Page 74 of A Ruse of Shadows
“The murder weapon, for one thing. The most likely weapon would be Mr. Meadows’s own shaving blade, a sharp implement close at hand. After the deed was done, most of the blood could have been wiped off on the already blood-soaked bedcover. And then the murderer could have given the razor blade a wash in the en-suite bath.
“The house is no longer so new. But at the time it was built, it boasted of every modern convenience, including plumbed washbasins. Good plumbing, too—I tested it myself when I visited. The water came nice and quiet, without the kind of rattling of the pipes that happens in some houses.
“The now thoroughly clean shaving blade could have been dried and placed in its customary spot, looking as if it had never been disturbed since the last time the master had need of its sharp edge.
“As for the murderer’s clothes—frankly, I would have taken off my clothes to do the deed. The way the killing was carried out, with the bedcover between the blade and the murderer, there wouldn’t have been much blood on the killer in the first place besides on the dominant hand.
“With the murder weapon put away, and blood on skin washed off, the murderer could now lock the doors and brave the journey of fifteen feet on the architrave—with some clothes on, if that was deemed necessary.”
Mrs. Farr made a derisive snort. “You make it sound so easy.”
“I certainly do not mean to diminish the forethought in the planning or the audacity of the deed itself. But so far, what I have narrated is a perfect crime. And a perfect crime would not do.”
Did she observe a darkening of Mrs. Farr’s countenance?
“Where did it go wrong? The ladder that had been moved from its customary spot near the gardener’s hut and left on the ground? The murderer had moved it, but never intended to use it—once it was brought in the morning to climb into the locked bedroom, who could tell that ithadn’tbeen used the night before?
“But no, the detective inspector wouldn’t have been there to see you move the ladder—and no one else mentioned such a thing in their testimony. So it wasn’t that.
“What gave you away probably had something to do with the most puzzling aspect of this otherwise simple case—your late husband’s absolute docility. Granted, he was sleeping, but his throat wasn’t cut as such. Whoever killed him first pulled up the duvet so that it not only thoroughly covered his throat but stretched a foot beyond the top of his head. And then the killer had to put his or her hand under the cover and find Mr. Meadows’s neck. And only then, carefully place the blade.
“Not to mention, given his position on the bed and the direction his throat was cut, the killer must have practically straddled him. I am a sound sleeper, but with so much fuss, even I would have opened my eyes to see what was going on.
“But Mr. Meadows slept on soundly. Too soundly. Which makes me suspect that he had been given a narcotic substance. And that could be verified by chemical analysis. Or, even if it could not be, most laymen would not know. The threat of exposure might be enough for the truth to emerge.”
A muscle twitched in Mrs. Farr’s jaw.
Charlotte poured two cups of tea and placed one in front of her. “What do you think of the scenario I’ve illustrated? Does it fit the general contour of events as you recall?”
“I’ve listened to you long enough, Miss Holmes.”
“Indeed, you have been very patient, Mrs. Farr. Do you not have rebuttals for me? Are my assumptions unable to support my conclusions? Or are there facts that I am entirely unaware of that would change the complexion of the case? Milk or sugar, by the way?”
Mrs. Farr ignored her attempt at hospitality. “You should go.”
“I will,” Charlotte promised calmly, adding two lumps of sugar and a good pour of milk into her own tea. “But I’d like to know what happened to your brother-in-law, Mr. Ephraim Meadows. The way you disappeared from Manchester, without a word to anyone, it makesme think that you were trying to escape extortion. Did he blackmail you? And did you, in the end, find a way to make him stop?”
“I never saw Mr. Ephraim Meadows after my husband’s funeral, Miss Holmes,” said Mrs. Farr flatly. “And I have no idea what happened to him.”
“Is that so?”
Charlotte took a sip of her tea. Alas, Mrs. Farr took as little interest in her tea as she did in her décor—Charlotte suspected that the flavorlessness of the brew was caused by secondhand tea leaves, collected and peddled by servants from wealthier households.
“That is so.” Mrs. Farr pushed her own teacup aside. “And I do not care about either your investigation or the official reinvestigation, should that ever take place. There was no evidence to incriminate anyone then, and there is no evidence now. Without evidence, nothing will happen. Therefore, will you go?”
A little girl entered the parlor.
She seemed disappointed to see Charlotte but looked toward Mrs. Farr, as if waiting for introductions. When none proved to be forthcoming, she said, a little hesitantly, “Mama, did Jessie come?”
“Yes, and she already left.”
“Oh,” said the girl in a small voice.
“But Mumble will be here later. And Caro, too. Now be a good girl and go read in your room. If you can understand the new story all by yourself, I’ll have Caro make some sherbet for you.”
The girl’s face lit with anticipation. “All right.”
Charlotte smiled at little Eliza, who had, once upon a time, robbed her blind. “She’s grown taller,” she said after the girl left the parlor.
