“I’ll be home as soon as I’m able,” Adrian told his valet. “No need for you or anyone else to await my arrival.”
They parted ways and the carriage drove off, leaving Adrian on the pavement beneath an inky-black, star-speckled sky. He blew out a breath, watched the mist it produced, then climbed the steps and returned indoors.
There was work to be done.
His long strides ate up the distance between the foyer and the crime scene. By the time he pushed through the ferns to where Kendrick stood, the man was holding a long length of linen in his hand.
Hearing Adrian’s steps, he glanced in his direction. “You’ve not missed much. I just removed the cravat that was in Mr. Orwell’s mouth.”
Adrian slowed his steps and halted completely when he came within a yard of the chief constable. “What’s your theory regarding its presence?”
Kendrick arched a brow. “What’s yours?”
When Adrian merely held his gaze without blinking, Kendrick relented. “Perhaps it was used to suffocate Mr. Orwell.”
Adrian narrowed his gaze. “I thought you wanted transparency, Kendrick. If you expect me to share my observations and theories, you’ll have to do the same. I know you don’t think he was suffocated.”
“Well, he certainly didn’t die on account of his throat getting slashed.”
“Agreed.”
Kendrick tilted his head, the beginnings of a smug smile creeping over his lips. “To suffocate him this way, our killer would have required superior size and strength in order to overpower him, force the cravat into his mouth, and hold his nose at the same time. Since this case shares the same details as Mr. Warren’s, who I suspect was killed by a woman, I don’t see how Mr. Orwell could have been suffocated.”
“My wife has suggested he may have been poisoned,” Adrian said, deciding it was time for him to provide whatever help he was able. He gestured toward the shards on the floor. “A glass was dropped and Mr. Orwell’s awkward sprawl suggests he may have fallen backward.”
“After which the killer could have slit his throat and stuffed the cravat in his mouth without resistance.” Kendrick set the cravat he’d been holding aside on the end of the chaise lounge, then reached inside Keith Orwell’s jacket pocket. He retrieved a scrap of paper, read it, and handed it to Adrian.
A coward’s death for the coward you are.
Adrian frowned. “Did the previous victim possess a similar note?”
“Not similar but identical.” Kendrick leaned over Orwell’s body. He clasped the jaw and used his gloved fingers to pry the lips farther apart.
“What are you doing?”
Instead of answering Adrian’s question, Kendrick said, “Bring one of the lanterns closer so I can see.”
Adrian snatched up the nearest one and held it so the light shone most powerfully on Orwell’s mouth, and the teeth brightened in response. Adrian watched Kendrick lift the tongue and curled it backward.
Adrian’s pulse leapt. “What is that?”
Kendrick removed a small flat object, holding it between his fingers so close to the light it gleamed. His expression became one of pure satisfaction.
To Adrian he said, “A silver shilling.”
“I can stop by your office later today if you’d like to review all the evidence,” Adrian said as they exited the conservatory. Kendrick had told him of the shilling’s significance, and they’d agreed it was probably more than a calling card left by the killer.
Both coins were minted in 1815, which surely mattered.
“If you come after four o’clock, I should know whether or not these men served together and whether or not they were both deployed that year.”
They strode through the hallway, intent on stopping by Moorland’s study before they departed. The duke had been a tremendous help, offering up his home and servants — whatever Kendrick needed — in order to help find the answer to what had occurred.
He knocked on the door and entered. Adrian followed him into the dimly lit space.
“Thank you for aiding my efforts tonight,” Kendrick said to Moorland. The duke remained seated behind his desk, his appearance despondent. “My Runners and I have gathered all the information we need.”
“And the body?” Moorland asked.
