“It is a theory that fits all the facts,” Holmes snapped. “Besides, look at the pillow. That bluish stain is greasepaint. Pennyfeather is an actor. I assume he has played the part of the corpse at some time in his career. He put on that makeup to add to the illusion. Albert sent word to the railway that they had a corpse, and Mr. Winkle responded.
“Unfortunately for them, neither Albert nor Pennyfeather realised they’d need a death certificate. Mr Winkle refused to take the body without proper documentation and the convict drew a weapon. The blood and the pattern on the floor tell the rest of the story. Pennyfeather aimed at the undertaker, but hit Albert instead.”
“How can he have missed in such a small space?” Lestrade asked.
“They kept the room in semi-darkness, hoping that would aid their deception. Albert and Winkle were standing very close to one another. Possibly Albert moved at the last moment. Maybe he tried to save Winkle.”
Lestrade looked around the room. “All the same, even supposing all of this is right, how do you know it was Pennyfeather who fired?”
“Only Pennyfeather would be wearing greasepaint, do you agree? That means he was in the bed when he fired, which is why the angle of the bullet is so high. If you look behind you, you will see where it is imbedded in the door frame.”
“So what happened to – what’s his name – the undertaker?” Lestrade said.
“Mr. Winkle. He had a heart attack and fell backwards over that trunk with his feet resting on top of it. That is why there was no lividity stain on his lower legs and feet. I think he lay there for a time while Pennyfeather decided what to do.”
“And what did he do?” Lestrade was agog, like a child listening to a fairy tale.
“Here I can only surmise, but the theory fits the facts. He placed Albert in the coffin. Then he came back up to the room and took Winkle’s shirt, jacket, and coat. The hat, too. The clothes were bloody, but he hoped no one would notice in the dark. The police were looking for a convict, but they’d never suspect an undertaker driving a hearse.”
“What about the shoes? Winkle was barefoot.”
“The boots provided by Pentonville might be recognised by a policeman. Pennyfeather stole Winkle’s boots, and then he carried the unfortunate undertaker down to the hearse and probably lay him in the back with the coffin. He headed back towards the Necropolis Railway. Perhaps he was planning on hiding in a coffin, as he had originally planned.”
“Then why didn’t he?”
“Again, I can only surmise, but I suspect he couldn’t find the keys to get into the railway building. They were in Winkle’s trouser pocket, but he could have missed them. Or perhaps the thought of spending the night in a coffin surrounded by the dead was too much for him. In any case, he had the hearse and the uniform. All he need do was carry on driving. The hearse is missing from the railway, so we know he kept it.
“He dumped Winkle’s body under the bridge and kept going. If you send word to your men how he is disguised, you should be able to catch him. And this time, Inspector, the charge is murder.”
“Right.”
Now he had the bit between his teeth, there would be no stopping Lestrade. He turned to leave the room and then hesitated. “I appreciate your assistance in this matter, Mr. Holmes. No woman is safe while this devil is on the streets. I, ah, suppose you’ll want to be mentioned in my report.”
“No need, Inspector. The work is its own reward.”
Montague Street was serene when Holmes returned. He managed to get to his room without encountering his landlady, and he fell asleep. It was dark when he woke, jerked into consciousness by a hammering on the front door. He glanced at his clock. A few minutes before midnight. Oh dear.
A moment later, Lestrade came into his room and said, “We’ve caught the blighter, Mr. Holmes, just as you said. But he’s got a woolly tale to tell. Perhaps you’d like to come down to the Yard to hear it?”
The former actor was all charm. An innocent man, sir. Guilty of nothing but seeking his freedom. God had arranged for the guard to be distracted and he escaped in an instant. As for killing a man . . . Who, sir? Me, sir? Not I, sir.
Holmes listened to the plausible scoundrel and burst into laughter. “I shall tell you what happened, Mr. Pennyfeather,” he began. “You escaped with the help of your friend Albert. His brother had an inn nearby and you thought it would be a good place to hide for a spell. The landlord was away, but was expected to return. You needed to get out of the city in a hurry.
“Albert had told you what happened when someone died in the inn: Word was sent to the Necropolis Railway, and they came in the middle of the night to collect the body, very discreet, very quiet.
“You decided if you could pass yourself off as a corpse, you could hide in a coffin and make your escape from the train on its way to the cemetery. I found the stain of your bluish greasepaint on the pillow in the inn. Albert sent word to the railway, and Mr. Winkle arrived a short while later. He realised you were alive and refused to help you.”
“He realised nothing,” Pennyfeather said with some hauteur. “I am an accomplished actor, sir. My Mark Antony has reduced grown men to tears. No, it was that fool Albert’s fault. He didn’t know we’d need a death certificate.”
“Is that why you shot him?” Holmes said.
“Shot? Albert? Nonsense. He just took off, said he was worried about his mum. I’ve
