?" asked Oliver. "Just so it could be found on his corpse?''
"If Ridley did write it. His killer may have penned it instead." "That's hardly likely. Anyone familiar with Ridley's fist would spot it for a forgery, wouldn't they? Perhaps he was tricked into writing it. He might have been told to do it as a devilry against Jonathan, then once finished, his throat's cut and... well, there you are."
"Yes," I said. "There I am, dancing a jig at Tyburn or leaving the country forever as fast as sail can take me."
"And you think Clarinda might be connected to this?"
"Who else would have a reason? She hates me enough for how I ruined her plans."
"But she's locked up at Edmond's."
"And probably has friends outside who could still help. Ridley might not have been her only lover, y'know."
"Oh. But if they're so cosy together, why then would she want to kill him?"
My gaze dropped and dragged over the floor. "Perhaps because I was trying to change him. And that could be true whether or not Clarinda's involved. Suppose some of his friends came by to invite him out to a night of prowling and making trouble, and he turns them down?"
Elizabeth shook her head. "That's no reason to kill a man. Besides, such an action would have been a sudden and reckless thing, but the clearing out of the flat and this letter indicates a great deal of planning. Also, if Ridley could be induced to write such a letter in the first place to make mischief, then it's likely he wasn't as heavily influenced into good behavior as you thought. He may have possessed the sort of mind and will to be able to resist better than any of the others you've dealt with before."
Oliver cleared his throat. "You're not planning to take any of this to the authorities, are you?"
"God's death, man, and get myself arrested on the spot?"
"I just wanted to be sure," he said, unoffended by my reaction. "Well, then, what are we to do?"
"Try to find out who did kill him, while avoiding all connection to the crime."
"That may be a bit difficult."
"I'm well aware of it."
A glum silence settled upon us until Elizabeth finally threw it off. "You're forgetting the attack made upon you at Mandy Winkle's and those men who chased you from Ridley's earlier."
"I've not forgotten; I just haven't wanted to think about it," I muttered.
"It's time you did. Certainly the two are linked together."
"Then please enlighten me," said Oliver.
"Let us suppose they saw Jonathan going in and out of Ridley's flat on that first visit this evening, and gave chase just for the sport of it. Then when they went up to see Ridley themselves, they may have had a falling out, forced him to write the letter to put the blame on Jonathan and killed-no, that doesn't work at all, or why should they try to murder Jonathan in his bath later? They need only wait for the body and the letter to be found and laugh themselves sick while the law took its course."
My gaze lifted from the floor. "You almost have it."
"What, then?"
"All right, assume they saw me go in and come out, gave chase and went back to see their friend then discover Ridley's already dead."
"Oh, hell," Oliver whi
spered.
"They wouldn't need to search the body for any letter, but naturally conclude I'd just cut his throat. They have a quick talk among themselves, cleaning out Ridley's brandy, and decide to come after me in a fit of revenge. One of 'em sets himself to watch our house, finds out we're at Mandy's, and the next thing you know I'm being hauled from the bath like a dead rat. None of that could have been planned by the real killer; he couldn't have known I'd come calling that evening. He'd meant for the body to be found and me to get the blame, which is as it turned out, but not in the way he'd expected."
"But if Ridley was already dead when you called, how could you go into the flat and not notice a dead body? You found him quick enough the second time."
"The second time I stayed long enough to draw a single breath of air. The scent of blood is what led me to the body. I must not have breathed at all the first time. I was in there and gone in but a matter of seconds."
He sat back to digest this.
Elizabeth, more used to the eccentricities of my condition, found it easier to take in. "Good God, if that's true... to think Ridley was lying there dead all that time... ugh. I wonder when he was killed, anyway?"
P N Elrod - Barrett 4 - Dance of Death Page 20