his side and, before either Day or Campbell could get to him, he hit his head on a log. He lay there, bleeding heavily from a scalp wound that looked, to Day’s untrained eye, to be fairly minor. Day looked about for something to staunch the wound, grabbed up an end of the muffler Claire had made him, and thought better of it. He didn’t want blood on it. Instead, he found Claire’s handkerchief in his breast pocket and squatted over the doctor, pressing the clean cloth against his head and staunching the flow of blood. Denby’s breathing was wet and labored, but steady. Day leaned against the log and looked up at Campbell. The inspector and the bird-watcher watched each other for a long moment. Tension crackled through the clearing.
“What are you doing in Blackhampton?” Day said.
“Helping you find Oliver Price.”
“I told you. I’ve read about you.”
“You don’t know me. You don’t know my life.”
“I didn’t say I did. I said I’ve read about you. I received a telegram from Scotland Yard this morning. I know you killed a man.”
“I’ve killed a lot of men.”
“You killed someone in London ten years ago. Over a woman.”
“I did my time.”
“Who was she?”
“Someone I loved. And still love.”
“So you killed for her?”
“I don’t allow anyone to threaten the people I care about.”
“Did she wait for you, at least? The woman you went to prison for?”
Campbell was silent.
“I’ll ask again,” Day said. “Why are you in Blackhampton? Are you running from something? Hiding from something?”
“I’ve done nothing wrong. Unless you’re going to arrest me-”
“I’d prefer it if you just talked to me.”
“I could talk. But I think we ought to do something about this.” Campbell gestured at the heap of Denby lying next to the dead log in the forest clearing. “That’s a lot of blood.”
Day agreed. He peeled Claire’s handkerchief back and looked at the wound. It had stopped bleeding. Denby’s skin was pale, and there was a trickle of blood running from a corner of his mouth. Day tossed the handkerchief into the brush (another excuse to buy her something with the proper monogram) and opened Denby’s jacket. He undid the top few buttons of the doctor’s shirt to make his breathing easier. As the shirt came open, Day gasped. He looked up at Campbell and saw that his eyes had grown large, his lips pressed tightly together. Day unbuttoned the rest of Denby’s shirt and stood up. He stepped back, side by side with Campbell. He heard the bird-watcher draw in his breath.
Denby’s entire torso, everything that had been covered by his shirt, was a writhing mass of dark wet shapes. Leeches writhed over the doctor’s flesh, their fat bodies pulsing and bloated, filled with blood.
34
Kingsley had commandeered the inn’s dining room over the strenuous objections of Bennett Rose, who had stalked off into the common room and had not been seen since. Kingsley covered the oak tabletop with a fresh linen bedsheet, and his assistant, Henry Mayhew, fetched in his microscope, slides, and a small crate full of tools and chemicals. A portion of the sheet was pulled away from one corner of the table, and a small burner was filled and set on a plate. Henry lit the burner and adjusted its tiny flame.
Kingsley spread the tiny floral dress across the opposite corner of the table and examined it under his lens, checking each of the dark stains for telltale signs of dirt clumps or paint buildup.
“First,” Kingsley said, “shall we see if this is blood?”
“It looks like blood to me, sir,” Henry said.
“And to me. But let’s be certain.”
He dabbed at the middle of the largest stain with a dampened cotton swab and rolled the swab across a glass slide. He rummaged in his satchel until he found a small vial of clear liquid, labeled
“Look, Henry. Right in there.”
Henry hunched down and looked through the leather eyepiece. He stood and shook his head, showed Kingsley a puzzled expression. “I don’t see anything. I’m sorry.”
“Crystals, Henry. Crystals are already forming on that slide. Take another look.”
Henry sighed and looked again. He straightened and took a step back and smiled at the doctor, but said nothing.
“You still don’t see them?” Kingsley said.
“I don’t know what a crystal looks like, sir.”
“That’s okay, Henry. I suppose you can take my word for it. The presence of crystals means that we have found blood.”
“Where?”
“On the slide. There’s blood on the slide.”
Henry’s eyes grew wide and he gasped. “It must’ve come from that dress.”
Kingsley chuckled. “I think you’re right. Shall we see what else we can determine by looking at the dress?”
“I can’t see anything except a mess, sir.”
“Hmm. I see a mess, too. But there may be more to that mess than we at first suppose.” Kingsley walked the six feet to the other end of the table and gestured at the dress. “You aren’t familiar with Lacassagne’s patterns of blood.”
“Sir?” Henry said.
“There are shapes here.”
“I don’t wanna see no more blood, sir, crystals or no.”
Kingsley smiled at the simple giant. “You don’t have to look, Henry. I’m used to talking to myself in the laboratory. Or to Fiona, if she’s around. I know we haven’t quite got used to each other, but if you’ll only let me talk aloud, you don’t really have to listen to what I say.”
“I will listen, sir. Only I still won’t look, if it’s all right.”
“As I said. No looking. If I catch you looking. .” Kingsley wagged a finger at Henry, who grinned.
“No looking, sir. Won’t do it.”
“Good man.” Kingsley picked up his lens and peered at the dress. “So, what I see here are splashes and what I would call spurts.”
“Spurts?”
“Just listen, Henry. If these stains are blood, then this dress was not worn by the victim. Whomever, or whatever, this blood belonged to was facing the person who was wearing the dress. Blood left a body, some body, and moved outward along what appear to have been several different trajectories, each of them making a mark on this dress.”
“Who was it, sir? Who was the bleeder?”
“I don’t even know that it was a person, Henry. It might have been livestock.”
“A horse, sir?”
“Perhaps. But if so, not a terribly large horse. Not even a pony. Look at this.”
