it to his pocket, then picked up the mallet next to the bag and reached for the second door, behind which he heard a woman’s voice.
“Jonathan, supper’s ready!”
When the artist pushed the door inward, he encountered a short, thin woman on the verge of opening it. She had weary eyes similar to the shopkeeper’s. Those eyes enlarged, surprised by both the artist’s presence and the smock he wore. “Who the devil are you?”
The hallway was narrow, with a low ceiling. The artist had seen it briefly when pretending to be a customer a week earlier. In the cramped area, to get a full swing, he needed to hold the mallet beside his leg and thrust upward, striking the woman under her chin. The force knocked her head backward. As she groaned, he shoved her to the floor. He dropped to one knee and now had space to raise his arm, delivering a second, third, and fourth blow to her face.
To the right was a doorway into a kitchen. Amid the smell of boiled mutton, a dish crashed. The artist straightened, charged through the doorway, and found a servant girl—someone he had seen leave the shop on an errand a week earlier. She opened her mouth to scream. In the larger space of the kitchen, he was able to use a sideways blow that stopped the scream, shattering her jaw.
“Mama?” a child whimpered.
Pivoting toward the doorway, the artist saw a girl of approximately seven in the corridor. Her hair was in pigtails. She held a ragdoll and gaped at her mother’s body on the floor.
“You must be Laura,” the artist said.
He whacked her skull in.
Behind him, the servant moaned. He slit her throat.
He slit the mother’s throat.
He slit the child’s throat.
The coppery smell of blood mingled with that of boiled mutton as the artist surveyed his tableau. The rush of his heart made him breathless.
He closed his eyes.
And jerked them open when he again heard a child’s cry.
It came from farther down the corridor. Investigating, he reached a second open door. This one led into a crowded, musty-smelling bedroom, where a candle revealed a baby’s cradle, its wicker hood pulled up. The cries came from beneath the hood.
The artist returned to the kitchen, retrieved the mallet, proceeded to the bedroom, smashed the cradle into pieces, pounded at a bundle in the wreckage, and slit its throat.
He rewrapped the bundle and put it under a remnant of the cradle’s hood.
The candle appeared to become stunningly bright. In absolute clarity, the artist noted that his hands were covered with blood. His smock was red with it, as were his boots. Finding a cracked mirror on a drab bureau in the bedroom, he determined that his beard, wig, and cap were unmarked, however.
He went to the kitchen, filled a basin from a pitcher of water, and washed his hands. He took off his boots and washed them also. He removed the smock, folded it, and set it on a chair.
After leaving the mallet on the kitchen table, he stepped into the hallway, admired the servant’s corpse on the kitchen floor, and closed the door. He shut the door to the bedroom also. He walked to the front of the store and considered the artistry of the mother and the seven-year-old girl in the blood-covered hallway.
He closed that door also. The shopkeeper’s body could be seen only if someone looked behind the counter. The next person to enter the shop would encounter a series of surprises.
Terror and pity.
A fine art.
Abruptly someone knocked on the door, making the artist whirl.
The knock was repeated. Someone lifted the latch, but the artist had made certain that the bolt was secured.
The front door did not have a window. With the shutter closed on the main window, whoever knocked on the door could not see inside, although the lamplight was evidently still detectable through cracks around the door.
“Jonathan, it’s Richard!” a man shouted. “I brought the blanket for Laura!” More knocking. “Jonathan!”
“Hey, what’s the trouble there?” an authoritative voice asked.
“Constable, I’m glad to see you. “
“Tell me what you’re doing.”
“This is my brother’s shop. He asked me to bring an extra blanket for his baby girl. She has a cold.”
“But why are you pounding?”
“He won’t open the door. He expects me, but he doesn’t open the door.”
“Knock louder.”
The door shook.
“How many people live here?” the policeman’s voice asked.
“My brother, his wife, a servant girl, and two daughters.”
“Surely one of them would hear you knocking. Is there a back entrance?”