Murder of a Hangman: A Redmond and Haze Mystery Book 13 (Redmond and Haze Mysteries) by Irina Shapiro

Author:Irina Shapiro [Shapiro, Irina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Merlin Press LLC
Published: 2024-01-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

Daniel spent the next two hours questioning anyone whose windows faced the Ferryman Inn, both front and back. Assuming that the barrel had not been at the Ferryman all along, it would have been delivered sometime between midnight and six in the morning, while the Dafoes were asleep. Given its weight and dimensions, it would have to have been brought by cart. It would be difficult to carry a dead weight in a container with no handles, even if the killer had help. Likewise, to roll the barrel would make too much noise and draw unwanted attention to those involved.

Daniel wondered if he could rule out Charles Dafoe as a suspect for the moment and take him at his word. For one, Charles Dafoe did not have a motive, as far as Daniel knew. And for another, if he had been the one to kill Philip Hobart, it made no sense to alert Scotland Yard when he could have quietly disposed of the body without putting himself in the frame for murder. No one would ever question a tavern owner loading a barrel into a cart and driving off. It would be like suspecting a gravedigger because he carried a shovel, or a butcher because he routinely used a cleaver. Charles Dafoe had seemed sincere in his grief, but Daniel reminded himself that he had met many a convincing liar, and to cross Charles Dafoe off the list of suspects entirely would be premature.

As expected, none of the neighbors had heard anything out of the ordinary or seen anything to arouse their suspicion, mostly because everyone had been sound asleep. One woman, a weary young mother whose baby was teething and had kept her up half the night, said that she might have heard the sound of wheels that stopped near the mouth of the alley sometime after midnight, but she hadn’t looked out the window, nor did she find it strange that a conveyance might come down the street late at night. It happened all the time, and it might have been a hansom or the nightsoil man’s wagon. There were plenty of people abroad at night, especially those whose work couldn’t be done during the daylight hours, like the poor sods who shoveled shit out of London’s cesspits and took it away before the city stirred to life.

Having finished with his questioning, Daniel wolfed down a bowl of oyster stew at the Ferryman and washed it down with a half-pint of bitter before making his way back to Scotland Yard. Sergeant Meadows was behind the counter, seemingly engrossed in that week’s penny dreadful.

“Anything?” Daniel asked, referring to the appeal.

“No, sir. Nothing yet. Not even the usual reprobates who’ll tell you anything you wish to hear for a few shillings. Surprising, that,” Sergeant Meadows said. “It’s as if the culprit has committed the perfect crime.”

“There’s no such thing as a perfect crime,” Daniel retorted, although he was beginning to suspect that he was dealing with someone very clever indeed.

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