“Ah, yes. Don’t be too hard on the junior detective—it isn’t his fault. We were just in the area and thought it would be rude if we didn’t stop by to—”

“Detective Cane is not working behind my back . . . not this time.” Marlowe shot a finely sharpened glance at Charlie, who shrank into the collar of his uniform. “He brought you here on my orders. He didn’t tell you? I mean that I am overdue an explanation about this.” The inspector stepped back and gestured toward the open door of room 313.

The door was splintered and raked with gashes, and the frame had come apart around the lock. The smell was strongest here, metallic and sickly sweet, like pennies and spoiled fruit. Inside, beside his worn sofa, lay the body of Mr. Henderson.

My breath caught in my throat. This body was worse than the last one, and the blood was everywhere. A splash of deep burgundy had painted a sloppy scar across the wallpaper, and it had dripped dark lines back down to the floor. The late William Henderson’s bright red pajamas were dyed an even deeper crimson, and the wound on his chest was a match to Arthur Bragg’s, down the hall. The blood had poured across the room, rivulets tracing the corners of the floorboards and mapping the topography of the room with dark pools. My vision swam and my stomach lurched, but try as I might, I could not pull my eyes from the horrible scene. Marlowe stepped forward, cutting off my line of sight, and I blinked and breathed again, the trance broken.

“May I?” my employer asked, and Marlowe nodded his permission to enter. Jackaby stepped carefully into the chamber, taking wide, uneven strides to avoid the spill. I remained by the doorway behind Marlowe while Jackaby examined the body. He followed a trail of drips to the window and glanced out.

The chief inspector watched closely, but he did not interrupt or question the detective as the man danced around the crime scene, peering through the vials and lenses he produced from his pockets, and even leaning in to sniff the windowsill. Jackaby moved with all the gangling grace of a newborn foal, but he kept clear of the puddles of liquid evidence. At length, he hopscotched his way back to the door, where he knelt and ran a finger gently across the splintered gashes in the wood. With one fluid, almost imperceptible motion, he plucked some small sample from the splinters and, like a street magician with a tricky coin, made it vanish in his hands before he rose.

“You said you saw no one in the hall, and the door was still secured from the inside when you forced your entry?” he asked, turning around.

“That’s right,” Charlie confirmed. “I found the window open, inside.”

“And the scene has not changed since your first impression?”