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“All the blows could have been delivered in seconds, Inspector.” He hummed a moment. “The attacker might have clapped him on the shoulder to hold him in place. It might have seemed like a greeting or even affection if it were someone the gentleman trusted.” Farringdon shrugged. “Simply a hypothesis.”

Gideon nodded. The theory had merit. “A stranger getting so close would have caused alarm. Presumably, Pennington would have stepped away, or even pushed an attacker away if they brandished a blade.”

Certainly not a robbery, as had been clear from the scene, but also not a crime of chance, it seemed. “Someone he knew approached him,” Gideon mused aloud, “and close enough that he might not have seen the blade before the first strike.”

Farringdon worked his jaw. “Possible, yes.”

“Would the killer have been bloody?”

“Again, it is possible. Some blood on their hands. They might have even cut themselves if their hand slipped on the blade. But covered in blood? No. Unlikely.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Farringdon dipped his head. “You may take the report you see there. My clerk is preparing a typed one to be sent to the coroner today.”

Gideon left with his mind fixed on the blade Farringdon mentioned, how one might conceal such a weapon and attack a man like Pennington before he had any chance to struggle.

After knocking on the door at Mount Street, Spivey, the footman, led him to a front parlor, where he was asked to wait. The room had the feel of a feminine touch, with an ivory-painted desk decorated with gilded accents, floral watercolors adorning the walls, and a bit of unfinished embroidery lying on a chair before a crackling fire.

As he approached the fireplace, he noticed that the desk drawer was slightly ajar, and he strode over, spying a few letters inside. The bundle had been tied with a green ribbon around them. A partially visible photograph of a sharp-featured young man with light-colored hair lay beneath the collection of envelopes. The return address on the top letter indicated the sender, W. Worthington, lived on Half Moon Lane in Southwark. Miss Faraday’s suitor had been corresponding with her, it seemed.

Seeing nothing else of interest, he strode closer to the fire to absorb a bit of its warmth and pondered what he’d learned from the police surgeon’s report he’d finally read on the carriage ride to Mount Street.

There had been abrasions on Pennington’s head and the side of one hand, though the surgeon believed they were more likely to have been caused when Pennington hit the ground than from any struggle with his assailant. Rain could have washed it away, but there was no blood found under Pennington’s nails, nor were there any abrasions on his knuckles.

If Pennington trusted his killer, he would have felt safe standing close, or even embracing. Now it was a matter of finding someone the man trusted and yet who had hidden their disdain, or hatred, or jealousy—whatever motive that had fueled his murder.

He gritted his teeth. The attack came quickly. The chances that someone on Mount Street had glanced out a window in those few seconds was a slim one. Even if they had, the rain had come down so hard during the afternoon that it could have obscured someone’s view, even if they had glimpsed the killer.

As he mused on how Pennington’s killer attacked him in the middle of the street and absconded unseen, he heard raised voices in the Pennington townhouse.

He approached the half-open door and could detect both a man’s and a woman’s voice, both raised. Seeing no one in the hallway, he slipped out and crossed to a pair of closed pocket doors. The voices seemed to be coming from the room beyond.

“And now there is no impediment, don’t you see?” The lady’s voice was youthful, high-pitched with excitement.

“This is not the time—” The man’s voice sounded like a mix of pleading and frustration. “You must be patient.”

“I have been patient! I have waited in vain⁠—”

“Stop. We must speak to this Scotland Yard man so that we may send him on his way and make preparations for the funeral. Compose yourself, Lucy.”

Gideon stepped back, then retreated quickly to the parlor where he’d been asked to wait. A moment later, a rap rattled the half-open door and he attempted to school his features.

Standing at the threshold, a tall blond man with high cheekbones, circles under his eyes, and a striking jawline that reminded Gideon of the man he had found lying on Mount Street, gave him an assessing look.

“I am Lance Pennington. You must be the detective from Scotland Yard.”

Gideon nodded. “Detective Inspector Gideon Pierce.”

“Please join us in the drawing room, Inspector. My niece and I will answer your questions, but I beg you to understand that she is most overwrought. Lucy is young, and she has taken this news quite hard.”

Lance Pennington had a self-possessed air and was almost theatrical in his manner of speaking, gesticulating and inflecting his tone with obvious emotion.

“I understand, Mr. Pennington. I shall take all due care when I speak to Miss Faraday.”

Gideon followed the younger Pennington brother toward the now-open pocket doors.

“I don’t believe you have yet met my niece, Miss Lucy Faraday.” He gestured with a flourish, and despite the man’s overdone manner, Pennington’s voice had a slightly raspy quality, as of someone who had either been up quite late or had awoken very recently.