Hudson nodded, his countenance frozen in a grim mask. “That is my intention as well.”
“We shall do this together,” she said, her heart aching for him, knowing how difficult a return to the place where he had discovered Mrs. Ainsley must be.
“Let me go into the bedroom first,” he said, relenting.
“Of course.” She would follow his lead.
He moved toward the closed door at the opposite end of the chamber, and Elysande followed him, taking note of a small shelf bearing a row of books. Beyond, a table where a faded photograph of a woman sat in a frame, unsmiling. The resemblance to Hudson was undeniable.
It had to be his mother. He scarcely spoke of his parents and his family to her, but she could only imagine he must have been close to her if he kept her picture in such a prominent place.
Hudson opened the door slowly, the creak of the hinges echoing in the silence surrounding them, almost like a cry. She held her breath as he stepped inside. Past his large form, she could discern a bed which had been stripped of its linens, curtains parted to allow a thin shaft of sunlight within, and more blood.
A great lot of it, soaked into the mattress and the carpeted floor.
The sight made her faintly dizzy.
She steeled herself against the urge to either swoon or cast up her accounts, both of which were currently competing against each other.
“Christ,” Hudson muttered, his voice low and guttural. Part prayer, part shock, she supposed.
He bowed his head, standing so still and stiff, she could not shake the notion that if she touched him, he would break. He took a ragged breath, as if struggling with his reaction to the awful signs of what had happened within this room. Elysande broke free of the trance which had been holding her in its thrall. She moved to his side and slowly, gently, slid her arm around his waist. She flattened her hand on the small of his back and stroked up and down his spine, attempting to comfort him in the only way she knew how. Words were dreadfully insufficient in a moment such as this. What could she say that would chase away the demons haunting him, that would atone for Mrs. Ainsley’s murder?
There was nothing.
Instead, she offered him her support.
“It seems like a terrible dream,” he said. “I can still see her so vividly as she looked that night, pale and lifeless and covered in blood. So much blood. Damn it, I need to find out who was responsible for this. The way she must have suffered…it is impossible to believe anyone evil enough to inflict such violence upon another human being. I have seen murders before, but never one with so much vitriol. The way he slashed her…”
Elysande shivered, imagining what Hudson must have witnessed. She continued stroking his back, up and down, wishing she could do more, yet feeling utterly helpless.
“I am so sorry for what happened to Mrs. Ainsley,” she said softly, “and sorry for you to have been the one to find her that way.”
He shook his head, as if waking from sleep. “I do not deserve your sympathy. I’ve had to endure nothing compared to what she suffered. All I can do now is make certain her killer is brought to justice.”
“We shall,” she vowed. “Together.”
That was when she noticed the unusual marking in blood on the carved headboard of the bed, scarcely visible from a distance as it blended with the grain of the wood. She drew nearer, needing to be certain her suspicions were correct.
“What do you see?” Hudson asked, following her.
“I believe it is the print of a hand.” Careful not to touch the stain, she pointed to it. “This is the heel of a palm, here. This appears to be a thumb print, and here, the index finger.”
“The size of the hand is far too large to have belonged to Mrs. Ainsley. It must have been the murderer’s.”
“Yes,” Elysande agreed. “It looks as if he was holding on to the bed, perhaps during or after he had committed the crime.”
He held his hand closer to the print, examining the size of his hand compared to it, and Elysande’s heart rose. The print was clearly smaller than Hudson’s, but too large to have belonged to Mrs. Ainsley. Which meant only one thing.
“This print could be the definitive proof I require to solidify my innocence,” Hudson said, having arrived at the same conclusion she had. “O’Rourke said nothing of a print having been discovered when he interviewed me.”
“Either Chief Inspector O’Rourke has neglected to impart the correct information to you, or he has been lying,” Elysande said, giving voice to the suspicions which had been boiling within her ever since their earlier meeting with Mr. Seward.
Hudson was grim. “That is a matter to be dealt with later. First, I need to fetch a photographer to document this hand print.”
* * *
Elysande was right.
