“Norcott is a doctor,” Benedict said. “That certainly explains why Warwick ordered the driver to bring him here.”
“Warwick knew the address of this house well enough to be able to summon it from memory in a moment of panic when he must have been in some fear of bleeding to death,” Logan observed.
“In other words, Warwick may well have a long-standing acquaintanceship with Dr. Norcott.”
“I think so, yes,” Logan said.
Benedict studied the dark windows. “Doesn’t look like anyone is home.”
“Perhaps Norcott has been called out to treat a patient,” Logan said.
He raised the knocker and clanged it with some force. They could hear the muffled echo from deep inside the front hall but no one responded.
“I suggest we try the kitchen door,” Benedict said.
“I could point out that we don’t have a key, let alone a warrant,” Logan said, his tone perfectly neutral.
“I could point out that there are other ways to gain entry into a house. I might also mention that there is a considerable amount of fog tonight.”
Logan looked thoughtful. “Excellent points, all of them. Let’s try the kitchen door.”
Benedict raised a hand to wave the hansom on its way. When the cab was out of sight, he followed Logan around to the rear of the house.
They went into the small garden. At the kitchen door Benedict struck a light and held it steady while Logan made short work of the lock.
The smell of death wafted out of the house the moment they opened the door. No longer concerned with the neighbors, Benedict turned up a lamp.
The body was in the front hall. A shiny length of sharpened steel gleamed in the middle of the dry blood pool.
“That must be Norcott,” Benedict said.
Logan crouched beside the body and examined it with a professional eye. “I think this was done sometime yesterday. The killer used one of the doctor’s own scalpels.”
“It would seem that Virgil Warwick has returned from Scotland,” Benedict said. “He came back to murder the one man who could testify to the nature of his wounds.”
Logan got to his feet. “But why kill him now?”
Benedict glanced at the trunk on the floor near the door. Careful to avoid the dried blood, he stepped around the body and hunkered down beside it.
“Locked,” he said.
Without a word Logan reached into the dead man’s coat. He withdrew a key and handed it to Benedict.
Benedict opened the trunk. The hall lamps gleamed on an array of carelessly packed clothing and shaving gear.
“He was on his way out of town,” Benedict said. “Running, I think. This suitcase looks like it was packed in a hurry.”
“I agree.” Logan fished a ticket out of the victim’s front pocket. “He was scheduled to catch a train to Scotland.”
Benedict circled the body again and opened a door. When he turned up the lamps inside the room, he found himself looking into a neatly organized office. There was another door in a side wall of the office. He opened that one, too, and saw an examination table and an assortment of medical instruments.
Logan went straight to the desk and opened a leather-bound volume.
“This is Norcott’s appointment book,” he said. “Looks like he expected to be busy all week with patients.”
Benedict headed for the door. “I’ll have a look around upstairs while you go through his desk.”
“Right.” Logan sat down in the chair and went to work in an efficient, methodical manner.
