Callander Square - Anne Perry [98]
She bent down but did not touch him. He was half on his side, one arm crumpled underneath, as if his hand were reaching for the knife that was buried to its hilt in his chest. She had only seen him once that she could recall, but she knew beyond question that it was Freddie Bolsover.
She stood up slowly and began to walk back into the wind again to search for a constable.
TEN
PITT WAS CALLED straight away, since anything in Callander Square was considered to be part of his case. Before half past nine he was kneeling on the still icebound earth by the body. A solitary constable stood guard over it. Nothing had been moved. After some protest, Charlotte had been sent home, although Pitt thought it was probably the cold that prevailed over her rather than any sense of obedience.
There was a police doctor with him. After he had stared his fill and the picture was etched on his mind, together they turned Freddie over to look at the wound. The knife was buried right to the hilt, the filigree handle holding no imprint of a hand at all.
Pitt moved the clothes fractionally.
“Single blow,” he remarked. “Very clean.”
“Could be luck,” the doctor said over his shoulder. “Doesn’t have to be skill.”
“What about strength?” Pitt asked.
“Strength?” The doctor considered for a moment. He reached down and moved the knife experimentally. “No bones cut,” he observed. “Clean between the ribs. Nothing but cartilage, and a little muscle; straight to the heart. Average adult could do it quite competently. Too high a wound for a short person. Blow seems to be a downward one, so your murderer was at least five foot six or seven, probably more.”
Pitt picked up one of Freddie’s hands.
“No gloves,” he said, frowning a little. “He must have come out in a hurry, and possibly not expected to be long. Coming to meet someone he knew, I should think.” He looked at the nails and knuckles. “Spotless. He can’t have made much of a struggle.”
“Caught by surprise,” the doctor replied. “Only knew for a second before unconsciousness overtook him.”
“Surprise,” Pitt said slowly. “From the front. That means he knew his murderer, the surprise was that he should strike. Dr. Bolsover considered him safe, a friend.”
“Or acquaintance,” the doctor added.
“Does one go out to meet a mere acquaintance in the middle of the square, at night?”
“I didn’t say he was killed during the night,” the doctor shook his head. “Can’t tell. This weather, body would freeze in a very short time. Makes time of death a bit difficult.”
“Hardly risk murdering someone in the middle of the square in daylight,” Pitt said gently. “Too risky. Servants spend too much time near the windows, too big a chance someone would see you walking into the middle of the gardens. After dark, muffled up in scarf with collar up, which would be reasonable enough in this weather, as soon as you’re out of the arc of the gaslight you’re invisible. Could have gone up the steps to the front door, or into an areaway, off to get a cab—anything.”
“Quite,” the doctor agreed a little stiffly. “So take it they met after dark. Bit of an odd thing to do, wasn’t it? Go to meet someone in the pitch dark in a frozen waste like this? Could fall and break your neck, never mind being stabbed. Hardly see a foot in front of you.”
“Raises a lot of questions in the mind, doesn’t it?” Pitt stared down at the body again.
The doctor grunted.
“Must have been wishing to discuss something very urgent, and very private indeed.”
“Or have an intent to murder,” Pitt said softly.
The doctor said nothing.
Pitt climbed to his feet, a little stiff in the bitter cold.
“It occurs to me that I have rather a lot to ask Mr. Reggie Southeron. See to having Bolsover taken to the morgue, will you? You’d better do your post mortem thoroughly, in spite of the obvious. I don’t believe there will be anything else, but it’s always possible.”
The doctor gave him a sour look, and stumped back toward the constable, slapping his hands together to get the circulation moving again.
Pitt did not want to give Reggie any advance warning