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“I won’t let any harm come to you.”
Electra scoffed. “You cannot promise such a thing.” Harm came to her father and neither of them could have stopped it. Harm came to her mother, and she had been powerless to help her.
“I must go.” His anger always simmered slowly, but she could see that she’d frustrated him. “Goodnight, Electra.”
With that, he turned to depart, not waiting for her reply.
“Gideon.”
He turned on his heel, brows arched in question.
“Will I be called to the inquest?”
His mouth thinned into a grim line. “Not if I can help it. You did not know Mr. Pennington. Your card came to him by happenstance. But perhaps you should prepare yourself for that possibility.”
He gave her a nod, one last long look, then saw himself out.
Electra uncrossed her arms and paced the rug in front of the fireplace for the umpteenth time that evening. She didn’t feel at all reassured by Gideon’s determination to shield her from involvement in the investigation into Percival Pennington’s death.
Whether he wished it or not, whether she would be called to give testimony at the inquest or not, she was connected to the man somehow. And she intended to find out how.
Chapter Five
The next morning, Gideon rose and set out early to continue his investigation. The sun beat down, as if the day had no memory of yesterday’s storm but for a scattering of tree leaves and branches strewn here and there along the roads that his hired hansom rolled over.
The previous evening, Gordon Callister’s housekeeper had informed Constable Thacker that the man was out when he’d attempted to call on him. Speaking to the man this morning was among Gideon’s priorities for the day, but he needed to visit the police surgeon first and then speak with Percival Pennington’s family.
Gideon stepped into the police surgeon’s tidy office that smelled of antiseptic and coffee, and Dr. Farringdon greeted him from where he sat. Then he immediately placed his report at the front edge of his desk for Gideon to review.
“Your findings?” Gideon prompted, finding his eyes bleary from lack of sleep.
Farringdon seemed to notice. “Cup of coffee, Inspector?”
“Please.”
Farringdon poured from a carafe at the edge of his desk into a thick ceramic mug and slid it toward Gideon.
Gideon took a sip and the brew proved to be smoky, strong, and much needed.
“The deceased suffered six stab wounds to the chest. In one of those strikes, the weapon passed between the ribs, wounded the lung, and penetrated the heart. Such an injury is necessarily of the gravest character and was, in my opinion, sufficient to cause death within a very short period.”
“What might we deduce about the weapon?”
Farringdon glanced down at his report. The answer was likely there, but Gideon held his gaze rather than seeking out the relevant line among the man’s tight, slanted handwriting.
“A longish thin blade. Width of perhaps one inch. Length of approximately five inches.” Farringdon pointed to the report. “The length of the wounds varied, but nothing that indicated hesitation.”
“How strong would the assailant need to be?”
Farrington pursed his lips. “Not weak. If you’re asking if a woman might have inflicted the wounds, it is not beyond the realm of possibility. However, a male attacker is more likely. To plunge a knife deep and in quick succession six times takes some strength. And I suspect the assailant inflicted the wounds quickly. There is no discernable pattern, no artfulness in their placement, and they vary in depth.”
“Proximity to the victim?” Gideon asked.
“Close. Likely face to face or standing to the man’s side.”
“Why wouldn’t Pennington run or struggle?”
Farringdon picked up a pencil and gripped it in his fist. He positioned it in front of his own body and mimicked plunging it six times into his chest, pausing only the barest moment between each strike.
