Saturday
Their captors left them alone after locking up David and his friend again. The room was a different one, and light flickering through a small, oblong hole in one of the walls broke up the darkness.
Though it took the priest a few moments to get his bearings, he lurched to Lewis’s side as quickly as he could.
All night long David kept a dogged vigil over him.
Lew only woke a few times, each time muttering apologies his friend was quick to silence, before lapsing back into unconsciousness. The sergeant’s slumber was fitful – marked by labored breathing, bouts of coughing, and an occasional low groan – and David feared what that meant for his friend’s health.
As dawn’s hazy fingers crept through the high, dirty windows and he was just steeling himself to make a thorough examination of Lew’s injuries, the door to the room crashed open.
The priest’s heart stuttered a beat, but someone only plunked a sloshing bucket and a loaf of bread inside the door. He then retreated before David had finished rising stiffly to his feet.
As the bolt slid home again, the priest crossed the ground to the door and discovered a pail of water (brackish smelling, but water nonetheless) in addition to the stale bread.
Bread. Water. Despite everything, David’s empty stomach panged and growled with the thought of food, and the pain of his parched throat became instantly more acute with relief so near. But, no: he would hold until he saw to his friend.
He was just mustering his courage to do so when the sound of a sigh reached his ears. The priest spun on his heel and peered hopefully through the gloom in Lew’s direction, but the man was still out cold.
A yawn sounded behind David and he turned again. What he’d mistaken for a pile of rubbish in the far corner was in fact a young man with lank brown hair and a round, moon-like face with a dimpled chin and wide-set eyes; the fellow was now sitting up and stretching. A ratty blanket fell away as he stood.
“‘llo,” the other murmured through another gaping yawn.
David nodded a wary greeting. “Who are you?”
“I’s is ‘nnocent.”
“Pardon?”
Though languages were David Powell’s forte, he had the hardest time deciphering what the other fellow was saying at first, and he couldn’t tell if the young chap just had a thick accent or a speech impediment.
After a few repetitions, however, the clergyman understood the other’s name was Innocent and that he was as much a newcomer as they were. David gave him his name.
“Who’s ‘at?”
Innocent pointed at the sergeant.
“My best mate, Lew.”
Finally mustering his nerve, David knelt down again next to his friend. Lewis lay curled on his side as he had been much of the night, arms drawn tightly across his middle, and his face, under rusty streaks of dried blood, was grayish and pinched.
“‘E s-s-sick?” Innocent stuttered. To the priest’s surprise, the young man crouched down beside him also.
“Sorely injured.”
Innocent cocked his head and nodded.
“‘Urt b-b-bad.”
Between the two of them, they maneuvered the sergeant onto his back, pried his arms away, and removed the remnants of his uniform tunic. The last fight had reduced the dark wool to little more than ribbons, and the shirt Lew wore underneath was hardly better, though it still (at least) had the appearance of a shirt.
David was at first glad to see that the blood staining his friend’s front appeared to have come entirely from injuries to his face – a nose possibly broken afresh, a gashed chin – rather than anything like a knife wound. But the way Lew was rasping, wheezing with every breath made the priest rip the fellow’s shirt open as well.
“Oh.”
“Wha’ s’it?”
David released his friend, and the sergeant curled back up reflexively with a moan.
“He’s…I’ve never….” He’d never seen anyone’s ribcage so obviously or badly broken. Lew’s right side…. “He’s in a very, very bad way.”
Innocent nodded. “I pray.”
And the young man bowed his head.
The simple declaration sent a silent but deafening roar through David’s brain – a scream that shrieked a wordless question. A question he could not answer; a demand he could not satisfy; a failing he could not overcome.
This failing was what the priest had so wanted to tell his friend about the afternoon before: it was the cause of his fear, his shame, his cowardice, and his despair. It was the reason he started so badly at every rustle their captors made. It was why the tangible shadow of death struck such terror in his soul.
The scream hadn’t begun just with yesterday’s events, but with the brutal kidnapping it had gained focus; it had gotten louder, to the point that David could ignore it no longer.
He, a priest, could not pray.
* * * * *
Inspector Tipple knocked on the door and waited patiently. The Saturday morning air was misty, and the fog hung like a held breath in the air.
Even if Sergeant Todd was sick abed (the rumored explanation for the dutiful sergeant’s mysterious absence), delirious with a fever, he wanted to pick the man’s brain about the Harkers. After all, Todd was the fellow with whom he’d worked the case so closely.
In fact, aside from himself, the sergeant was one of the few still in Whitechapel’s H Division who could offer any sort of educated opinion on the Harkers. Nearly everyone else who’d ever crossed swords with the family had long since retired or given up the chase. True, the fellow’s interest was largely the result of having spent far too much time in Horace’s company; the inspector’s obsession had certainly rubbed off on the younger man.
“Good morning. Is Sergeant Todd receiving visitors?”
“Inspector Tipple: good day to you as well,” said Mrs. Marsh, the landlady. Her tone was apologetic as she continued. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen Mr. Todd since last morning quite early. I don’t know if he’s about, though you’re welcome to go up and check.”
A few minutes later, Horace stood at the top of the steps catching his breath. (No wonder Lewis was so fit: that was a very long set of stairs.)
When no answer came to his repeated knocking, the inspector let himself in using the key Mrs. Marsh had lent him.
“Sergeant Todd?”
But the neat little garret flat was empty, and there was no indication of where the other policeman might be.
Flummoxed, the inspector retraced his steps, bade farewell to Mrs. Marsh, and stepped back out into the thinning mist. He paused on the stoop for a minute or two, chewing his lip in consternated thought.
Where the blazes was his sergeant?
To his right, he noticed a crew of workmen laying out their supplies to begin painting shutters and doors on the long row of tenements. From the state of the said shutters and doors, he thought they might’ve been at work for a few days or more.
“You there,” Horace called, addressing one of the workmen, who straightened and turned. “Were you chaps here yesterday, perchance?”
“Oh, aye, gov,” he replied, a paintbrush in hand. “You needin’ work done?”
“Thank you, no. However, did you happen to notice a rather tall policeman coming or going from this building?” the inspector asked. “He’s the sort a body can’t miss in a crowd.”
The fellow frowned and scratched the crown of his balding head thoughtfully.
“Dark, serious chap? Few times,” one of the others chimed in.
“‘E do some’ing wrong?” another asked, the glint in his eyes suggesting all too plainly how delightful he found that thought.
“When did you see him coming or going?” Horace latched on to the second fellow’s helpful comment.
“Early. We were settin’ up the firs’ time ‘e left. Chap stopped just there—” the second worker pointed to a spot on the pavement a few paces from Horace’s position “—an’ spoke wif some young miss—”
“—smashin’ ginger ‘air,” the third fellow chimed in again, “an’ she ‘ad really nice—oof!”
The second fellow elbowed the one who’d interrupted him and continued.
“She were quite pretty an’ we all stopped to look at ‘er, same as the copper. Then they went different ways.”
“And after that?” the inspector prompted. He had an inkling of the woman’s identity—Sergeant Todd’s acquaintance, Ms. Penelope Marvelle – and he’d track her down if necessary.
“Later – maybe mid-morning like – your p’liceman was goin’ up them steps when some other bobby come runnin’ up, said some’ing urgent-like, an’ then they both ‘urried off together. Didn’t see ‘im no more after. Not yesterday, nor today,” he finished.
“Which way did they go?”
This sort of conversation repeated several times over the next hour as Horace dogged his sergeant’s footsteps from the day before. Though the sometimes vague answers led the inspector along a meandering route, he was confident he was moving in the right direction. After all, Sergeant Todd truly did stand out in a crowd, and he was fairly well known in the neighborhood.
One of the last people the inspector spoke with provided the most interesting tale.
“Last mornin’…” started the wizened old fellow (he’d introduced himself as Burberry), and then his voice trailed off in recollection.
Horace’s tracking had taken him down a narrowing, crooked series of side streets and alleys. He’d noticed Mr. Burberry and stopped him as he stumped by because the man had the sure-footed, habituated absentmindedness of someone crossing his customary turf.
There were very few about otherwise.
“Don’t know if’n I saw your bloke, but there were’n quite a rumpus I ‘appened upon.”
“Describe it for me, please.”
“Seems as like some chap attacked a bobby, an’ several others come to ‘is aid. I was makin’ me way ‘ome, an’ saw ‘em.”
Horace waited expectantly during Burberry’s lengthy pause.
“What were I sayin’?” He began again, licking his lips. “Ah yes. Saw a group o’ you chaps standin’ ‘round another – ‘e was on the ground, senseless, like – an’ they had some chap pinned against that wall there—” Burberry pointed, “—an’ I stopped for a tad to watch.”
“Did you notice any faces?” The detective asked, though a look at Burberry’s rheumy eyes and he doubted the old fellow could pick out much with any clarity.
As expected, the old fellow shook his head. “Didn’ see ‘ny fightin’ neither, but the men were huffin’ and puffin’ as like they’d been in quite a rumpus just afore. One o’ them suggested I go about me business. So in, I did.”
Horace asked a few further questions but received no clearer answer than this.
Might Sergeant Todd have been the bobby who’d been attacked?
He wondered if he should be checking hospitals.
* * * * *