of the break in the iron rim. Then he marked the spot where the break touched the ground, carefully rolled the wheel one revolution until the break touched again, and measured the distance with his rule.
'Twelve feet seven inches,' he muttered to himself. He turned to Prodger. 'I would like to photograph and examine the chaise from which this wheel came.'
Prodger led him back to the row of carriages. 'What I want to know,' he said, as Sir Charles set up his camera, 'is how you knew which wheel you was after.'
'The break in the rim,' Sir Charles said, taking a photo. 'It left a mark at the scene of the crime, which revealed itself in the photographs I took. As good as a fingerprint for identification.'
'Fingerprint?' Prodger asked, mystified. 'What's that?'
Kate spoke quickly, forestalling Sir Charles's inevitable lecture. 'The distinctive mark left by a person's fingertips,' she said. 'A fingerprint can be used to distinguish one person from another.'
Prodger grunted. 'Seems to me a man's face ought to be bettern' his fingers, for that purpose.'
Sir Charles straightened up. ' 'Did Monsieur Armand offer any identification?' he asked, changing the plate in the camera. 'An address, perhaps?'
'He offered th' hire in advance, an' a generous tip,' Prodger replied with dignity. ' 'In this business, that were sufficient identif'cation.'
'Did he mention his purpose for traveling to Colchester?' Kate asked. She ignored Sir Charles's irritated frown. He wasn't the only one who could question an informant. 'Or the name of someone he planned to meet while he was here?'
The jobmaster pulled his mouth first to one side, then the other. ' 'He asked after a street-Queen Street, I believe. But I disremember th' number.'
Kate felt a stab of excitement. Queen Street! Perhaps they were getting somewhere!
Sir Charles stepped out from behind the tripod. 'Would you object to my examining the interior of the chaise?' he asked.
'Examine all you like,' Prodger said with a shrug. 'But our carriages is clean swept after ev'ry hire.' He dragged over a wooden block and placed it under the axle of the missing-wheeled chaise, balancing the vehicle. 'If it'll help t' have a look, climb up.'
Kate looked on while Sir Charles examined the carriage carefully. Prodger was right. The floor had been swept, the leather seat polished, the side panels wiped clean. But on the smooth handle of the whip, Sir Charles pointed out a clear fingerprint, which he photographed. ' 'Well, that appears to be it,'' he said, stepping out of the chaise.
'You've missed the feather,' Kate said.
Sir Charles frowned. 'Feather?'
Kate picked it out of the corner of the seat and held it out. The feather was of an iridescent blue hue, such as she had never before seen. It was broken.
'Aha!' Sir Charles exclaimed. With a triumphant smile, he grasped it and held it up to the light. After studying it for
a moment, he folded it into a piece of paper and put the paper carefully into his pocket.
Kate frowned. 'You're welcome,' she said pointedly, feeling in her heart the unfairness of playing Watson to this self-absorbed Holmes.
Sir Charles turned to look at her for a long moment, his smile fading. 'Forgive me,' he said, very seriously. 'Thank you, Miss Ardleigh, for spying the feather. You have sharp eyes.'
Kate smiled.
'What c'n you tell from a brok'n feather?' Mr. Prodger asked.
'That depends upon whether it is possible to locate the remainder of it,' Sir Charles replied.
'Indeed,' Kate said, 'and upon who has possession of it.'
Mr. Prodger gave his whiskers a rueful shake. 'I've heard of lookin' for a needle in a haystack, but lookin' for one partic'lar feather in a town the size of Colchester-' He barked a laugh. 'All I c'n say, sir, is if you find it, you're a sight sharper'n Wainwright. He couldn't find a feather if the bloody thing was stuck in his cap. Or ticklin' his arse.' He looked at Kate. 'Beggin' yer pardon, ma'am.'
22
'Until the end or the nineteenth century, British jurisprudence was ruled hy oral and documentary evidence. New investigative technologies, such as fingerprints, ballistics, and toxicology were often regarded as irrelevant and even frivolous by those whose task it was to summon the criminal hefore the tar. What
counted was the criminal's confession, which every effort was Lent to obtain.'
On Saturday morning, Charles applied himself to solving a murder. The jobmaster Prodger had given the victim a name-Monsieur Armand. Whether it was the man's real name remained to be seen. Charles offered the information to Inspector Wainwright, whom he found once again seated at the small table in the chilly basement office, surrounded by stacks of papers.
'Armand?' Wainwright asked irritably, when Charles had finished the narrative of his investigations. The pallid light fell upon the table drrough the dingy window, illuminating a wire basket containing official memoranda, an inkstand and fragment of much-used blotter, and a Prince Albert red-and-gilt ashtray filled with a quantity of cigarette butts. The inspector scraped back his straight wooden chair, rose, and went to warm his hands over the kettle, which was heating on the gas burner.
'Armand,' Charles repeated. He took the other chair, which was missing two of its wooden turnings.
Wainwright rubbed his thick hands together. His brown wool coat was worn at the elbows and in want of brushing, and his collar had already seen several days' service. 'Don't know that a name takes us anywhere,' he said, his voice heavy with an irreversible gloom. He took the tea canister from the shelf and shook out the last spoonful of loose tea into a cracked white china teapot. He poured hot water from the kettle into the pot, took down a tin of My Lady's Tea Biscuits, and returned once more to his chair. 'We already knew he was French, from the coat label. 'Armand' probably isn't the real name.'
'Perhaps,' Charles said. 'But I have found something
else that may help us.' He took out a piece of paper and unfolded it carefully.
The inspector opened the biscuit tin. 'What's that?'
'A fragment of feather,' Charles said, turning it over with a pencil. ' 'Certainly a nonindigenous species. Pavo christatus, I believe. From the breast of a male bird. This specimen does not bear the familiar 'eye' of the splendid tail plumage, of course, but the iridescent blue color reveals its-'
Wainwright pulled out several crumbly biscuits and put them on the table. 'Where'd you find it?' He gestured at the biscuits. 'Tea will be ready shortly. Have a biscuit.'
'No, thank you,' Charles said. 'It was found in the chaise hired by the victim.' By Miss Ardleigh, he thought to himself, but did not say. The interested, interesting Miss Ardleigh, who absolutely refused to relate the reason for her interest.
The inspector made a growling noise deep in his throat.
'Observe that the feather is broken,' Charles said, pointing. ' 'With the aid of a microscope, it would be possible to match it to-'
'Haven't got a microscope.' Wainwright picked up a biscuit and bit it. It crumbled in his hand. With a muttered curse, he dropped the crumbs on the floor. He got up, fetched the teapot and two cups, and brought them to the table. 'Anything else?'
Charles retrieved the feather, folded it into its paper, and put it back in his coat pocket. From his portfolio, he took an enlarged photograph. 'This,' he said, laying it on the table. ' 'Tell me, Inspector, has Monsieur Armand yet been buried?''
