Chapter 31 #3
Peter approached and Anderson moved to give him additional room. He studied the space around the body, then the way in which Miss Finch’s skirt was fanned out to the right.
“Have either of you touched anything during my absence?” he asked his Runners.
“Of course not,” Lewis said. “We know better than to disturb a crime scene.”
Peter shared a look with him and noted the flicker of displeasure in his eyes.
“Sorry, but I needed to ask.” He glanced toward the foyer.
“I need to view the original crime scene then see about getting the corpses to the morgue. Flemming and Brown are already on their way with the hearse, which means you’re both free to go. ”
“We can wait with you until they get here,” Lewis said.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather not keep Mrs. Rivers waiting.
The sooner she sees a physician, the better, besides which I’d like for you both to get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll review the facts and notify the next of kin.
” Peter retrieved his notebook and pencil from his pocket and started making notes.
Sensing that neither Lewis nor Anderson moved to leave, he looked at them each in turn. “Go on then. Off you go.”
Anderson shrugged one shoulder and handed Peter his notebook. “I’ve only gotten an overall sketch to show her position in reference to everything else in the room. If you need more detailed images, Brown should be able to manage once he gets here.”
“Thank you, Anderson.” Peter began leafing through the sketches while Anderson and Lewis walked off. “Have a good night.”
“You too, sir. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Peter paused to listen. A few murmured words drifted in from the foyer.
Some scuffling followed. Then came the sound of the Runners assisting Mrs. Rivers with her outerwear clothing.
The front door opened. Another couple of seconds passed before Peter heard it close.
He blew out a breath and felt the tension in his shoulders dissipate.
Moving with purpose, he left the parlor and made a quick sweep of the downstairs. Arriving in the small back room that served as a kitchen, he took quick note of the open window, then started searching the space for the item he needed.
He found a carving knife soon enough, in a drawer beneath the kitchen counter.
Heart pounding, he grabbed it, slammed the drawer shut, and hurried back to the parlor.
His attention returned to the part of Miss Finch’s skirt that fanned out to one side.
Without giving himself the chance to second-guess what he was about to do, he dropped to a crouch and slid the knife under the fabric.
His heart jolted against his ribs and his stomach turned over, exactly at the same time as he heard the front door being opened.
“Chief Constable?” Brown’s voice.
“In here,” Kendrick called, already back on his feet and scribbling away in his notebook.
He glanced up when someone entered the room and saw that it was Flemming, who’d accompanied Brown.
“I’m almost done in here, so you can prepare to remove the body.
There’s another one upstairs, but I’ve yet to assess the scene. ”
“Not a problem. Take as long as you need.”
Peter finished his notes on Miss Finch and left the room, allowing Brown and Flemming the space they needed to do their work. He climbed the stairs slowly, aware of what he would probably find inside Kipling’s room.
Sure enough, Mr. Kipling was there. He lay face up on the floor.
As with the previous victims, his cravat was shoved into his mouth, his throat slashed open.
A pool of blood could be seen beneath the back of his head.
Discarded nearby, as though dropped in haste, lay a paring knife along with a crumpled pile of white fabric.
Peter approached and picked up what turned out to be an item of clothing. A partially stained smock. Miss Finch must have worn it over her dress to make sure it stayed clean. Perhaps she’d worn it at Moorland House too, then stashed it somewhere and collected it later?
Possibly, though he’d probably never know for certain.
He returned the smock to the floor and considered the blade next. It was smeared with blood and yet, it had not been the only weapon. Like Lewis had said, it probably wasn’t the blade that killed him. As with Orwell, there wasn’t enough blood.
Peter considered this evidence while searching the nearby surroundings for the item Miss Finch must have used to strike Kipling.
Curiously, there didn’t appear to be anything here that could have delivered a lethal blow.
At least not with ease or without alerting Kipling to potential danger.
Yet Miss Finch had managed to enter his room and catch him off guard.
Her presence had likely surprised him. He’d not believed her to be a threat or he’d surely have overpowered her.
This man appeared to be roughly Peter’s size — a good head taller than Miss Finch.
He scratched the back of his head and muttered a curse.
“Kendrick?”
Flemming’s voice made Peter blink. He turned. “Yes?”
“There’s something you need to see.”
The carving knife, no doubt. Peter nodded and followed his Runner downstairs to where Miss Finch now lay on a stretcher.
A sheet was draped over the length of her body.
Flemming continued past her, returning to the parlor.
He pointed toward the spot where the body had been, at the carving knife that sat on the floor.
“There’s that, for starters,” Flemming said before dropping to one knee and pointing beneath a nearby chair. “And then there’s that.”
Peter bent so he too could see what his men had found. It looked like a soft and pliable mass. He reached under the chair with the intention of picking it up, but it was surprisingly heavy. With a frown, he grabbed it and pulled it toward him, sliding it over the floor.
“It looks like a reticule,” Flemming said.
“Most likely because it is,” Peter muttered. One side was covered in blood.
He tugged on the drawstrings until it opened enough for him to reach inside. A hard, smooth surface met his fingers. He pulled it free and saw what it was. An onyx ashtray, unwieldy on its own, but easy to swing at someone’s head when placed in a bag.
In other words, Miss Finch had been armed when she’d faced Gabriella.
Unlike Mr. Kipling, however, Gabriella had known what Miss Finch was capable of.
The woman had not had the same upper hand.
Based on where the reticule ended up, she’d probably thrown it at Gabriella, only to miss and allow Gabriella the chance to grab the scissors and go on attack.
It was the best explanation Peter could think of for now. He’d have to discuss it with Gabriella in order to learn if he was correct.
“The knife looks clean,” said Flemming.
Peter swallowed. It would, wouldn’t it? “I’m guessing Miss Hastings was able to overpower Miss Finch before she could use it.”
“It was Miss Hastings who killed her?” Surprise filled Flemming’s voice. When Peter said nothing, the man huffed a breath. “Is she all right then?”
“Not exactly, but I believe she will be.”
“A bit odd, wouldn’t you say, to wield two weapons at the same time?” Flemming’s voice was pensive.
A chill swept Peter’s spine. He stared at the Runner. “What do you mean?”
“Just that she really must have wanted Miss Hastings dead, is all.”
“Plus the fact that she was a very troubled woman,” Peter murmured. He pushed himself into an upright position. “Just wait until you see what’s upstairs.”
Leaving Flemming and Brown to their work, Peter stepped out onto the pavement and lit a cheroot. He’d done the unthinkable this evening, but did he regret it?
Not when it didn’t prevent a guilty person from being punished or put an innocent person in prison. If anything, his actions would help ensure a blameless woman’s freedom. All he’d done was add weight to her reasoning.
Exactly as Croft would do.
No. He was nothing like Croft. That man had taken the law into his own hands.
As you just did.
He shook his head, tossed the remainder of his cheroot and watched it fizzle on the wet pavement.
Croft had killed Clive Newton. Peter was certain of it even if he’d never be able to prove it.
He’d killed Benjamin Lawrence and Doctor Ashburry too.
There were likely others — a long list of people Croft had taken care of during his father’s reign.
To suppose that he, an officer of the law, was even remotely similar was preposterous.
And yet, as he travelled home later that night, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he and the man he’d once hunted had more in common than he was prepared to admit.