by P. N. Elrod
My conscience is my own business, I thought glumly.
“It makes you too difficult to live with,” she added with a crooked smile.
I looked at her. She was trying to be light, but her eyes told me the lie of it.
“What will you do?” she asked again.
I patted her hand. “Not to worry, I’ll stay within the law.” Or try to, I added to myself, shrugging off my dressing gown. Jericho was in the entry hall holding my cloak ready.
“That did not answer my question!” she bellowed as I hurried from the room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I’d not noticed the wind before quitting the ground. Insubstantial as I appeared to be, skimming across the sky like a wisp of invisible cloud, there was yet enough of me left to feel its effect and have to fight it. But my strength had returned, so the struggle was more annoyance than trial. A clandestine stop in a nearby stable provided me a swift and much-needed physical recuperation. Normally I’d not bother courting the risk of discovery by supping on a neighbor’s stock, but our driver and lads were wide awake and like to remain so for longer than I’d wanted to wait. Rather than influencing them all to sleep I simply went elsewhere for my meal. With its red fire still fresh on my tongue and glowing hot in my limbs, I found a recuperation had taken place in my heart as well as my body, inspiring me to an even greater determination to sort things out with Ridley and his ilk.
Rooftop and tree, park and street rushed beneath my shadowless form as I sped in a nearly straight line from Oliver’s house toward the dingy square where Ridley lived. Even though my memory of how to get there was from a much lower perspective than the one I presently enjoyed, I had no trouble finding the way. Unwilling to give up the advantage of so fine an outlook, I solidified on the roof of his building to have a good look at things before going in.
The square below was as quiet as could be expected in London, even at this small an hour on a winter night. A few figures paced along on their own obscure errands, some wearing rags and their walk unsteady, probably from gin, others more respectably garbed, but no less tottery in their gait. I dismissed them, peering closely into the darkest corners within view. All were empty except for a narrow gap between buildings where a tart was busy earning money. If her bored expression held any clue to her true thoughts, then her patron had no talent for his purpose. After ascertaining by his humble clothing that he wasn’t likely to be part of Ridley’s circle, I left them to it and partially vanished.
Moving down the front of the building I found what I guessed to be the window to Ridley’s sitting room, it being hard to see anything through the glass while in this state. But it was the work of only a moment to vanish altogether, seep through the cracks, and re-form just on the other side of the closed curtain.
I’d found the right flat. All was dark and 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 froze.
Bloodsmell—so thick on the air I could taste it: the hair on my nape quivered to attention, and my knees locked immobile as recognition tore through me. I knew by the scent that it was 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 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 sprawled on his back across the bed and was 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 eyes 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 into the room, and his gaze remained fixed in one spot. Not that that brought any comfort; 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. Considering the life he’d led, Ridley must have had many enemies; 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 coincidental to ignore. Had she anything to do with this? That was impossible what with Edmond having locked her away. Might he have done this? Perhaps he’d overcome my influence and sought Ridley out with a mind to ensure the man’s permanent silence. It seemed unlikely. Besides, Edmond’s temper was the sort that might lead him bludgeon a man with his fists. This throat-cutting struck me as—well—beneath him somehow.
I could be wrong. I didn’t know Edmond that well.
The room was bare of anything that might be helpful toward linking Ridley’s bloody fate to any specific perpetrator. It was strewn with his clothing and other personal items in such a way as to confirm he had no servant. Thrown in 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, reluctant to touch his property, as though what had happened to him might somehow taint me.
Ridiculous thought, but there it was, joining hard and close with the leaden suspicion that I had somehow brought about 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 guineas and a few lesser 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 extremely 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. Someone might hear me moving around and be curious enough to investigate, and I had 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 asked what I might be looking for, I’d not be able to provide an answer.
The sitting room was not as I’d left it. Two things leaped forward: a chair was no longer pushed under its table, and an empty brandy bottle and glasses 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 revived himself for an escape? There were four glasses, all the ones in Ridley’s possession, all with traces of brandy at the bottom. Four murderers? Five, if 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 inquiry on my part would place me in a most serious position. I could influence people to completely forget my existence, but only for a time, and then might they talk amongst themselves of the gentleman asking questions about a murder prior to its discovery? Might that gentleman be the murderer himself? London was not so large a city that I could hide in it forever. The duel
I’d fought was yet fresh in the minds of all I knew. Some might consider that Ridley and I crossed paths again and the resulting conflict yielded a less than honorable conclusion.
Not a speculation I wanted running about.
Ridley’s acquaintances would afford another and better outlet for my questions, but with them lay the same danger—unless from them I learned the name of the killer, hopefully one of their own number. Then could I influence the fellow into confessing, keeping myself removed from necessity of appearing before a judge.
I preferred that course over Edmond being the executioner. Were he behind this horror I’d not know what to do.
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 helpful to the present situation.
Except for the chair and brandy being out of place from my earlier visit, and the fact there were still no papers to be found, nothing else seemed amiss in the sitting room. Everyone kept papers about their home, for even the illiterate found scraps useful for fire-lighting. That none were here was a singular oddity the significance of which I could not guess.
And now there was no more reason to delay a closer look at the most important source of information remaining to me, silent as he was.
I returned to the bedroom with the candlestick in hand, making sure to keep it below the level of the window. There was close work ahead; this little light was wanted to scour away any 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 determine 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 backwards 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 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 run out. Ridley’s hands and arms were 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 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 pity and repugnance anyone 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 damp, but it had been closely folded so the inside part had been 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 anticipated.
I took it into the other room to spread it flat on the table. The staining 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 cold fear of this Mr Barrett and of what he might do. He is handy with his blade, as he proved to my chagrin at the Bolyns’, though I was intoxicated at the time. 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 and contrite 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 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 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 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 lies to be perfectly plausible, especially to anyone not in possession of all the facts. I was to be blamed for this murder.
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 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 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 I 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 and rose from her chair by the parlor fire. “Jonathan? My God, what’s happened?”
Oliver, who had been at his ease dozing in his own chair, also stood. I must have been in a poor state indeed for them to wear such expressions, and neither improved when I faltered 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 and re-questioned, and the letter I’d tak
en from Ridley’s pocket was read over and over, inspected and discussed down to the most minute detail. None of it changed the fact that Ridley had been murdered, and the letter was intended to hold me responsible 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. The murderer 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 ruining her plans.”
“But she’s locked up at Edmond’s.”
“And probably has friends outside who could still help.”
“But if they were so cozy together, why then would she want to kill Ridley?”
“He might not have been her only lover, y’know”
“Oh.”
My gaze dropped to the floor. “Perhaps it was because I tried to change him. Clarinda need not be involved. Suppose some of his friends came by to invite him out to a night of prowling and making trouble, and he turned them down?”
