Detective Inspector Horace Tipple twirled his watch on its fob once, then twice in irritation as he paced back and forth in the hallway behind the trial chamber at the courthouse.
He’d missed lunch due to the proceedings and, given the way that Friday afternoon was unfolding, tea would likely come and go without him seeing a crumb as well. Lawyers were making a hash of things as usual, and everything that should’ve been straightforward, given the evidence the police investigations had turned up, was being bent backward and twisted to nonsensical proportions in the way that lawyers were always wont to do.
Shakespeare certainly had it right, he groused to himself.
To make matters worse, the cart carrying his murder suspect from the prison a few miles away was late. ‘Twas a pity the ever-crowded Newgate was currently experiencing a nasty bout of influenza, else the man on trial could have been conveniently held next door.
He’d waited years for this trial, having dogged the Harker family for the greater part of his career. The Harkers were one part legitimate mercantile titans, nine parts crooks and thieves and cutthroat extortionists. They had the means and influence of the old aristocracy without any of the titles and traditional restraints of class, and this (and no small amount of cunning) gave them power. They’d been in court a number of times – a few even due to Horace’s patient hounding – but they had always slipped the charges.
Then, finally, Horace had caught one of their young scions very nearly in the act of murder. Well, one of the inspector’s men had made the arrest, but the pair of them had worked the subsequent investigation together. And that investigation yielded a veritable treasure trove of damning evidence against the entire Harker family. On account of that one arrest, Horace hoped the Harker empire would come crashing down like a house of cards.
Of course, the trial was a nightmare of a court case, for the Harker lawyers were masters of minutiae and legal sleight of hand. And, as always, the Harkers had rallied around their delinquent kinsman to present a united, ‘we are wrongfully accused’ front to the public. Nevertheless, the inspector was fairly confident that the weight of the police evidence, the testimony of the few key witnesses, and the ponderous, yet precise English judicial system would prevail.
With a concerted effort, then, Horace checked his ire. He’d waited fifteen years for this trial: what were a few more days or weeks? After all, the death of all the lawyers wouldn’t make the proceedings go any more quickly, and the streets were often quite congested between Holloway and the Old Bailey.
As for the missed meals, Hildy would say he could stand to skip one or two quite comfortably….
So he halted his pacing and put his watch back in his pocket.
Calm, Horace told himself. A copper is always calm.
“Constable Simmons,” he said, snagging the elbow of a passing bobby he recognized. “Is there word on either our suspect or that witness...Frank O’Malley? Both are past due for arrival.”
The constable looked strangely discomfited as he replied, “Sir: no word on Mr. O’Malley.”
Simmons hesitated.
The inspector noticed a curious trace of sweat beading on the constable’s brow. Was poor chap taking ill?
“And the suspect?” Horace prompted when the other only stood there fidgeting.
“Ah…I thought you might have already heard, sir. Paddy wagon collected the suspect at the correct time, but it disappeared enroute. No sign of it for half an hour, sir.”
The inspector stood rooted in place for a moment, two moments, as dismay and frustration whirled helter-skelter about his thoughts. If they were unable to bring the murder case to a close with that Harker in the noose, he had no idea what would become of the proceedings altogether.
He knew, however, that his face betrayed nothing, as well it should. Once the internal riot was tamped down, Horace asked softly, “You’re quite sure?”
His calmness clearly took Simmons by surprise, but the young chap rallied.
“To the best of my knowledge, sir. My sergeant will have more information if you need it, sir.”
“Right then. We’ll treat this as an escape until we know otherwise. Take me to…Sergeant Colmes, is it? There’s not a moment to waste.”
* * * * *