“Indeed,” said Holmes. “I’ve seen fobs like this worn by members of scientific societies, or social clubs, or even cricket teams. They’re often used as seals, which would explain the engraving. She must have torn it from the murderer during their struggle. Miss Jekyll, if you could step aside, I would like to examine the body thoroughly. And take your ward with you, if you please.”
Mary grabbed Diana by the arm and pulled her back, out of the way. Holmes walked around and around the body while the rest of them stood and watched. It was almost comical to see him, bent over like a praying mantis, inspecting the ground around the murdered girl, lifting her hands, turning her head from side to side and looking at her bruises. Finally, he examined the hole in her head. Mary had to turn away, sickened by the sight. Then he made a careful examination of the alley. He seemed to be looking at every stone, from the cross street at one end to the blank wall at the other. It was, Mary thought, a good place to commit a murder. The alley was long and narrow. Neither of the buildings that formed its walls had windows overlooking the alley, so the solid brick rose sheer. Close to the street, the building on one side had been built out so that it hung over the alley, blocking some of the light. Toward its blind end, there was a large doorway. It looked like the back entrance to a warehouse, but the door was evidently locked on the inside, since Holmes turned the handle and rattled it several times. Last night, there would have been no one to see, and no way out for poor Molly Keane. Holmes paid particular attention to that doorway, returning to it once he had examined the rest of the alley.
“How long is he going to take?” Lestrade finally asked, looking at his watch. “I have Poor Richard and that other girl waiting, and I want to question them before they start getting restless.”
“As long as it takes,” said Watson. “You know him well enough to know his methods.”
As far as Mary could tell, it took forever. She did not know how much longer she could keep Diana quiet—her furious whispers that Lestrade would lock Diana up in Newgate, in the deepest, darkest cell where rats would chew her ears off, were losing their effect. But finally, Holmes rejoined them.
“Well?” said Lestrade.
“They were careful,” said Holmes.
“They? We assumed this was the work of an individual madman.” Unconsciously, Lestrade chewed on a corner of his mustache. Mary almost laughed, but reminded herself that this was no laughing matter.
“No, there were two of them, and I wish you had called me in on this case earlier! If I’d been able to examine where the other victims were found, I might have been able to tell you more. It’s obvious that they had to leave the murder scene quickly, or they would have attempted to hide the body, as they did in the cases of Sally Hayward and Anna Pettingill. But the rain early this morning has wiped away most of their traces. There are few clues on the site. Watson, when would you say she was killed?”
“By the general condition of the body, I would say late last night or early this morning.”
“I agree. They obviously did not want to take the chance of being detected, so they chose the cover of darkness to commit their crime. I would put it closer to early morning, before the rain began. Her clothes are still damp.”
“How can you tell there were two of them?” said Lestrade. Which was, of course, what Mary had been wondering.
“One left two footprints in the mud under that overhang, where the rain has not erased them.” He gestured toward the overhang at the entrance to the alley. They had walked under it themselves, when they arrived. “By the distance between them, I would put him at not much above five feet. By the distance his boots sank into the mud, he is not a heavy man, eight or nine stone. And they are undoubtedly the boots of a gentleman.”
“A gentleman!” said Watson. “What gentleman would do such a deed?”
“Oh please!” said Diana. “The things I’ve seen gentlemen do . . .”
“And the other man?” asked Mary.
“He has left no traces,” said Holmes. “But Molly Keane’s neck is broken, and I don’t think the man we’ve been describing would have the strength to break her neck. He’s small and light—and lame in one leg.”
“Lame!” said Lestrade. “How is that, Holmes?”
“His footprints in the mud. One of them is straight, the other bent, almost as though he had a club foot, although without deformity. To look at, he must be a twisted man. I don’t think he has the strength to saw into a woman’s head—you’re looking for a surgical saw, I think, Lestrade. Yes, and a sharp knife to remove her brain with. Perhaps a scalpel. This was a more delicate operation than Pauline Delacroix, whose entire head was missing. Two men are most definitely indicated: one strong enough to break a woman’s neck and saw through her skull, another with the knowledge and skill to take out her brain. You may be looking for a medical man, or a man with medical training.”
“The devil!” said Watson.
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Unfortunately, I was able to get nothing more: the rain has washed too much away. I would like to talk with the girl who identified Molly Keane, and with this Poor Richard. You said they are at a nearby inn?”
“I would like to come with you, Mr. Holmes,” said Mary.
“That’s entirely out of the question,” said Lestrade. “This is a police investigation, young lady. You don’t belong here in the first place.”
Holmes looked at her curiously. “Why is that, Miss Jekyll?”
“Your description—it reminds me of something. Someone.”
“Indeed? Lestrade, I would like you to indulge me this once. Miss Jekyll, if you can keep Miss Hyde under control, you may listen in on my interviews. But only so long as she behaves herself, mind.”
“Indulge you this once!” said Lestrade. “Considering how often I give in to your notions . . .”
But Holmes was already walking up the alley, and Lestrade had to hurry after, shouting directions to his sergeants about how they were to transport the body of Molly Keane back to Scotland Yard. Watson followed, and Mary dragged Diana behind her by the wrist.
The inn was just around the corner: it was called The Bells and had a sign with faded yellow bells painted on it above the front door. The police had cleared out the pub that formed its first floor, so inside there were no patrons, only the landlord behind the bar, disgruntled because he was losing custom; a policeman looking uncomfortable and bored; a young woman rather splendidly but cheaply dressed; and a man with a grizzled beard who must have been Poor Richard. He seemed to be wearing a collection of rags.
MRS. POOLE: A pub! To think that Miss Mary should have entered such a place.
MARY: Mrs. Poole, there were no patrons inside. And there were policemen. And Mr. Holmes. And Dr. Watson. I don’t know how it could have been more respectable.