Page 7 of A Dangerous Vision

There was blue-gray pallor to the man’s skin and a faint streak of blood at the seam of his lips. Based on his clothing and valuables, Gideon suspected he resided in or had been visiting a townhouse in Mayfair.

“Let us make an effort to identify him. Has anyone in these townhouses been questioned?” Gideon asked Clegg, then glanced up at the fine residences lining the street.

“No, sir. I thought I’d await your arrival and then begin knocking on doors.”

“Start now, Constable.” Gideon glanced up at the door closest to where the man lay. “Start with this address and then those on either side of Mount Street. Determine if anyone witnessed what happened or if anyone knows who this gentleman might be.”

Gideon flicked back the lapel of the dead man’s overcoat. Beneath his waistcoat, his white shirt had been soaked with rain, but it hadn’t fully washed away the blood. The pink-stained fabric was a darker shade near the center of his chest.

“Stabbed, I think,” Gideon murmured, pointing to neat slices in the waistcoat’s embroidered fabric.

Thacker hunched down on the other side of the body. “Yes, there. You can see the tears.”

“And here as well.” Gideon pointed to other neat vertical voids in the garment.

He slipped his hands into the man’s coat pockets and found a pair of gloves in one and a few coins, including two gold sovereigns, in the other. He examined his waistcoat pockets too. One contained a pocket watch on a chain that ran through a waistcoat buttonhole. The other contained another kerchief with the same embroidered initials as the one laid across his face, its fabric bloodied due to its nearness to the wounds on his chest.

Thacker glanced around where the dead man lay, then took a closer look at the body. He lifted the edge of the man’s overcoat.

“There, sir.”

Gideon bent to see a glint of silver and reached beneath the man to extract a slim, etched calling card case. He suspected it had slipped out when he’d fallen. After flipping it open, he fanned a few cards, all of them bearing the name of Percival Pennington, QC and an address on Mount Street.

The man had been a senior barrister, one appointed by the Crown as legal advisor. In all likelihood, he would have handled important and complex cases, earning more than most barristers. Thus, a home in Mayfair.

“Have Clegg knock on the door at number twelve,” he said, slipping the silver case into his pocket.

Thacker stood and rushed off to find the other constable.

So the man had been a few steps away from his home when he’d been stabbed in view of the whole street. The killer had either been very bold or very reckless.

Gideon studied the man’s bare hands, looking for any indication he’d fought off an attack. His right one lay palm up, and the fingers of his left hand were clenched in a fist, but there were no apparent abrasions on his knuckles. No bruising or cuts. Gideon peeled the fingers of his left hand back, and his brows arched.

The gentleman had clasped something as he breathed his last. A crumpled piece of paper. Gideon tugged at the sodden paper carefully, hoping whatever ink it contained hadn’t been washed away.

But once he’d freed it from the man’s grip, he found it wasn’t a letter or a note penned in ink. It was a calling card, with a gilded design around the edges and one name engraved in black at its center.

Gideon clenched his teeth as he held the water-soaked card between his thumb and index finger. The name Electra Poole stared up at him, with her Russell Square address printed in smaller font below it. His pulse picked up speed, thrumming in his veins.

The calm that he steeled himself with at the start of an investigation seeped away, and he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from Electra’s name. His mind spun, grappling for any reason a dead man might be clutching her card in the last moments of his life.

As he stood, footsteps approached quickly from down the street, and a plump woman wearing a mobcap, dark gown, and apron let out a screech as soon as the body came into view.

Covering her mouth with a trembling hand, she gave Constable Clegg a single nod.

“You recognize this gentleman.” Gideon offered it as more statement than question.

“I do, sir.” She nodded again, then clutched her apron in her hands.

“This is Mrs. Coyle,” Clegg put in. “The housekeeper at number twelve.”

“Can you confirm his identity, Mrs. Coyle?”

She gave Gideon a grief-stricken look. “He is the master of 12 Mount Street. Mr. Percival Pennington of Lincoln’s Inn.”

Mrs. Coyle’s gaze fixed on where her employer lay lifeless at their feet.

“What can I do for him?” Her voice shook with a thread of panic.