“And you think there is a connection between the murders,” he said with a condescending sigh. “You want me to believe that Mr. Cooper’s murderer somehow discovered your interest in Mr. Penrose, and killed him before you could question him?” I nodded, and he sighed again. I clenched my fists and tried to contain my fury at his arrogance. “It is all very intriguing, but there is no evidence that the crimes are related. In this we should accept the simplest explanation: Esther Cooper bought the ratsbane from Mr. Penrose, and murdered her husband. For that she will burn. Mr. Penrose lived a dissolute life and was robbed and murdered by one of his whores. In both cases justice is done either through the law or by divine providence. Don’t you find this a fitting end to Mr. Penrose’s sinful life?”
“Fitting, perhaps,” I said sharply. “But I also think that when the unwitting accomplice in one murder is the victim of another, God is an unlikely author. I’d like to see the body.”
“I don’t think that is necessary,” he said, and once again tried to guide me to the stairs.
I pulled my arm away and turned to face him. “Mr. Thompson,” I said between clenched teeth, “I have done much work for the city, have I not?” He nodded. “And I know many of the city’s secrets, do I not?” He nodded again and began to look uncomfortable. “And unless I am mistaken, some of those secrets touch on those close to you.”
“You … you promised!” he hissed, the color rising in his cheeks. “You said you would never mention my brother’s … indiscretion so long as he maintained the child.”
“And I haven’t. I’m simply pointing out that I have given much and demanded little in return. Now, I am asking. I want to see Mr. Penrose’s body.”
Henry sighed yet again, this time in resignation, and started back toward the room where the body lay. “It’s not much compared to what a cannonball will do to a man, but I think it is bad enough.” I followed him down the hall, and the crowd at the door parted to let us through. When I neared Bacca, I felt my stomach drop, for his left hand was heavily bandaged.
“Mr. Bacca,” I said, staring into his eyes, “what a terrible wound. Whatever happened to your hand?”
Bacca glanced down as if he had forgotten about the bandages. “Eh? I was bitten by a horse. The bitch nearly took off my finger. But the surgeon says that it will heal soon enough.”
I gave him a skeptical look. “Well, you should be careful. If you get close enough, the bitch might have another bite.” He looked at me blankly before nodding his head in acknowledgment. I then turned my attention to the room where Penrose had died.
Even before we entered, I could hear the buzz of flies. I prepared myself for the worst, but the scene shocked me all the same. It was Penrose to be sure, but the damage done to his head and face turned my stomach. He sat on the floor, slumped against the bed, with his head lolling back, mouth agape. An explosion of blood radiated from his head like a grotesque sun. The flies swarmed about him, crawling across his bloodied face and glassy eyes. I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath to try to steady myself. Then I stepped forward to look more closely at his wounds. There was one gash on the side of his head from his cheek to his ear, but the most horrific one ran down the middle of his face. It reached from his hairline to his mouth, nearly cleaving his face in two. It was this blow that sent the ropes of blood across the bed.
“Do we know what the weapon was?” I asked Henry.
He nodded to the constable, who produced a heavy iron crowbar. “We found this on the ground below the window,” he said. “It had blood on it.” I held out my hand and he let me hold it. It was so heavy that I could hardly lift it.
“Surely you don’t believe one of the whores committed this crime.”
“Given the location of the murder, that seems the most logical conclusion.”
“Have you seen the whores who work here? Two of them together couldn’t lift this bar over their heads, never mind swing it hard enough to cleave a man’s head in two.”
“Then she had an accomplice. We’ll find them both.”
“Do you even know which whore it was?” I asked, trying to hide my exasperation.
“Not yet. The alehouse keeper said she’d never been in before. But he was drunk as a lord, all he can remember is that she had brown hair. Most of the other whores and their customers fled as soon as the alarm was raised. The ones we’ve found claim not to have seen or heard anything.”
I took Henry’s arm and pulled him down the hall so I could speak my piece to him alone. “I want to make sure I understand,” I said. “You don’t know who this whore was, you don’t know who helped her, and you have no witnesses who can recognize her? Tell me again why you are so sure that you will find her.”