CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Mr. Pedlow! Mr. Pedlow! It’s Detective Murdoch here.”

The manager of the Avonmore hovered nervously behind Murdoch and Crabtree, torn between fear and anger. Huge constables and bellowing detectives in the corridor were not conducive to good business. Already a couple of doors had opened and the curious occupants were peeking out.

“Open the door,” said Murdoch to him.

Mr. Tomkin did not waste time protesting. He picked out the key from the ring and unlocked the door.

“Oh my God,” he whispered and collapsed against the wall as if his legs wouldn’t hold him. Murdoch, with Crabtree behind him, entered the room. The air was unpleasantly warm and thick with a sharp, stinging smell. The naked body of Henry Pedlow was lying on the bed. A cotton cloth covered his face and on top of it was a cone-shaped mask. There was a small bottle by his right hand, and a sheet of paper beneath his left. His body was in a position of repose.

“Crabtree, open all the windows, fast as you can.”

Murdoch went to the body and pulled off the cloth. Leaning down, he placed his ear against the man’s chest but it was a perfunctory gesture. Pedlow’s heart had ceased to beat some time before.

Murdoch pulled the piece of paper from underneath the greying hand.

“To Whom It May Concern.”

He could hear the hotel manager making retching noises from outside the door, and he tried not to breathe too deeply himself. Already his stomach was feeling queasy.

Crabtree joined Murdoch at the bedside, and as he saw the body he shuddered in revulsion. “Dear Lord, what was wrong with the man?”

Henry’s entire torso was covered with oozing sores.

“I’ve seen drawings,” Murdoch replied. “I’d say he had syphilis.”

Crabtree shook his head in disbelief.

“Is that why he killed himself?”

“Let’s see what he wrote.”

Murdoch read the letter out loud to the constable, who whistled through his teeth softly when he had finished.

“So that’s the story, is it? He’s the one who done in the old woman.”

“That’s what he says.”

Crabtree looked at him curiously.

Murdoch put the paper on the desk and went over to the fire, which had burned down to glowing coals. He could see the charred remnants of a leather binding, the letters…iends. Dolly’s book of reckoning with all its shameful secrets, gone forever. Not that it mattered to him. The children were the ones who suffered most, as far as he was concerned. The innocent paid the bill of the guilty.

He glanced over his shoulder at Henry’s hideous body. Was Sarah the natural child of Maud and Henry Pedlow? If that was the case and it became known, she would have no future at all. And if Walter Pedlow found out, Murdoch was certain, she would have no money even to buy a future.

“Sir? Mr. Murdoch? Shall I have Mr. Tomkin go fetch the coroner and the ambulance?” Crabtree regarded him. “The man was under sentence of death anyway by the looks of it. He’s cheated the gallows is all. And a full confession helps us. He wouldn’t tell a lie on his deathbed.”

Murdoch picked up the poker and stirred the embers in the hearth. A last shred of the album caught fire and melted into ashes.

“You’re right about that, Crabtree. Nobody will doubt it.”