“But the blood . . . .”
“Yes, a lot of blood. It soaked right through his long johns. It is dry, you observe, and in the pattern of a spray.”
“So?”
“So it is evident, surely, that the dead man was facing someone else who met a sudden, violent death, probably by shooting. Our friend here was sprayed with the victim’s blood.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Holmes,” Stamford said, “But how do you conclude the other man is dead?”
“By the sheer volume of blood,” Holmes’s replied. “This poor fellow is saturated with it.”
“But how do you know it isn’t his blood?” the policeman insisted.
Holmes smiled. “Because he has no wounds.”
Back at St. Bartholomew’s Mortuary and away from the irascible policeman, Stamford said, “You couldn’t have been sure the fellow had no wounds, Mr. Holmes. Not without removing his clothing.”
“All the blood was on the upper half of his body and the killer had already removed his shirt and jacket, leaving the poor fellow in just his long johns and trousers. Besides, observe the pattern of blood on the fellow’s face. It has the appearance of a spray, does it not? That spray can only have been the result of the man standing close to someone who suffered a sudden wound to an artery. Most likely a gunshot wound. Do you concur?”
“I do. But couldn’t he have been sprayed if he himself had been shot?”
“Observe the angle of the droplets: They fell from slightly above. Either the shooting victim was taller than our undressed friend, or our man here was sitting or squatting when the shot was fired. I doubt that, though. The lividity clearly shows he fell from a standing position.”
Stamford seemed slightly bewildered by this. He said, “He could have died a few minutes after the other man was shot.”
“Not so. The blood drops have congealed as they landed. If our victim had remained standing, they would have trickled downwards. No, the two events occurred simultaneously, or near to it.”
The doctor stared at the body on his bench. “Then how did this fellow die?” he said.
“Ah, that is where I need your expertise, Dr. Stamford.”
“You must have some ideas.”
A smile flickered over the detective’s face. “I have five, but I would not like to mislead you. I will say only that this man died suddenly. He fell backwards and lay in that position for some time.”
“The discolouration is all the way down to the buttocks,” Stamford said, examining the corpse. “But not on the legs. How is that possible?”
“Presumably, his legs and feet were elevated after death. Observe: There is a sharp line along the ankles suggesting his feet rested on an object some . . .” he did a quick mental calculation, “. . . fifteen to eighteen inches in height.”
Stamford began his autopsy. It did not take him long to determine that whatever killed the man had left no wound. He had not been stabbed or shot, nor had he been bludgeoned, strangled, or garrotted.
Holmes examined what was left of the dead man’s clothes. As a cold morning light filtered into the dank room, he set the garments aside and joined Stamford at the table.
The doctor removed the dead man’s heart and examined it. “Sclerosed,” he said. “Death would have been instantaneous. The fellow died of shock. It wasn’t murder, in any case. I’m sorry I bothered you, Mr. Holmes.”
“Why? Someone died a violent death. A most intriguing case. I am much obliged to you.”
“Did you learn anything from his clothing?”
“Only that the fellow was a railway man. From the stubs in his trouser pocket, I believe he was employed by the Necropolis Railway. What time is it? I shall go home and change, and then see what I can learn about our unfortunate.”
A short time later, Holmes’s let himself into a quiet building on Montague Street. He ran quickly up the stairs, but before he reached the landing, a shrill voice called him to a halt.
“We’ve discussed this, Mr. Holmes,” she said.
He turned, tried a smile meant to be charming, but failed. She stood with her arms folded, her face pursed like a sulky child. “I do apologise, Mrs. Prescott,” he said, “But it was unavoidable.”
“My tenants do not care to be disturbed, Mr. Holmes. They need peace and quiet. Not much to ask, surely?”
“No, indeed. I assure you I made every effort to be quiet when I left.”
“But the messenger, Mr. Holmes. Waking me from my sound sleep at a ridiculous hour.”
He turned again, tried to escape, but she was not done. “A little consideration, Mr. Holmes. This is your final warning. If you cannot abide by the rules of the house, you may find yourself other accommodation. Good day to you, sir.”
He glimpsed her friend Mrs. Hudson sitting in the parlour. She shook her head sympathetically. He had once solved a little problem for her, the curious matter of a bonnet’s ribbons changing colour, and she had been his ally ever since. He suspected Mrs. Prescott would have evicted him months ago were it not for Mrs. Hudson.
Living in Montague Street was convenient, at least in terms of the location. He could walk to the British Museum in a matter of minutes. He enjoyed the quiet of the building and the area. Then again, the quiet had become an issue of late. Two of his neighbours, Mr. Barraclough upstairs and Mr. Desmond across the hall, both of them academics, had started to complain whenever he received visitors. This was nothing to their outrage whenever he had a caller after nine o’clock at night. He had begun a desultory search for alternative accommodation, but thus far found nothing suitable.
As he washed and changed,
