P. Elrod: The Hanged Man

As for the room’s late occupant-odd-there was no trace of melancholy at all, which puzzled her. Why, then, had this man killed himself?

No emotional residue presented itself to answer. The only feelings here were of self-satisfaction, a sense of accomplishment, anticipation-not at all what she’d expected.

If not suicide, then murder?

But she found no trace of that either, unless that satisfaction belonged to the perpetrator. Not likely, for the emotion was well attached to the general atmosphere of the room, imprinted there by its most habitual occupant.

The man had not killed himself, nor had he been awake to resist an attacker. He’d passed unaware. Considering the agony of such a death, that was just as well, but it was impossible that he could have slept through it. Had he been in a drunken stupor?

The attacker had left no sign of himself behind. Not one hint remained of anger, jealousy, love, hate, or any of the myriad emotions that drove one human to take the life of another.

That was impossible. There was always something; an action as intense as murder always left a stain. She’d never been at a scene of violence that did not have motivational emotions lingering about. They lay like shards of broken glass, and one could follow them to the source if it was a fresh enough trail.

But no such trail existed here. Had there been a psychic cleansing, then it would have removed the latent emotions of the dead occupant as well.

Opening her eyes, Alex shut down the inner mechanism of nature that others ironically called her “gift” and switched to her cultivated talent for observation.

A chest was at the foot of the bed, nearly under the chandelier hook. The dead man’s right ankle brushed against the chest’s side. Supposedly he stood on it, secured one end of the rope to the ceiling hook, then stepped off.

It would have been difficult to lift an unresisting body up high enough to slip a noose around its neck. Even to loop it first, then hoist the body up using the ceiling hook as a pulley would require a strong, strapping fellow. Two would have found it easier, but she could not think how one man could have erased his psychic spoor, much less two.

No shoe prints or scuffs were visible on the bare wood of the chest. A few swipes with a gloved hand would take care of that.

First things first: How had the killer gotten in and out?

The window was the likely point of entry. Perhaps the late tenant enjoyed fresh air; some hardy sorts left their windows wide open, even in this weather. She crossed the room. The latch was unengaged. He could have left it cracked and an intruder took advantage of it.

“What are you about?” demanded Lennon. He’d been quiet during her psychical scrutiny, which was now clearly over.

“Checking things,” she said, peering at the sill. It was wet from sleet melting on the relatively warmer surface of it and the floor. Had there been footprints left by an intruder, they were lost now.

He grunted and joined her. If the stench bothered him, he gave no sign. “You think someone done for him?”

“Yes. Despite appearances, this is a murder.”

“That what his ghost told you?”

“Inspector, you are well aware that I Read only the emotions left by the living, not the dead. What I found tells me that this poor man did not kill himself. He was somehow rendered insensible, then hung up like a Christmas goose at a butcher’s.”

“Who done for him, then?”

“I can’t tell. There’s no psychical trace of the killer.”

“Meaning?”

“Whoever did this left no muddy footprints for a Reader to follow. He’s psychically invisible, and that’s impossible.”

“Your whole Service is impossible, and yet here you are.”

“Which is your good fortune, Inspector. This is something new; you’ll have the credit for it.”

“Keep your credit. You can’t see him? Then how do you know anyone was here?”

She shook her head. Trying to explain the emptiness to him would be like describing light and color to a blind person.

“If you think someone topped him, show me real proof, Miss Pendlebury.”

That might be a problem. There was no city soot on the outer sill to hold footprints either.

“My missus should clean this well,” grumbled Lennon. “Someone could have got in and out this way, but he’d have been seen. Someone in the street would have noticed a ladder where it shouldn’t be. There’s idlers about. We questioned them, they didn’t see anything.”

“What about a misplaced mountaineer dangling from the roof like a great spider?” she asked. “People aren’t likely to look up in this weather.”

“There’s that,” he conceded. “Though anyone at a window across the way would notice. But at this hour and in this dark-”

“Otherwise the only entry and exit is the room’s one door.”

“Unless you think there’s a secret passage behind the fireplace.”

“I should be most surprised if there was.” The layout of this house was similar enough to her own, and hers had no such feature.

“You’re minded that it’s a sneak-thief?”

“If not a thief, then a sneak with murderous intent and the intelligence to arrange this to be taken for a suicide. I suggest sending someone observant to examine the roof, otherwise this horrid deed may have been done by a member of the household or one letting in a murderous confederate.”

Lennon’s eyes narrowed and his jaw worked as he grunted agreement. He had not risen through the ranks at Scotland Yard by being a fool. While showing unflagging contempt for her psychical talent, he never discounted her observational skills.

Again, she cast about, searching every corner, every item in the room.

The table next to the bed held a water carafe and a glass on a little tray. Neither had apparently been used, but a clever killer would have tidied things.

Alex went to the bedside to examine the carafe. There were potent soporifics without color, though they were often detectable by taste or smell. If one wanted to render a person insensible, then a large amount would have to be dissolved in the carafe-and when would the killer have an opportunity to do that?

“You think there’s something nasty in his water?” Lennon asked.

“It’s too uncertain. How could he be sure his victim would even take a drink in the night? Or when?”

“Too true, but I’ll collect it in evidence.”

Someone had silently entered the room and-what? Injected the man with some substance? If so, then the sting of the needle had not wakened him. The medical examiner might find the puncture, giving lie to this being a suicide.

“What makes this murder, eh?” pressed Lennon.

Alex checked a drawer in the bedside table. Inside was a pocket watch and a Bible. She had to forsake the scented handkerchief, needing both hands. She took a deep breath, then picked up the watch and used the small key on its chain to wind it. A quarter turn and no more, so he’d wound it before retiring, read a bit of his Bible, then put out his candle, just as a thousand other men might do.

“What suicide troubles to wind his watch?” she asked.

“Force of habit,” Lennon countered. “I’ve seen queerer stuff. What else?”

Her pent-up breath puffed out as she put the items back, and she did not get the handkerchief to her nose in time, catching a whiff of the stench-and something else.

She bent to sniff the man’s pillow.

Sharp and astringent, no more than a whisper of it remained, and that was well masked by the stronger smell of night soil, and further diluted by the freezing air blowing in; this death might well be ruled a suicide but for that.

“Got you,” she said, pointing and stepping back to make room for the inspector.