“No blood?” Thompson asked.
“No. Basin hadn’t been used—he hadn’t called for water. The only blood was on Mr. Warrilow. And the bed. I had to throw away the linens.” She swallowed, folding trembling hands together.
“Please, do not be distressed,” I said quickly. “It was a terrible thing.”
“Girl that chars for me found him and screamed something fierce,” Mrs. Beadle said. “I came in and … I tell you this for nothing, gentlemen. I won’t soon forget what I saw.”
“Were he face up? Or face down?” Brewster asked.
“Face down across the bed. The covers had been turned down. Blood all over his clothes. He must have swung away from whoever it was and been struck. Poor lamb.”
The epithet did not describe the man I’d seen lying on the pallet in Mr. Clay’s room. He’d been a hard man, and from what Eden had said, decidedly unpleasant.
“You say he was dressed,” I said. “Yet, he told you he was abed.”
“Indeed, sir. He might have meant he was readying himself for bed. Probably hadn’t had a chance to put on his nightshirt.”
But the boy, her grandson, had said he’d heard Mr. Warrilow snoring. Perhaps Warrilow had gone to bed by nine-thirty, hence the turned-down bedclothes, and then rose again and dressed. Why? To go out? To meet someone? Or had he expected a visitor? Had he admitted his own killer?
“Go ahead and rummage through his bags, love,” Mrs. Beadle said. “They’re just things, ain’t they? If you find anything what points to his family, they’re welcome to have them.”
My respect for her rose. Mrs. Beadle lived simply—the money she’d obtain for selling Warrilow’s clothing and whatever trinkets he’d had to a secondhand shop would be helpful, as she’d indicated. However, she was willing to be fair and return them to his heirs, if they existed. The fact that she hadn’t sold the things the moment Mr. Warrilow’s body had been found spoke well of her. Many a landlord would have.
I slid a half-crown from my pocket and pressed it into her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Beadle.”
She stared down at the coin, her face flushing in gratitude. “Thank you, sir. I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?”
As she departed, I tapped my way to the table, my knee still protesting the two flights of stairs. I heard Mrs. Beadle enter the next room, no doubt straightening it for its occupant or a new guest.
Thompson approached the table with me, though Brewster remained at the empty washstand, examining it thoroughly.
“The Tower constables have been through this,” Thompson said. “And Mr. Pomeroy had a snoop, I’m sure.”
“Yes, but they must not have found anything significant.” I opened the portmanteau of stiff leather that sat on the table. “They arrested Eden on the facts that he visited this house on the night Warrilow died and that the two men had quarreled aboard ship. Pomeroy would have mentioned anything he’d found to support the arrest at Eden’s hearing.”
As I spoke, I lifted each item from the portmanteau, and Thompson and I examined them together. Warrilow had traveled with only a few changes of clothing—two frock coats, two pairs of trousers and one pair of leather breeches, several shirts, underthings, and thick socks that had been carefully darned. No heavier coats or gloves, but he’d not have needed warm clothing in Antigua.
Other than these, and a pair of cracked leather boots, the luggage contained nothing else. Whatever the man had been wearing when he died, I imagined the coroner, or perhaps Mr. Clay, had stored or tossed away.
We went through the pockets and found nothing. No watch, purse of coins, no snuffbox, no pipe or pouch of tobacco. The clothes were simply pieces of cloth with nothing inside them.
“The Tower constables might have taken everything already,” Thompson remarked. “Or he had them in the pockets of the clothes he was wearing.”
I had to agree. The bag and everything inside had been tidy and undisturbed, however, nothing that suggested a robbery. But usually a man traveled with more than what he could carry in his pockets.
“This room is sparse.” Thompson scanned the wall in front of us, where no picture hung, not even a ribbon or souvenir from some faraway place. “Not much to leave after a life.”
“Unless his things are back in Antigua. He might have come to London for a short stay only.”
“No,” Brewster’s voice came behind us, “you gents just don’t know how to search hard enough.”
We turned to see that Brewster had moved a corner of the heavy bedstead, and had pried up a floorboard there, revealing a hollow cavity, an excellent hiding place.
CHAPTER 7
A s Thompson and I crowded near, Brewster dipped his hand inside the cavity and removed a pocket watch, a small pouch that clinked, and a gold ring. He handed each of these up to me, and I examined them and passed them to Thompson.
The pocket watch was cheap, made of brass not gold, with the letters G. W. engraved upon it. The watch had wound down, the hands pointing to ten minutes past eight. Inside the pouch were exactly seven shillings. The ring was a plain gold band, a man’s wedding ring.
“He didn’t trust anyone in the house,” Brewster declared. “So decided to hide his valuables. Many gents choose a loose floorboard—you’d be amazed what they tuck in there.”
Trust a thief to know exactly how to find a hidden cache.
“There’s more.” Brewster stretched out flat, his big legs causing Thompson and me to move aside. “He pushed it onto the other joist. It’s heavy.”
Brewster grunted as he struggled with whatever he’d found. Thompson and I bent to him, hands on knees. Metal clanked, and finally, Brewster dragged out a canvas bag. Instead of passing it to us, he sat up and opened the bag’s drawstring, peering inside before he reached in.
He pulled out several tubes of metal and smooth pieces of wood, one with a wide, rectangular end. There was no mistaking the circle of metal with the pan and mechanism for striking it.
“That’s a carbine,” I said in surprise. “A cavalry weapon—looks to be British. One stripped down for cleaning or repair.”
Brewster laid out the pieces on the bag. “’Struth. What’s a bloke in the middle of London doing with a cavalry shooter?”
“A very good question,” Thompson said as he gazed at the disassembled gun. “Perhaps the last guest hid it there, not our man?”
“Bag’s hardly worn.” Brewster inspected it with a practiced eye. “Hasn’t lain in the dust down there any time.”
“Is this the murder weapon?” I lifted the heavy end piece, the stock, grooved to take the firing mechanism.
No blood showed on the wood or on the weapon’s barrel, plus the gun wasn’t wide enough for what Mr. Clay speculated had clubbed Warrilow.
“Doesn’t seem likely,” Thompson said.
“Why would a killer shove the gun under the floor but then not snatch up a watch, a ring, and seven shillings for his trouble?” Brewster demanded. “No, depend upon it, Captain, the murderer never knew this was here. Probably took whatever he used to kill the Warrilow cove away with him. Will be at the bottom of the Thames by now.”