The Kingdom of Bones by Stephen Gallagher

obliged them to stay in their rooms. Once Sayers had gone by the guests were allowed out, and on each level they gathered at the balustrades to look down the stairwell and watch him go.
    Down in the hallway stood Edmund Whitlock. For once the old tragedian was stricken by genuine emotion; his eyes were watery and red, and his hand trembled as he folded and refolded a handkerchief to dab them with.
    As they went by him Becker said, “Thank you for your cooperation, Mister Whitlock.”
    Whitlock seemed not to hear the detective. He was looking past him, and at Sayers.
    “Oh, Tom,” he said, helplessly. “What have you done? I feel only a great sadness for you.”
    “I have done nothing,” Sayers began to protest, but a shove in his back propelled him onward.
    Out on the street, the police were holding back a crowd. A horse-drawn Black Maria van awaited him. Windowless, its panels riveted and strong, its rear door open and ready.
    Sayers looked back toward the lodging house. It was a tall, narrow building, with steps up to the front door and railings to the pavement. There, in the sitting-room window, stood Louise Porter. Her face was a pale mask of disbelief. Behind Louise stood James Caspar.
    As Sayers watched, Caspar placed a solicitous hand on Louise’s shoulder and leaned in to murmur something in her ear. It seemed to Sayers that, despite the distance and the window glass between them, Caspar was making the gesture as much for Sayers to see as for Louise’s comfort.
    His escort took his hesitation for rebellion. Seizing him by the arms, they ran him up the steps at the back of the wagon and propelled him inside before slamming and padlocking the door.

THIRTEEN
    T he wagon measured about eight feet by six. There were two plain benches, one down either side; after the first lurch into motion he sat with his feet braced wide against the bench opposite, as the handcuffs made it difficult for him to steady himself any other way.
    He could barely see. The only light came from vents in the roof and a single barred window in the door, through which he could hear boys following in the street and shouting something he couldn’t make out. As the wagon bounced along, Sayers desperately tried to make some sense of the past half hour. He could not.
    There was no doubting that his situation was dire. He’d begun by thinking that there had been some terrible misunderstanding that would be cleared up by a closer investigation, but that clearly would not do. No misunderstanding could explain the death of Arthur Steffens or the presence of his remains in Sayers’ room; no simple human error could have placed him there. This was an act of deliberate and double malice, both in the murder and in the directing of blame for it.
    Sayers had last seen Arthur in life at the playhouse. He was not lodging at Mrs. Mack’s, but with the stage crew over the pub in Cross Lane. He must have been killed and his body carried up to the attic room sometime between the end of the night’s performance and Sayers’ return from his small-hours walk. Which suggested to Sayers that only someone inside the lodging house would have been positioned and able to take the opportunity.
    All of his instincts pointed him to James Caspar. Unfortunately, no evidence did. Caspar’s dissolute habits and their shared antipathy were proof of nothing; Sayers could speak of them and hope that the police might be moved to uncover some damning new information, but such effort on their part was unlikely. They were in no doubt that they had their man.
    He heard the driver calling to the horses, and felt the wagon slow. The bone shaking grew more intense as it went into a turn, and Sayers had to brace himself harder or be thrown onto his side. To be shackled in handcuffs was a greater torment than he could ever have imagined. The physical discomfort was bearable, but because of their restriction he fought a constant urge to panic.
    The wagon came to a halt. Nothing