Becket was at Scotland Yard with his master, Kerridge having summoned Harry.

‘Jeffrey Biles has hanged himself in his cell,’ said Kerridge.

‘Well, that’s the end of that,’ said Harry. ‘Saves the state a court case.’

‘That’s not what’s bothering me. He kept protesting that he had not murdered either his sister or Madame de Peurey. He admitted having gone to see Dolores. He admitted having taken some of her jewels. He admitted the assault on Lady Rose in Paris. So I asked him if he hadn’t murdered the women, who had? “I’m waiting for something,” he said. This was yesterday. “I’ll tell you tomorrow at ten in the morning.” I thought it would probably he a load of rubbish, but I went down to Pentonville Prison this morning, and there he was, hanged and dead as a doornail.’

‘How had he hanged himself?’

‘With a strip he’d torn off his sheets.’

‘No note?’

‘No.’

‘Odd. I’d like to see the body.’

‘Why?’

‘I’d just like to be sure he hanged himself.’

‘You’re clutching at straws. Case closed.’

‘Humour me.’

‘Oh, very well. I’ll take you to the morgue myself.’

Harry stared down at the dead body laid out on a slab in the mortuary. He regarded the distorted face with distaste. Then he said to the morgue attendant, ‘Please turn the body over.’

‘Hurry up,’ growled Kerridge. ‘This place gives me the creeps.’

The body was turned over. Harry removed his gloves and examined the back of the head. ‘Didn’t you see this?’ he asked. ‘Look here.’

Kerridge walked forward. ‘See the matted hair and blood on the back of his head?’ said Harry. ‘Someone struck him a blow and maybe that someone hanged him.’

Kerridge swung round in a fury. ‘Hasn’t the pathologist examined this body?’

‘Didn’t seem no rush,’ said the attendant. ‘Prison doctor signed the death certificate. Suicide.’

‘I’ll get the pathologist to do a proper autopsy,’ said Kerridge. ‘We’d better get over to Pentonville and find out if he had any visitors.’

But at the prison they were informed that no one had come to see Biles. The warder who had taken him his evening meal said he looked distraught and that he had been crying.

‘Where had be been living?’ asked Harry when they left the prison.

‘Place down the Mile End Road.’

‘I’d like to go there.’

‘Why? The room’s been cleaned up. The landlord wants to re-let it.’

‘Just a look.’

‘Oh, very well. Your man can drive us there.’

The landlord reluctantly opened the door of what had been Jeffrey Biles’s last address. ‘Don’t go mucking around,’ he said. ‘I got someone for this room.’

‘Mind your manners,’ snapped Kerridge.

The room was dismal. The dingy window which overlooked the street did not have any curtains. There was a narrow iron bedstead in one corner. A rickety table and one chair stood in the middle of the floor. A small fireplace surmounted by a grimy mirror was against one wall. Beside the fireplace stood a scuttle full of coal and a shovel and poker.