waiting room. The light of a dying fire in the grate. Empty, hard wooden chairs surrounding a massive table. Pot plants.
Redfers’s rooms stood opposite the waiting room. Langton put his ear to the closed door but heard only his own pulse. He reached for the handle. Every sense seemed sharper: the odors of disinfectant and tobacco smoke; the feel of the cold, smooth brass as he turned the handle. His eyes, adjusting to the meager light from under the door, scanned the receptionist’s empty room in a moment. Her desk, neat and clear apart from the squat typewriter under its cover. The file cabinets closed. Nothing in disarray.
Langton crossed the room and hesitated outside Redfers’s door. He knocked but heard no response. He stood to one side, turned the handle, and pushed the door open with his right foot. Nobody rushed out.
He peered around the edge of the door and saw Redfers sitting at a wide desk. The doctor’s head rested back against the high leather armchair. His mouth hung slack. Langton half-expected to hear snores. An electric table lamp threw white light onto the scattered papers and files. In the corner, a bleached skeleton hung from its support.
“Redfers?”
Langton slipped inside the room. Little heat came from the fire, which had almost died down to nothing. He sniffed at the odor, something chemical akin to bitter almonds with perhaps a hint of white flowers. “Redfers?”
Another two strides brought him to the desk. The dead doctor gripped the arms of the chair like a falling man clutching a parapet; the tendons stood out like steel cables on the Span.
Langton raised the lampshade and saw Redfers’s eyes wide and dilated, staring straight ahead. The light glinted on metal; below Redfers’s chin, just above his necktie, jutted the snapped shaft of the spike that pinned his neck to the back of the chair. Only a trickle of blood showed around the wound.
Langton listened for a moment. He thought he’d heard floorboards creak. He reached for the telephone on the desk, then saw the cord severed and hanging. He turned to the door, then back to Redfers. By twisting the lamp slightly, he threw light onto the doctor’s neck. At the sides, just under the ears, he saw two small patches of burned skin.
Standing on the top step at the front of the house, Langton put his police whistle to his lips and blew three piercing blasts. He repeated the summons at minute intervals until he heard the pounding of constables’ boots from the neighboring streets.
Even as the first breathless constable arrived, Langton had hailed a cab. For, as if to deprive Langton of information or to remove witnesses, someone had killed Stoker Olsen and then Doctor Redfers. And Langton remembered someone else connected to Sarah, someone even more vulnerable than the dead men: Mrs. Grizedale.
Seven
B EFORE THE HANSOM cab stopped moving, Langton jumped out and ran to the front door of Mrs. Grizedale’s house in Hamlet Street. Every window blazed with light. The constable who opened the front door stared at Langton in surprise, then stood aside at the sight of his warrant card. “The body’s upstairs, sir.”
Taking three stairs at a time, Langton ran up to the second floor, all the while cursing himself for allowing this to happen.
A bedroom door stood open at the head of the stairs. Instead of Mrs. Grizedale’s body, Langton saw a man sprawled out on the floor beside the chaise longue like a marionette with severed strings. He was roughly dressed in torn woolen trousers, a navy jacket, and scuffed boots, and a flat cap that had slipped from his balding head and over his face as he fell; Langton wanted to raise it but left it in place until Fry’s photographers arrived. Langton could see from the pale skin and tonsure of grey hair that it was not Durham.
The man’s body hid his left hand, but the right clutched the edge of the rug he lay upon. A long steel knife had rolled under the chaiselongue. Langton couldn’t see
Redfers’s rooms stood opposite the waiting room. Langton put his ear to the closed door but heard only his own pulse. He reached for the handle. Every sense seemed sharper: the odors of disinfectant and tobacco smoke; the feel of the cold, smooth brass as he turned the handle. His eyes, adjusting to the meager light from under the door, scanned the receptionist’s empty room in a moment. Her desk, neat and clear apart from the squat typewriter under its cover. The file cabinets closed. Nothing in disarray.
Langton crossed the room and hesitated outside Redfers’s door. He knocked but heard no response. He stood to one side, turned the handle, and pushed the door open with his right foot. Nobody rushed out.
He peered around the edge of the door and saw Redfers sitting at a wide desk. The doctor’s head rested back against the high leather armchair. His mouth hung slack. Langton half-expected to hear snores. An electric table lamp threw white light onto the scattered papers and files. In the corner, a bleached skeleton hung from its support.
“Redfers?”
Langton slipped inside the room. Little heat came from the fire, which had almost died down to nothing. He sniffed at the odor, something chemical akin to bitter almonds with perhaps a hint of white flowers. “Redfers?”
Another two strides brought him to the desk. The dead doctor gripped the arms of the chair like a falling man clutching a parapet; the tendons stood out like steel cables on the Span.
Langton raised the lampshade and saw Redfers’s eyes wide and dilated, staring straight ahead. The light glinted on metal; below Redfers’s chin, just above his necktie, jutted the snapped shaft of the spike that pinned his neck to the back of the chair. Only a trickle of blood showed around the wound.
Langton listened for a moment. He thought he’d heard floorboards creak. He reached for the telephone on the desk, then saw the cord severed and hanging. He turned to the door, then back to Redfers. By twisting the lamp slightly, he threw light onto the doctor’s neck. At the sides, just under the ears, he saw two small patches of burned skin.
Standing on the top step at the front of the house, Langton put his police whistle to his lips and blew three piercing blasts. He repeated the summons at minute intervals until he heard the pounding of constables’ boots from the neighboring streets.
Even as the first breathless constable arrived, Langton had hailed a cab. For, as if to deprive Langton of information or to remove witnesses, someone had killed Stoker Olsen and then Doctor Redfers. And Langton remembered someone else connected to Sarah, someone even more vulnerable than the dead men: Mrs. Grizedale.
Seven
B EFORE THE HANSOM cab stopped moving, Langton jumped out and ran to the front door of Mrs. Grizedale’s house in Hamlet Street. Every window blazed with light. The constable who opened the front door stared at Langton in surprise, then stood aside at the sight of his warrant card. “The body’s upstairs, sir.”
Taking three stairs at a time, Langton ran up to the second floor, all the while cursing himself for allowing this to happen.
A bedroom door stood open at the head of the stairs. Instead of Mrs. Grizedale’s body, Langton saw a man sprawled out on the floor beside the chaise longue like a marionette with severed strings. He was roughly dressed in torn woolen trousers, a navy jacket, and scuffed boots, and a flat cap that had slipped from his balding head and over his face as he fell; Langton wanted to raise it but left it in place until Fry’s photographers arrived. Langton could see from the pale skin and tonsure of grey hair that it was not Durham.
The man’s body hid his left hand, but the right clutched the edge of the rug he lay upon. A long steel knife had rolled under the chaiselongue. Langton couldn’t see
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