Convicted Innocent(32)

Innocent said something further, but the priest couldn’t make out what it was, what with his pulse a thundering, all-consuming tempo in his ears.

The room tilted sideways.

Then everything went black.

* * * * *

“Clay dust.”

“Yes, sir, that’s what the coroner believes the substance is which he found on the deceased’s clothing and shoes, as if the fellow had been crouching or sitting in the stuff,” Sergeant Simon Bartholomew said, looking up from his notes. “I could scrounge up a chemist to have a look at it as well, though.”

Tipple shook his head. “Troublesome at half-past seven on a Sunday morning. Even so, did Dr. Hansworth give any more detail about what sort of clay? As in river silt, or pottery, or plain earth?”

Simon consulted his notes again. “He said it was a fine sort, evenly colored, as used in kiln-fired ceramics. Dishware and the like. And I expect he’s seen plenty of river leavings to discount silt.”

The inspector pursed his lips and ran a hand through his hair.

Simon let the old man think in peace for a moment. The sergeant knew at least one of the Harker family’s factories made dinnerware and wondered if Tipple would order a search of all premises related to it. A move like that certainly wouldn’t be popular with the family – or the larger public – but manhunts for escaped murderers could afford to step on finer sensibilities.

“Sit down, Sergeant,” Tipple said, interrupting Bartholomew’s thoughts.

The inspector leaned back in his desk chair, steepling his fingers, and regarded Simon in silence for a moment.

“Have you ever watched a magician’s act before?”

“Sir?”

Tipple lit a cigarette from the butt of one still smoldering in the ashtray on his desk and inhaled deeply.

“Have you ever visited a country fair and stopped to watch a conjurer or magician perform sleights of hand?” the inspector said again, his words riding a curl of tobacco smoke. “He dazzles you; blinds you by spectacle, or by a flourish, or encourages you to look elsewhere while the trick is played. ‘Look here,’ he says, and we do, and then we look again and are amazed.”

Simon nodded. “But the rabbit is still in the box.”

“Hidden behind a mirror,” Tipple agreed. “And we’ve seen only what we expected.”

“…Sir?”

“I have been chasing the Harkers ever since the former patriarch, Ernest Harker, finagled his son Winston – the current patriarch – out of a dual charge of rape and murder fifteen years ago. And for fifteen years I’ve chased this family: always watching for one of them to finally stumble. Openly waiting in the wings for one of them to finally leave the evidence I need to make a case strong enough for a conviction.”

“Nicholas Harker did.”

Tipple studied the smoke wafting from his cigarette for a moment.

“Did he?” the old man murmured.

“Sir?”

“Having wanted the Harkers and their societal rot to come tumbling down for so long, I saw everything I wished to see when we came upon that young devil holding a bloody knife. The evidence accompanying Nicholas Harker’s arrest was dazzling, and the trail of breadcrumbs that led from there to the witch’s house was spellbinding.”

“What…what are you saying, sir?”

“That, as bad as the Harkers are, there’s someone worse in the mix who’s murdered to achieve his ends against the family. They’ve been set up.”

The look on Tipple’s face was dreadful as he said this, and Simon realized he was seeing – for perhaps the first time ever – the old man let his usually checked emotions slip free. Anger made the detective’s blue eyes flash, and another, darker emotion flushed his cheeks a light but obvious shade of rose.