Fisher tented his fingers. What is grander than destroying a prison?
Guy Fawkes Day is approaching, sir. Maybe they intend to have another go at the House of Lords.
Intriguing thought. I dare say there are a few we might not miss.
Keats struggled not to smile. Fisher had an intolerant view of useless nobility.
Issue inquiries if any dynamite or gunpowder has gone missing in the last few weeks, Fisher instructed.
Yes, sir. Is that all, sir? Keats asked, hoping it was.
His superior tapped a folder on the right side of his desk. New cases always went on the right. One more thing. He riffled through it, extracting a single sheet of paper. We are to conduct a discreet inquiry into certain citizens who reside or occasionally stray into the East End.
Sons of the realm making the rounds of the brothels again?
Keats asked wearily.
Indeed. No doubt those who have submitted these names are rivals bent on a little mischief.
Tantamount to wasting our time, Keats grumbled. Couldn’t one of the local inspectors handle this?
Yes, but it’s been handed to us. Fisher pushed the list across the desk. I doubt that any of these fellows is the East End killer, but we do what we are told.
I’ll look into the matter. Along with all my other cases. Keats retrieved the list from the desk but didn’t bother to examine it, tucking it inside his coat. How soon do you need my report?
As soon as you can manage. Frankly, Flaherty is more important to me than those names.
Sir? Keats asked, surprised. The anarchist was a long shot at best.
The Whitechapel killer slays one at a time. A crazy Irishman with explosives can kill hundreds. With our luck, the deaths would include someone important, at least to the Crown. We don’t need that kind of censure.
Keats nodded. Still, it would be a feather in our cap if we found the East End butcher.
It would, but I’m not counting on that. Abberline is no fool. If he hasn’t flushed the fellow out, it’s unlikely we’ll encounter him.
Unless he’s an anarchist, Keats observed, pausing by the door.
Not likely. Madmen tend to confine their lunacy to one track.
Flaherty prefers explosions. Killing one whore at a time would be a waste of his talents—at least in his mind.
Keats pondered the observation. I shall be back with the information as soon as I can.
Thank you, Sergeant.
After he ate breakfast at a dining room, Keats studied the names on the list, taking note of their addresses, occupations and political connections.
A barrister’s son, the nephew of a Conservative Lord, a chemist and a dentist. All a waste of time, I’m willing to wager. He returned the list to his pocket and poured more tea, savoring the moment of relative quiet. It was going to be another long day. He was in no hurry to dive into it.
First, Marylebone, he murmured. This time, the Wescombs might not welcome him quite so warmly.
Lord Wescomb smoothed his moustache with his thumb, brows furrowed in deep thought. I can’t say this is good news, Keats.
No, my lord. Keats attempted to balance a delicate china cup and saucer on his knee, fearful of upending the contents on the expensive furniture. Usually he did not have such difficulty, but his nerves were taut at present.
Lady Sephora noticed his discomfort. Set your tea aside if you feel the need, Sergeant.
Thank you, my lady, Keats replied gratefully. He selected a biscuit and nibbled on it, pointedly catching the crumbs before they tumbled onto the floor in Lord Wescomb’s study. A flicker of a smile came from his hostess.
You say you trust this Fisher person? Wescomb asked after considerable thought.
Yes, I do, my lord. He has a solid head on his shoulders and is not prone to hysteria. Unfortunately, his intellect will demand more answers than I am free to give. Keats brushed his hands over the plate. He wanted more tea, but the threat of making a mess held him in check.
The timing is ill, the lady observed. She shook her head in dismay. The Conclave is anything but subtle these days.
They dare not touch him or we’ll have CID on our heads,
Keats warned.
Indeed. Nevertheless, often what appears to be a disaster may prove a boon. Perhaps it is time the world knew of us, Wescomb suggested.
Keats shook his head. I disagree, my lord. The Chief Inspector weighs everything in relation to the danger it presents to Crown and Country. He is tenacious in that regard. We would, in essence, be the greatest threat he has ever encountered.
Do you feel you can manage him without revealing our secret? Lady Sephora asked.
I have no choice. Fisher must be allowed to continue as Chief Inspector. We must remain hidden. I will just have to navigate a course between those two rocks.
Wescomb’s silvery eyebrow ascended. That is a lot for one man to take upon his shoulders.
I know. I think I am capable. I had better be.
Lady Sephora leaned back in her chair, the tension draining from her face. She graced him with a saintly smile that warmed him to his toes. I do believe you will succeed, Sergeant.
Keats was particularly susceptible to the lady’s flattery. It was a near thing not to blush. Thank you, Lady Wescomb. I value your confidence. He shot a concerned look at her husband.
Wescomb had a grin on his face, aware of the effect his wife had on other men.
Do keep us apprised of the matter, he said. We will not mention this to The Conclave until it is absolutely necessary.
What with Abernathy’s illness—
A series of taps on the door interrupted him. Enter. The maid scurried in and handed an envelope to his lordship. As she left, he ripped it open and then donned his glasses to read the missive. He nodded, as if the contents were not unexpected.
Ah, well, there it is. Abernathy summons us to his Death Rite, and requests that I be the Inquirer.
Does he enclose a list of names? Lady Sephora asked, leaning toward her husband in an attempt to read the document over his shoulder.
Lord Wescomb handed her the letter and pulled a separate sheet from the envelope. After a quick scan, he replied, He seems to be two positions light of the required seven. He says that I should fill them as I see fit. Wescomb glanced over at Keats. Will you do him the honor?
I’ve never met him, but I shall stand at his Death Rite, Keats replied.
Wescomb turned toward his wife. Sephora, will you accept the other position?
She shook her head. No, thank you. I have attended two others this month. I prefer not to see a third.
Oh, Wescomb replied, clearly flummoxed.
Why not Alastair? Keats suggested. He needs to be more involved in our traditions.
Wescomb nodded vigorously. Capital idea! I’ll send for him.
He’ll be at the hospital this time of the day, and none too pleased to be pulled away from his patients.
Even better, Wescomb said. He is one of us, whether he chooses to be or not.
Sephora returned Abernathy’s letter with a pensive expression.
Somehow, I suspect the doctor would most strenuously disagree.
The man was a complete stranger. His crimson and black armband told the story—one of Alastair’s kind was nearing the end of their life. He motioned the fellow into the hospital hallway, away from the curious stares of the nurses.
Who is it? Alastair asked in a low voice.
Abernathy, the solemn man replied.
Alastair blinked. There must be some mistake. I don’t—
A pale hand rose for silence. Come. The Rite waits for no one.
The fellow turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Alastair with a myriad of questions. Biting back a scathing retort, he saw to his patient and then made his apologies for the abrupt departure.
His summoner waited by a carriage. Without a word, the man hoisted himself inside and beckoned to Alastair.
If he believed his escort would be more forthcoming once they were in the privacy of the coach, he was mistaken. Typically, a Death Rite was attended by close friends or family of the dying Transitive. This whole scene made no sense at all.
Alastair tried again. Why am I to be part of this? I do not know this Abernathy. Surely he would wish one of his friends to be present instead of a stranger.
The summoner leveled his gaze on him. You were requested, sir. That is all I know.
Doctor, Alastair corrected, irritated at the man’s tone.
So you are. The fellow proffered an armband. Alastair jammed it into his coat pocket and fumed for the remainder of the journey.
The instant the carriage halted, Alastair disembarked. They were somewhere near Hyde Park. This Abernathy person was well heeled.
The interior of the house spoke of a solid income, though on the ostentatious side. New money, a few social rungs lower than the Wescombs, yet trying to give the impression they were equals.
Most likely a prosperous merchant.
Upstairs, his escort said and then added, Doctor.
Thank you. Alastair relinquished his outer garments to the maid and reluctantly donned the armband, ensuring the crimson stripe was at the bottom to signify his status as one of the Seven.
He was met at the top of the stairs by Keats.
Ah, there you are. Come on, come on. It’s nearly time, his friend urged.
Alastair snagged his arm and whispered, You know this Abernathy?
No, never met him.
Then why are we here?
Keats raised his hands in surrender. Because we are. Now stop fussing. Let’s do what we must. He walked a short distance and entered a door demarked by black and crimson crepe. Alastair took a deep breath and followed him, his mind in turmoil.
The room was every bit as ostentatious as the rest of the house.