Page 14 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
Gray inwardly smiled. “Right on six o’clock.”
Cromer nodded eagerly. “That fits with what I’m thinking.” He looked at Baines. “I rarely see bodies so fresh. I’d say this one was killed between five and six for certain, with my inclination as to the exact time being close to the half hour.”
Littlejohn paused in his scribbling to throw the surgeon a sharp look. “Could it have happened at five o’clock? Close to? More or less on the hour?” Littlejohn’s gaze slid to Izzy; apparently, he—and presumably Baines—had been infected with Perkins’s fanciful conjecture.
Cromer frowned, plainly deliberating, but to Gray’s relief, the surgeon slowly shook his head. “I really can’t see it. Admittedly, the room isn’t heated, but neither is it cold enough to delay the signs that much.” Cromer thought, then sighed. “Five is really, really stretching it, but that said, I can’t definitively rule it out.” He threw Baines a sharp look. “But if I were you, I’d want some much better evidence as to the deed being done at that time before I tried to put a case with death at five o’clock before any judge.”
Baines grunted.
Before Cromer could turn away, Gray said, “There didn’t seem to be that much blood about the body. Would the murderer have been splattered, do you think?”
Cromer’s expression declared his delight at being asked intelligent questions. “That’s another interesting point. In most cases of stabbing, there’s a quantity of blood, usually more than enough to mark the murderer, but with this particular blade and the placement of the wound and the way the body fell, most of the bleeding was internal. It doesn’t look as if much leaked out, except on the blade, which I presume the murderer took with him?”
Cromer looked at Baines and Littlejohn inquiringly, and the latter replied, “No one’s found the weapon yet.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Cromer said. “If it is a dagger, as I suspect, my money would be on him taking it with him.” He nodded to Baines. “You’ll have my report on Monday.”
Baines raised a hand in acknowledgment, and with an abbreviated bow to Gray and Izzy, Cromer left.
Baines’s expression had turned thoughtful. He regarded Gray and Izzy and, as if coming to some decision, asked, “If you have no objection, my lord, Mrs. Molyneaux, would you show me your hands?”
Gray inwardly sighed and extended his. Baines examined them closely, but of course, there was nothing to be seen.
Shifting to stand before Izzy, Baines studied the backs of her slender, delicate hands, then asked her to turn them and scanned the palms. Baines grunted and started to straighten.
Gray was about to release the breath he’d held when Baines froze.
A second later, Baines straightened fully and pointed to the tiny dab of blood on Izzy’s cuff. “Care to explain why you have blood on your cuff, ma’am?”
Izzy raised her right arm and calmly examined the tiny spot. “It must have happened when I tried to help Quimby to his feet.” She looked at Baines, her expression open and entirely unperturbed. “The light in the darkroom is permanently shuttered with red, and in that light, all I could see was Quimby slumped against the wall. I thought he’d taken ill and collapsed, so I put my hands to his sides to help him up…” Her voice quavered, and she blinked several times.
Baines retreated a step. “I see.”
Evenly, Gray stated, “Mrs. Molyneaux had blood on that hand, where she’d tried to grip Quimby’s left side, thinking to assist him to his feet. After finding a constable and sending him running for you, I returned here and wiped her hand clean with a cloth—you’ll find it in the sink against the rear wall.” In case Baines had failed to get his point, he added, “She was in shock at the time.”
“Yes, quite.” Baines looked at Littlejohn, and a silent communication of some sort passed between the pair, then Baines cleared his throat and glanced at Gray before setting his sights on Izzy. “I can’t say I like Perkins’s theory, but at the present moment, it’s the one that best fits. It seems reasonable to suppose that you, Mrs. Molyneaux, killed Quimby at close to five o’clock, in the few minutes between the departure the rest of the staff and his lordship’s arrival.”
Gray looked at Izzy and bit back his own protest. She was staring—coldly—at Baines and, in her most haughty, earl’s-daughter’s voice, inquired, “Inspector Baines, can you explain to me why I—the owner ofThe London Crier—would want to kill the photographer I rely on to provide the photographs that are critical to the success of every edition of my publication?”
Baines shifted uneasily, instinctively reacting to her tone, but although he colored faintly, he persisted, “Perkins has suggested that Quimby had learned some secret and was blackmailing you.”
Izzy arched her brows. “Indeed?”
That single word carried enough icy weight to have Baines rushing on, “Perkins is sure that if we look, we’ll learn whatever it was. But you must see that, as matters stand, you’re the only one who could have killed the man.”
Izzy frowned, but before she could respond, Gray calmly said, “I take it Perkins hasn’t yet discovered that the back door, which gives access to the rear lane, was unlocked throughout the relevant period.”
“What?” Baines scowled and glared at Littlejohn. “What back door?”
Littlejohn looked as annoyed as Baines. “I’ll find out.”
He left the office. Izzy caught Gray’s eye, and they both sat back, apparently relaxing in the armchairs. She resisted the impulse to exhale with relief. Her heart was still thundering.
I can’t be taken up for murder!
Minutes later, Littlejohn returned, all but dragging a now-reluctant Perkins.
Grim-faced, Littlejohn nodded at Baines. “A few details Perkins forgot to mention, sir.” Littlejohn tipped his head toward Gray. “Like his lordship said, the back door opens to a lane that runs behind this row of buildings, all the way along the block from Bernard Street to Great Coram Street. Seems that door was unlocked the entire time, and Cromer found the key on a ring with others in the deceased’s waistcoat pocket.”
