knocked him down.” She let her glance linger on Brewster, who, with his large hands and habitual scowl, was the very picture of a ruffian.
“May we speak to the boy who works here?”
“Boy? Oh, you mean me grandson.” Mrs. Beadle did not look old enough to have a grandson, but she might have married very young. “He only stays with me sometimes. But he’ll say the same—Major Eden came at nine-thirty or thereabouts and left a quarter of an hour later.”
“Do you mind, madam,” I began, “if we looked over the room Mr. Warrilow stayed in?”
Mrs. Beadle shrugged thin shoulders. “I’ve had constables from the Tower, and then a giant Runner, what’s another set of gents? The Runner was quite friendly, happier than he ought to be. Laughing and loud.”
“That would be Mr. Pomeroy,” I said quietly, and Thompson’s lips twitched in amusement.
“Well, at least he were cordial. Come in, gentlemen. Wipe your boots, please. I just done the floors.”
The house was narrow, like the Clays’, but taller and deeper. The staircase was rather grand, with a wide handrail and a double row of twisted spindles of polished walnut. The proprietress must be proud of it, because unlike the exterior of the house, the staircase shone with varnish, the steps in good repair.
Warrilow’s single chamber resided in the front of the house, two stories above the ground floor. My knee ached by the time we reached it, and I braced myself on my walking stick.
The room’s one window looked out over the square to the aging jewel box of the church, the trees around it aglow with fall leaves, a welcome contrast to the bricks and stones of the city.
The view was the finest part of the room. The rest was spartan in the extreme. One narrow bed was pushed against a wall, with a tall washbasin in the opposite corner. A table with one hard chair reposed on the other side of the room, piled with Mr. Warrilow’s baggage and a stack of papers.
The bed had been stripped of linens and pillows, revealing a hard mattress. That, coupled with the absence of rugs on the floor, made the room chill and barren.
Mrs. Beadle ushered us inside but remained in the hall. “Will anyone be around to collect his things?” she asked.
Thompson turned to her. “No one has come forward to claim him, it seems.”
Mrs. Beadle considered this. “Well, I suppose I’ll keep them a few more days, in case. After that, I’m selling the lot. I need the room, and the extra cash from his clothes and boots wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Would you mind if I looked through them?” I asked, moving to the table.
“Suit yourself. If no one wants the things, it’s none of my concern, is it?”
Brewster had made his way to the washbasin. It was a simple piece with three legs, a shelf on top, and a second shelf that rested about a foot from the floor. The top shelf had a round hole carved in the center to receive the porcelain wash basin, which was absent.
“Did you take the pitcher?” Brewster asked Mrs. Beadle.
She nodded. “Yesterday. After the coroner’s men carried away the body, I took the bedding and the pitcher and basin downstairs and washed everything. I have to ready this room for the next guest.”
“Pity,” Thompson said. “Had the pitcher been moved? Or damaged in any way?”
While Mrs. Beadle stared, confused, Brewster said, “It might have been used to kill the bloke.”
Mrs. Beadle started. “How could it have been? The pitcher and basin were in the washstand, dry as a bone.”
“No blood?” Thompson asked.
“No. Basin hadn’t been used—he hadn’t called for water. The only blood was on Mr. Warrilow. And the bed. I had to throw away the linens.” She swallowed, folding trembling hands together.
“Please, do not be distressed,” I said quickly. “It was a terrible thing.”
“Girl that chars for me found him and screamed something fierce,” Mrs. Beadle said. “I came in and … I tell you this for nothing, gentlemen. I won’t soon forget what I saw.”
“Were he face up? Or face down?” Brewster asked.
“Face down across the bed. The covers had been turned down. Blood all over his clothes. He must have swung away from whoever it was and been struck. Poor lamb.”
The epithet did not describe the man I’d seen lying on the pallet in Mr. Clay’s room. He’d been a hard man, and from what Eden had said, decidedly unpleasant.
“You say he was dressed,” I said. “Yet, he told