Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The next morning, Gideon rose and set out early to continue his investigation. The sun beat down, as if the day had no memory of yesterday’s storm but for a scattering of tree leaves and branches strewn here and there along the roads that his hired hansom rolled over.
The previous evening, Gordon Callister’s housekeeper had informed Constable Thacker that the man was out when he’d attempted to call on him.
Speaking to the man this morning was among Gideon’s priorities for the day, but he needed to visit the police surgeon first and then speak with Percival Pennington’s family.
Gideon stepped into the police surgeon’s tidy office that smelled of antiseptic and coffee, and Dr. Farringdon greeted him from where he sat. Then he immediately placed his report at the front edge of his desk for Gideon to review.
“Your findings?” Gideon prompted, finding his eyes bleary from lack of sleep.
Farringdon seemed to notice. “Cup of coffee, Inspector?”
“Please.”
Farringdon poured from a carafe at the edge of his desk into a thick ceramic mug and slid it toward Gideon.
Gideon took a sip and the brew proved to be smoky, strong, and much needed.
“The deceased suffered six stab wounds to the chest. In one of those strikes, the weapon passed between the ribs, wounded the lung, and penetrated the heart. Such an injury is necessarily of the gravest character and was, in my opinion, sufficient to cause death within a very short period.”
“What might we deduce about the weapon?”
Farringdon glanced down at his report. The answer was likely there, but Gideon held his gaze rather than seeking out the relevant line among the man’s tight, slanted handwriting.
“A longish thin blade. Width of perhaps one inch. Length of approximately five inches.” Farringdon pointed to the report. “The length of the wounds varied, but nothing that indicated hesitation.”
“How strong would the assailant need to be?”
Farrington pursed his lips. “Not weak. If you’re asking if a woman might have inflicted the wounds, it is not beyond the realm of possibility.
However, a male attacker is more likely.
To plunge a knife deep and in quick succession six times takes some strength.
And I suspect the assailant inflicted the wounds quickly.
There is no discernable pattern, no artfulness in their placement, and they vary in depth. ”
“Proximity to the victim?” Gideon asked.
“Close. Likely face to face or standing to the man’s side.”
“Why wouldn’t Pennington run or struggle?”
Farringdon picked up a pencil and gripped it in his fist. He positioned it in front of his own body and mimicked plunging it six times into his chest, pausing only the barest moment between each strike.
“All the blows could have been delivered in seconds, Inspector.” He hummed a moment.
“The attacker might have clapped him on the shoulder to hold him in place. It might have seemed like a greeting or even affection if it were someone the gentleman trusted.” Farringdon shrugged. “Simply a hypothesis.”
Gideon nodded. The theory had merit. “A stranger getting so close would have caused alarm. Presumably, Pennington would have stepped away, or even pushed an attacker away if they brandished a blade.”
Certainly not a robbery, as had been clear from the scene, but also not a crime of chance, it seemed. “Someone he knew approached him,” Gideon mused aloud, “and close enough that he might not have seen the blade before the first strike.”
Farringdon worked his jaw. “Possible, yes.”
“Would the killer have been bloody?”
“Again, it is possible. Some blood on their hands. They might have even cut themselves if their hand slipped on the blade. But covered in blood? No. Unlikely.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Farringdon dipped his head. “You may take the report you see there. My clerk is preparing a typed one to be sent to the coroner today.”
Gideon left with his mind fixed on the blade Farringdon mentioned, how one might conceal such a weapon and attack a man like Pennington before he had any chance to struggle.
After knocking on the door at Mount Street, Spivey, the footman, led him to a front parlor, where he was asked to wait.
The room had the feel of a feminine touch, with an ivory-painted desk decorated with gilded accents, floral watercolors adorning the walls, and a bit of unfinished embroidery lying on a chair before a crackling fire.
As he approached the fireplace, he noticed that the desk drawer was slightly ajar, and he strode over, spying a few letters inside.
The bundle had been tied with a green ribbon around them.
A partially visible photograph of a sharp-featured young man with light-colored hair lay beneath the collection of envelopes.
The return address on the top letter indicated the sender, W.
Worthington, lived on Half Moon Lane in Southwark.
Miss Faraday’s suitor had been corresponding with her, it seemed.
Seeing nothing else of interest, he strode closer to the fire to absorb a bit of its warmth and pondered what he’d learned from the police surgeon’s report he’d finally read on the carriage ride to Mount Street.
There had been abrasions on Pennington’s head and the side of one hand, though the surgeon believed they were more likely to have been caused when Pennington hit the ground than from any struggle with his assailant.
Rain could have washed it away, but there was no blood found under Pennington’s nails, nor were there any abrasions on his knuckles.
If Pennington trusted his killer, he would have felt safe standing close, or even embracing. Now it was a matter of finding someone the man trusted and yet who had hidden their disdain, or hatred, or jealousy—whatever motive that had fueled his murder.
He gritted his teeth. The attack came quickly.
The chances that someone on Mount Street had glanced out a window in those few seconds was a slim one.
Even if they had, the rain had come down so hard during the afternoon that it could have obscured someone’s view, even if they had glimpsed the killer.
As he mused on how Pennington’s killer attacked him in the middle of the street and absconded unseen, he heard raised voices in the Pennington townhouse.
He approached the half-open door and could detect both a man’s and a woman’s voice, both raised. Seeing no one in the hallway, he slipped out and crossed to a pair of closed pocket doors. The voices seemed to be coming from the room beyond.
“And now there is no impediment, don’t you see?” The lady’s voice was youthful, high-pitched with excitement.
“This is not the time—” The man’s voice sounded like a mix of pleading and frustration. “You must be patient.”
“I have been patient! I have waited in vain—”
“Stop. We must speak to this Scotland Yard man so that we may send him on his way and make preparations for the funeral. Compose yourself, Lucy.”
Gideon stepped back, then retreated quickly to the parlor where he’d been asked to wait. A moment later, a rap rattled the half-open door and he attempted to school his features.
Standing at the threshold, a tall blond man with high cheekbones, circles under his eyes, and a striking jawline that reminded Gideon of the man he had found lying on Mount Street, gave him an assessing look.
“I am Lance Pennington. You must be the detective from Scotland Yard.”
Gideon nodded. “Detective Inspector Gideon Pierce.”
“Please join us in the drawing room, Inspector. My niece and I will answer your questions, but I beg you to understand that she is most overwrought. Lucy is young, and she has taken this news quite hard.”
Lance Pennington had a self-possessed air and was almost theatrical in his manner of speaking, gesticulating and inflecting his tone with obvious emotion.
“I understand, Mr. Pennington. I shall take all due care when I speak to Miss Faraday.”
Gideon followed the younger Pennington brother toward the now-open pocket doors.
“I don’t believe you have yet met my niece, Miss Lucy Faraday.” He gestured with a flourish, and despite the man’s overdone manner, Pennington’s voice had a slightly raspy quality, as of someone who had either been up quite late or had awoken very recently.
A petite young woman stepped into Gideon’s view, and he was struck by the delicacy of her face—small features, almost doll-like.
Her cheeks and lips were flushed, her eyes bright blue, and her gold-blonde hair was arranged in a neat coiffure.
As expected, she wore all black, but her gown was fashionable and its jet beads sparkled in the gaslight.
She acknowledged him with a nod, and Gideon reciprocated that silent greeting with a nod of his own.
“As you can imagine,” Pennington continued, “this is a most distressing time for our family, but of course we wish to assist with the resolution of your investigation however we are able.” He gestured to the settee and a pair of chairs. “Shall we sit?”
“I would prefer to speak to each of you privately,” Gideon said.
Pennington’s face folded into a fierce scowl. “That would not be appropriate, Inspector. My niece is but nineteen years old. She was my brother’s ward and now she is mine. I insist on remaining with her.”
Gideon had no wish for enmity with Pennington’s family, so he dipped his head, acceding to the young man’s wishes. “Very well.”
He could attempt to speak to Miss Faraday privately at some future date, if it proved necessary.
When they were all seated, Gideon noticed the difference between the two. Miss Faraday looked agitated, while Mr. Pennington looked fatigued. He pressed two fingers to his temple and stifled a yawn.
“Are you residing here now, Mr. Pennington?” Gideon asked as he reached into his pocket and extracted a pencil and his notepad.
The young man’s brow arched. “I arrived this morning, Inspector.”
“May I ask where you were last evening?”