Blood.
Blood everywhere.
Blood on the walls, blood spattering the carpet, blood pooling beneath the body, blood dripping slowly and rhythmically to the floor.
A macabre scene.
A fatal, cruel, insane, mechanical thing of torture.
Ropes hung from the ceiling, a chain attached to the open window and wrapped round the victim's neck. A pulley system on the other side of the room was creaking ominously, a rope spilling out of it and lashed tightly to the legs.
The body…. torn apart.
An arm flung against the wall, the head battered and unrecognisable, a couple of fingers were lying on the white carpet.
Somewhere outside a bell tolled.
Edith opened the door slowly.
Mary's white face stared round her shoulder, Sybil's shocked eyes followed the cruel mechanism that had wrenched muscle, bone, tissue apart in such an agonisingly mad way.
'Kemal?'
Mary's small voice broke the silence. There was such a quality of terror in it that Edith shuddered and clutched her stomach.
'Kemal Pamuk?'
Sherlock stepped through, for once he had the humanity to not make a remark. 'No. It's Thomas Barrow.'
And then Edith fainted.
At least, she seemed to faint, the room spun, and she didn't hear anything for what felt like hours, though it was only a few seconds.
Thomas…
Her friend.
Was dead.