“Albatross.”
“Alba- what?”
“Albatross.” Police Sergeant Simon Bartholomew repeated, his mouth quirked in a half-smile. “Her hat, or wimple, or what have you, looks like a ruddy, flying albatross.”
He nodded toward a thin, gray-clad woman who was speaking with another policeman on the opposite end of the room. Her brilliant white head covering was gaze-capturingly tremendous.
“An’ what’s an halbatross look like?” Constable Little asked, scratching his head.
“Um…like that hat.”
Little gave Simon a blank look. “No’ too ‘elpful were tha’?”
The sergeant was still snickering when a touch to his elbow distracted him.
“Sergeant Bartholomew, a word if you might.”
“Sir.”
The sergeant turned to follow Inspector Tipple up the stairs to the latter’s office.
“Have you had an opportunity to look into what we discussed earlier?” Tipple said as he sat down at his desk, gesturing for Simon to take the chair opposite.
“I did, sir.”
“And—?” Tipple prodded when Simon’s pause became lengthy.
“And there’s nothing, sir. No reports of a half-dozen bobbies making such an arrest yesterday morning, or of any policeman landing in hospital on account of an assault or some such.”
“I see.”
“What’s this about, sir, if I may ask?”
The inspector fished something out of his pocket and passed it across the desk to the sergeant. “What do you make of that?”
“Sir.” Simon took the item, considered it for a moment, and then looked up at his boss quizzically. “37H. This is Sergeant Todd’s collar number.”
“It is.”
“What does it mean?”
“Before I hazard an answer, it may interest you to know where I found that.”
“Somehow I doubt Sergeant Todd just packed it in.”
“Unlikely.” Tipple chewed the corner of his lip a moment. “I found that bit of metal smashed into the cobbles where our mysterious squad supposedly appeared and then disappeared.”
“Oh.” Simon squinted at the twisted, bent insignia with a frown. “So Lew or someone impersonating him was there, most likely.”
“And it seems Sergeant Todd vanished with or at the same time as the lot of them.”
Both men were silent for a moment, and then Simon asked, “Rather odd, isn’t it, sir? Having two disappearances linked to a squad nobody knows of or has seen since, all within a few hours of each other. If we’re calling Sergeant Todd’s absence a disappearance, that is.”
Tipple cocked his head to one side. “What are the odds, you suppose, that the same men responsible for springing Mr. Harker from prison would also kidnap one of the policemen instrumental in the case against the same Mr. Harker?”
“Is he that?” Simon asked.
“Pardon?”
“Instrumental? Is Sergeant Todd’s testimony so valuable that the case against Nicholas Harker and the whole clan would suffer from its absence?”
“It might, only Lewis has already given his statement in court to the satisfaction of both the defense and prosecution.”
“Might he have discovered new evidence, sir? Something that might scare Harker’s supporters into taking drastic action?”
The promptness with which Tipple replied made the sergeant think the old man had already considered this.
“The timing would be wrong for that. Sergeant Todd finished giving testimony the same morning he disappeared. If he’d uncovered something prior to that, he would’ve at least made note of it at the Bailey; if after, however, it would’ve been too little time for Harker’s people to put something together.”
“Unless they suspected Lew had discovered something – even if he didn’t realize the significance of his discovery at the time – and intervened before the new information could come to light publicly.” Simon ran a finger across his broad moustache. “Perhaps Harker’s people merely used the team already prepared to spring him to nab Sergeant Todd as well.”
The inspector pursed his lips. “Then he was likely the unwitting victim of the Harker clan’s machinations.”
There was a further possibility that remained unmentioned, something Simon knew neither he nor the inspector would ever seriously consider: that Lewis Todd was in the Harkers’ pocket. A dirty copper could have wanted an out and had it supplied by his bankrollers; Lewis, however, was one of the most honest policemen in all the East End.
“While I hope that isn’t the case for Mr. Todd’s sake,” Tipple said after a lengthy pause, “I shan’t need to divert any manpower should things be as you say. Finding one should lead us to the other.”
* * * * *
“David.”
David Powell didn’t remember falling asleep. He’d been sitting on the floor with his elbows resting on his drawn up knees, thinking. He thought he’d only rested his head on his forearms for a moment, but when he looked up again the light and shadows had noticeably shifted.
Now the room – so much like yesterday’s cell, only smaller – had an odd cast to it, as though the ancient clay dust had been kicked up from the floor to paint the air with a muted haze.
“David.”
The priest started at the sound of his name spoken again, and started further when he saw his friend was conscious and sitting upright against the near wall.
“Lew—!”
“David,” the policeman said a third time, his voice steady, if hardly more than a whisper. “Let’s forget for a time that each of us has an Englishman for a father…forget the cold Victorian for a moment.”
“…I don’t understand,” David returned, shifting to sit face-to-face with his friend. Lewis looked about as awful as he had before – all pale and such, perhaps even a tinge bluish – and now his face was twisted up with a strange wash of emotion and effort. The intensity of his gaze held the priest’s captive.
“As an Englishman,” the sergeant rasped, “I can tell you I’ve always admired your courage, from the time when you defied your very formidable father to take orders, to even now as you work tirelessly for the people the rest of us seem to have forgotten.”
He paused to draw a ragged breath, and David realized he’d been holding his own.
“I told you before how much I regret that you’re here, that I’ve made myself useless to you by fighting when I should’ve stopped, that—”
“—Lew,” the priest interrupted, wanting to silence his friend’s needless apology, but the policeman held up a hand.
“I’ve seen the likes of this before, David.” Lewis lifted his other hand, which he’d held pressed to his mangled side while they’d been speaking; the bruises visible through his shirt tatters were now alarmingly larger than before. “I can’t walk. I couldn’t even stand when I tried a few minutes ago. Unless I get to hospital soon, it’s done for me.”
“Surely…” the priest began, but his friend wasn’t finished.
“And I know something’s amiss with you. The brutality of our world can shake any man’s faith – even in what he most strongly believes. Especially when that brutality comes from those claiming the opposite.” He inhaled with a rattling wheeze. “But whether or not the words mean anything to you, say them for me. A simple choice—”
Lewis broke off suddenly and nearly doubled over in a coughing fit. As the wracking effort shook the policeman’s frame, he clutched at David’s arm, his grip like a vice even after the fit subsided.
“I’m drowning, David: I can taste it,” he gasped, head still bowed.
“Then what can an Irishman do for an Italian?”
“Hold me as I die,” whispered the policeman. A plaintive gaze met the priest’s. “I love you. As only a brother can. And you love me the same.”
David opened his mouth to say something, but his thoughts shattered.
“Please.”
* * * * *
“Sir! We’ve caught sight of Harker!”
Constable Little couldn’t keep the elation out of his voice as he stuck his head into Inspector Tipple’s office. The detective stood up sharply.
“Explain.”
* * * * *