window open as high as it would go, leaned out, and looked down onto the front steps some forty feet below. From this angle, as from the sidewalk, she could see no sign of blood or damage to the cornice. It did protrude a bit from the rest of the building, but not so far as all that. A person might fall from this window without hitting it.
“Got it all sorted out, do you?” Will asked as he came up behind her. She could hear the amusement in his voice.
“You were right, it wasn’t a spill,” she said as she ducked back into the room and tidied her dress. “It would appear that the desk was washed with water, as well as several spots on the carpet in a path leading over here.”
“A trail of blood?” Will conjectured.
“It would fit in with your theory that Munro was bludgeoned from behind, then pitched out the window.”
“All right, then.” Will turned and stared at the desk, his arms crossed. “Munro is sitting at his desk. He has a caller.”
“Or an intruder.”
“If it had been an intruder,” Will said, “I can’t see Munro just sitting there while this fellow comes ‘round behind him, grabs a bat off the rack, and bashes him over the head. It had to be someone with whom he felt reasonably at ease.”
“A fatal lapse in judgment.”
“Munro is attacked,” Will said as he crossed to the desk and sat in the leather chair. “One good whack, perhaps two, and he slumps forward—” which Will demonstrated “—onto the desk.”
“Onto the
papers
on the desk.”
Will sat up, nodding. “Yes, quite. His assailant rains blows upon him, several of which fracture the base and back of his skull, killing him in short order.”
“And scarring the wood. Some of the blows presumably missed their mark, or slid off.”
“Right.” Will rubbed his fingers meditatively over the damaged wood.
“Could a wooden cricket bat really fracture something as thick and hard as a skull?” Nell asked.
“It the victim’s head were supported on a firm surface, like this?” Will gave the desk a smack. “Absolutely. I’ve known a man to suffer a fatal skull fracture from a single punch when he was lying with his head on the ground.”
“His face would have been smashed against the desk during this assault,” Nell said.
“Hence the broken nose and other vital injuries to that area.” Pushing the chair back, Will rose to his feet. “Our killer is left standing there with a bloody cricket bat in hand, looking at a dead man draped over the desk—or perhaps sprawled on the floor by this point. He sees the blood all over the desk and the papers and what have you, and realizes he’s been witnessed coming up here, either by Mrs. Gell or that little scullery maid, whom he probably doesn’t realize is incapable of identifying him. Once his butchery is discovered, it’s only a matter of time before the constabulary comes knocking at his door. How to throw them off the scent?”
“Make it look like a suicide,” Nell said. “The gold market has just plummeted. People will assume, as we did, that Munro was distraught over losing his investments.”
The subject of the gold debacle reminded Nell about Mr. Bassett’s business papers. Retrieving Catherine’s key from her chatelaine, she crossed to the marble fireplace in the east wall. To one side of it stood a cocktail cabinet set up with decanters and cut crystal glasses, to the other a leather-upholstered chaise lounge draped with a silken throw and heaped with pillows.
Will must have noticed her looking at the chaise, because he said, with a grin, “That would be for Mr. Munro’s more...
corporeal
transactions, wouldn’t you say?”
Countering the friendly taunt with a smirk, Nell turned and opened the cabinet doors above the fireplace, revealing a built-in cast iron safe.
Will said, “Rather convenient, what—gold crashing just in time to provide our killer with a motive for this trumped-up suicide?”
“Gold crashed
before
the murder,” Nell
“Got it all sorted out, do you?” Will asked as he came up behind her. She could hear the amusement in his voice.
“You were right, it wasn’t a spill,” she said as she ducked back into the room and tidied her dress. “It would appear that the desk was washed with water, as well as several spots on the carpet in a path leading over here.”
“A trail of blood?” Will conjectured.
“It would fit in with your theory that Munro was bludgeoned from behind, then pitched out the window.”
“All right, then.” Will turned and stared at the desk, his arms crossed. “Munro is sitting at his desk. He has a caller.”
“Or an intruder.”
“If it had been an intruder,” Will said, “I can’t see Munro just sitting there while this fellow comes ‘round behind him, grabs a bat off the rack, and bashes him over the head. It had to be someone with whom he felt reasonably at ease.”
“A fatal lapse in judgment.”
“Munro is attacked,” Will said as he crossed to the desk and sat in the leather chair. “One good whack, perhaps two, and he slumps forward—” which Will demonstrated “—onto the desk.”
“Onto the
papers
on the desk.”
Will sat up, nodding. “Yes, quite. His assailant rains blows upon him, several of which fracture the base and back of his skull, killing him in short order.”
“And scarring the wood. Some of the blows presumably missed their mark, or slid off.”
“Right.” Will rubbed his fingers meditatively over the damaged wood.
“Could a wooden cricket bat really fracture something as thick and hard as a skull?” Nell asked.
“It the victim’s head were supported on a firm surface, like this?” Will gave the desk a smack. “Absolutely. I’ve known a man to suffer a fatal skull fracture from a single punch when he was lying with his head on the ground.”
“His face would have been smashed against the desk during this assault,” Nell said.
“Hence the broken nose and other vital injuries to that area.” Pushing the chair back, Will rose to his feet. “Our killer is left standing there with a bloody cricket bat in hand, looking at a dead man draped over the desk—or perhaps sprawled on the floor by this point. He sees the blood all over the desk and the papers and what have you, and realizes he’s been witnessed coming up here, either by Mrs. Gell or that little scullery maid, whom he probably doesn’t realize is incapable of identifying him. Once his butchery is discovered, it’s only a matter of time before the constabulary comes knocking at his door. How to throw them off the scent?”
“Make it look like a suicide,” Nell said. “The gold market has just plummeted. People will assume, as we did, that Munro was distraught over losing his investments.”
The subject of the gold debacle reminded Nell about Mr. Bassett’s business papers. Retrieving Catherine’s key from her chatelaine, she crossed to the marble fireplace in the east wall. To one side of it stood a cocktail cabinet set up with decanters and cut crystal glasses, to the other a leather-upholstered chaise lounge draped with a silken throw and heaped with pillows.
Will must have noticed her looking at the chaise, because he said, with a grin, “That would be for Mr. Munro’s more...
corporeal
transactions, wouldn’t you say?”
Countering the friendly taunt with a smirk, Nell turned and opened the cabinet doors above the fireplace, revealing a built-in cast iron safe.
Will said, “Rather convenient, what—gold crashing just in time to provide our killer with a motive for this trumped-up suicide?”
“Gold crashed
before
the murder,” Nell
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