Pomeroy laid it carefully on Mr. Turner's chest.

"Belongs to one Colonel Aloysius Brandon," he said.

I stared at it in sudden shock, then back at Pomeroy.

"I am afraid so, sir," he said. "He admitted the knife was his, but has no idea how it came to be a-sticking out of the chest of Mr. Turner."

I at last understood why Pomeroy had so urgently sent for me. Colonel Brandon had been my commanding officer during the recent Peninsular War. He'd also at one time been my mentor and my friend.

Currently, Brandon was my enemy. His actions had ended my career as a cavalry officer and brought me back to London tired and defeated.

"And where is Colonel Brandon now?" I asked tersely.

"Bow Street. I sent him off with my patroller. He'll face the magistrate tomorrow."

Like a common criminal, I thought. The magistrate would examine him and decide whether he had enough evidence to hold Brandon at Newgate for a trial.

I studied the knife. Nothing remarkable about it except that it had belonged to Colonel Brandon.

"Did Brandon offer any explanation as to how the knife got there?" I asked.

Pomeroy rocked on his heels. "None whatsoever. Our colonel looked blank, said he didn't do it, and that I should take him at his word." He cocked his head. "Now what kind of Runner would I be if I believed every criminal what told me that?"

I could imagine Brandon, his back straight, his blue eyes chill, telling Pomeroy that his word should be enough to clear him of a charge of murder. He had likely marched off with the patroller, head high, indignation pouring from every inch of him.

"That the knife belongs to Brandon does not mean that he stabbed Turner," I said. "Colonel Brandon could have used the knife at any time this evening-to pare an apple or some other thing. He might have laid down the knife, and anyone might have picked it up."

Pomeroy tapped the side of his nose. "Ah, but the good colonel told me that was nonsense. Said he never remembered taking the knife out of his pocket."