Charlie looked inside and swallowed hard, nodding. “It’s spread. But otherwise, yes, it’s just the same.”

“Not forgetting something?” Inspector Marlowe prompted his detective, not taking his eyes off Jackaby.

“Oh. Yes, sir. Of course, sir. There has been one item removed as evidence.” Charlie grimaced and pointed to Henderson’s hand, which was clenched, but empty.

Marlowe nodded and reached into his own pocket, producing a small cloth packet. “Mr. Jackaby,” he said, shifting the bundle from one hand to the other as he spoke, “you’ve had a look around. Anything to share?”

Jackaby glanced from Charlie to Marlowe before answering. “We are obviously faced with the same villain. Rushed, this time, but otherwise consistent in every detail.”

“And what details would those be?” Marlowe pressed. His voice was flat, and his eyes locked on Jackaby like a raptor on a field mouse. “Be specific.”

“The chest wound, most obviously, and the removal of blood. Avarice is clearly not a motive in either killing—there is a rather expensive pocket watch on the end table, just there, by the window, but the culprit passed it by, just as he left Mr. Bragg’s wallet. He also left Mr. Henderson clutching my tuning fork, which I assume is the object you have tucked in your handkerchief now, an item of considerable value to me, and one I would like back when this business is all over.”

Marlowe raised an eyebrow a fraction of an inch, and made no motion to relinquish the parcel. “Would you, now? Anything else to say?”

“I would also mention the residual supernatural aura, which is exceptionally strong and clear inside the room, but we both know you’ll dismiss it as hokum, so I refrain from wasting any time describing it.”

“Your restraint is appreciated,” said Marlowe drily. “But what was that you said about the blood? You were right that the last victim was surprisingly clean—but you can hardly say the same about Henderson.”

“You must have noticed the smearing on the body?” Jackaby asked. “And the trail?” Marlowe’s face was impassive and unreadable, and after a pause Jackaby resumed. “Just there, along the torso, and continuing a short way up the side of the sofa. The rest of the blood appears to have dropped, splattered, or run in a natural fashion, but there you can see it’s been smeared. Someone was soaking up a bit of it, perhaps with a simple rag. There are then droplets of blood on the arm of the sofa marking a trail, obscured briefly by that pool, but resuming on a straight course for the window. One can only deduce that the culprit daubed some item in the wound, then ran for his exit. I imagine the trail continues on the pavement below. If followed, it might just lead to—”

“It doesn’t,” Marlowe interrupted. “I followed it myself with two of my best detectives.”