“You’ve changed a few things since I was here last,” Kingsley said.
Blacker shot a puzzled look in Day’s direction. He clearly hadn’t sent for the doctor.
“What are you doing here?” Day said.
“Inspector Tiffany sent for me. Said there was a suspect in Little’s murder.”
Day smiled. For all of Tiffany’s bluster and laziness, he had helped.
“Thank you for coming,” Day said. “As for the suspect, we don’t think he committed the murder.”
“I haven’t ruled that out,” Blacker said.
“We think, we both think, that he may have crossed paths with the real killer,” Day said.
“Well, let’s see what we shall see, shall we?” Kingsley smiled and patted the black bag under his arm. “Lead me to the evidence, gentlemen.”
47
The three men squeezed into the small storage room where the dancing man still sat. He appeared to have calmed down since Day and Blacker had left the room. He stared at his hands, clasped in his lap. Day positioned himself between the vagrant and the doctor in case the dancing man suddenly became violent.
Kingsley set his bag on one of the two empty chairs and opened it. The stench was nearly overpowering, but Kingsley appeared not to notice. He glanced over at the dancing man and frowned.
“You look familiar to me, sir.”
The dancing man said nothing, but continued to stare at his folded hands. Kingsley reached into his bag and drew out a bundle of white fabric. He partially unrolled it to reveal the Beard Killer’s straight razor covered with red and black smudges and held it out to Blacker, who took the entire bundle from him. Both men were careful not to touch the surface of the razor.
“Let’s see those shears,” Kingsley said.
“They’re on my desk,” Day said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
“Wait,” Kingsley said. “I’m afraid I’m not as prepared as I’d hoped to be. Could you possibly bring me at least one clean sheet of white foolscap and a bottle of ink?”
“Of course.”
Day left the storage closet door ajar and went to his desk. Across the room, Inspectors Waverly Brown and Oliver Boring had returned and were huddled at Boring’s desk, quietly arguing over a report. Brown looked up and nodded at Day, then went back to his murmured discussion with Boring.
Day grabbed the bottle of ink from his desk drawer and set out two sheets of foolscap. He carefully wrapped the shears in one of the sheets of paper and folded the other sheet in half so that it wouldn’t wrinkle as easily while he carried it. He put the ink bottle in his jacket pocket and took the paper and shears back to the closet.
In Day’s absence, Blacker had moved himself between the doctor and the dancing man. Kingsley didn’t seem to notice that the two detectives were positioning themselves about the room in order to protect him. Day wordlessly handed over the paper with the shears.
“Perfect,” Kingsley said.
He laid the foolscap in his hand and unfolded it to reveal the shears. He took a lens from his bag and scanned the shears carefully. The dancing man was so still that he might have been a statue in the corner of the room.
“Definitely blood,” Kingsley said. “And I would guess there was a great deal of it in order to produce these streaks across the metal. The blood has dried in layers, do you see? Look here. Two layers, one overlapping the other. The bottommost coating would have dried very quickly, especially if it were waved about in the air for a minute or two. Then, while it was still tacky, more blood was forced past the surface, covering the first batch here and there, building the layers up from the surface.”
“Is it possible to tell if they’re the same scissors used to kill Inspector Little?”
“No. In fact, I’ll need to run a chemical test to determine whether this is human or animal blood. I’m afraid that’s as much as the blood evidence will be able to tell us. Of course, it’s possible this is nothing more than pig’s blood. We’ll see.”
Kingsley must have seen the disappointment on the detectives’ faces because he shook his head.
“The blood evidence is not the end of it. You’ll see. Forensic technology is making great strides of late. Very exciting. Look at this.”
He angled the shears in the candlelight so that Day and then Blacker could see the blades.
“There’s a small bit of thread caught here between the blades.”
“What does that tell us?”
“Why, absolutely nothing at the moment. But I’ll want to compare this thread to the threads found at Little’s crime scene.”
“You didn’t bring those threads with you?”
“No. It will have to wait until I return to my laboratory. But,” Kingsley said, “before I do that, I’ll require more. I’ll need to gather data from all three of you.”
Blacker looked alarmed. “All of us?”
“Oh, I don’t mean that I suspect you detectives of any wrongdoing. But you have touched the shears, and so I’ll need your finger marks to compare them against any evidence left on the weapon. Mr Day, could I have that foolscap? And the ink, if you please?”
Day handed over the paper and produced the bottle of ink from his pocket. He opened the bottle and set it on the chair next to Kingsley’s bag. Kingsley flattened out the piece of paper against the wall and smoothed it with the back of his hand.
“I do wish we had a bit more room,” he said.
“I apologize. The commissioner felt it best to keep him contained and out of the way while we questioned him.”
“That’s undoubtedly wise. Here now, Mr Blacker, let’s have you go first. Please dip your finger, any finger will do, into the ink bottle and apply it to this piece of foolscap.”
“Then my finger will be dirty.”
“Regrettable, but unavoidable, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t see the point of it.”
“I demonstrated this for you in my lab.”
“I didn’t see the point of it then, either.”
Kingsley sighed. “What about you, Mr Day? Will you risk a little ink on your finger?”
Day shot an apologetic glance at Blacker, then ran his index finger around the inside edge of the bottle. He held his finger up to show that it was black. Kingsley grabbed his hand, held his finger, and pressed it against the paper. He handed over the lens and Day looked through it at the black loops and whorls on the clean white paper.
“This pattern, this is unique?”
“I believe so.”
“Michael, let’s see yours,” Day said.
Blacker stepped forward and looked over Day’s shoulder at the smudged sheet of foolscap. Without a word, he stuck his finger into the ink bottle and made his mark next to Day’s. The three of them bent over the lens and Day passed it back and forth so they could see for themselves.
“They are different,” he said.
Blacker shook his head and nudged Day. Day looked up to see that the dancing man was watching them.
“Would you like to try it?” Day said.
“Can’t move.”
“Why can’t you move?”
“No room. Legs broken.”
“I wish I could place where I’ve met you,” Kingsley said. “I do know you, don’t I?”
“Only the dead know me.”
The dancing man smiled at him, and for the first time Day saw the man behind the madness.
“You will remember. You saw the dance.”
Day saw his chance and moved closer to the dancing man.
“What was your name? The name you had before the dead began to dance?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Henry.”
“Good. Henry. Can I call you Henry?”
“Not Henry anymore. I am a dancer. I am death.”
“I can’t very well call you Death.”
“Whatever you call me, I remain the same.”
“Can you tell us where you found these scissors, sir?” He held up the shears, still wrapped in paper, well out of the dancing man’s reach.
“London. The city gave them to me. London sent me the gift.”
Blacker rolled his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake, can we please stop coddling this infant? Tell us where you got the damn shears, you bloody loon.”