And with that, Crockett and the two police officers exited from the chamber and disappeared among the throng that continued to mill outside the door.

For several moments following their departure, I remained standing in the center of the room, lost in contemplation. Though gratified by my undoubted contribution to the apparent solution of the crime, I could not free myself of certain deep and persistent misgivings. That the dying widow could have managed, in her extremity, to record her killer’s name in blood seemed difficult, if not impossible, to credit, despite the contrary belief of Crockett and Captain Russell.

All at once, I was struck by a notion.

Stepping back to the wall once again, I peered more narrowly at the letters. Next, I looked downward and scrutinized the fingertips of the victim’s blood-dabbled hands, which lay, palm upward, at either side of her head, as though raised in a gesture of horror. My excitement was intensifying with every passing second.

Turning hastily towards the doorway, I discovered that the young woman who had identified Neuendorf had not yet departed the scene. Hurrying to her side, I quickly ascertained that she was intimately acquainted with the murdered landlady, having resided at the boarding house for almost one year. I put an urgent query to the distraught young woman, which she answered without hesitation. Her response confirmed the conjecture that had taken root in my mind. Suspicion blossomed into certitude.

Pushing my way through the crowd, I emerged from the boarding house and hastened toward the harbor.

CHAPTER 5

In tribute to its splendid architectural features—its ornate churches—its imposing mercantile exchange—its patriotic monuments to the heroes of the Revolution—the city of Baltimore was widely identified as “The Athens of America,” a denomination which infused the hearts of its citizens with a profound and justifiable pride. But for all its many graces, Baltimore, like all the world’s great cities, encompassed neighborhoods of a sordid, even sinister, character—home to the more degraded members of its population. And it was through just such a mean and squalid quarter that my path now led, as I made my way towards the bay.

In contrast to the pleasing breadth and uniformity of the city’s main thoroughfares, the streets of this woebegone district were excessively irregular—as twisted and cramped as the byways of Dante’s netherworld. Miserable wooden dwellings lined the narrow, filthy lanes. Aside from a small band of ragged urchins—who, armed with sharpened sticks, were gleefully prodding at the carcass of a skeletal dray horse that lay stiffly where it had expired in the mud—few inhabitants of this district were to be seen. Here and there, however, I could discern a shadowy figure lurking in the doorway of a hovel—some poor, fallen wretch, sunk into a state of hopeless degradation through a combination of worldly misfortune and, no doubt, innate liability to vice.