As Alastair flung himself toward the front door, rough hands tore at him, ripping his jacket and shirt. Hot breath scorched his neck. Someone’s fingers dug into his wounded arm, making him cry out.
For God’s sake, help me, Alastair shouted to the constables, flailing in the sea of angry faces.
Belatedly, one of them waded in with his truncheon. Hey, get off, you lot, he bellowed. The building disgorged three more bobbies, who joined their companion in the melee. Fists flew.
Rough hands hauled him toward the station.
A minute later, Alastair found himself on his knees just inside the door. His head spun and his right ear burned from a blow. He rose to his feet, adjusting his torn garments with some measure of dignity.
This way, a cop ordered, pointing. Alastair trailed behind the constable, grateful to have escaped with his life.
To his supreme irritation, they stuck him in a cell for safekeeping, as they called it. The small enclosure was dirty and smelled like its last occupant, who had apparently worked in a slaughterhouse. Alastair parked himself on the hard bed, rubbing his palms together to flake the dried blood onto the floor.
I pray you lived, he whispered.
He turned his mind to what would come next. He’d have to explain what had happened in the alley. Well, most of it, at least.
The cell door creaked open. A man entered, flanked by two constables. He was clad in a black suit, and the way he moved told Alastair he was senior in rank.
Right, now, let’s get this hashed out, he said. What’s your name?
Doctor Alastair Montrose.
Where do you live?
At a boarding house on New Castle Street.
Where do you work?
London Hospital and at a clinic on Church Street.
Any surgical training?
Some.
The two constables traded knowing looks. One smirked.
How did you get blood on yourself? the senior cop quizzed.
Alastair spun the tale as best he could, though he’d never been much of a liar. He left out almost all the details, other than how a particular friend was to meet a gentleman at the pub on Crispin Street. Fearing for her safety, he’d tracked her to an alley and found her wounded.
Is this woman a prostitute? the man asked.
No, she is not.
Where is she now?
I’m not sure. I chased her assailant away. She was gone when I returned.
Which alley?
I’m not sure. It is somewhere near the Paul’s Head.
Take off your jacket.
Alastair removed it and his questioner explored the pockets.
When he came up with the bloody handkerchief, that earned Alastair a long look. Then he produced the clean one.
You usually carry two?
No, not usually. I must have forgotten I’d already put one in my pocket.
The coat came back to him and he placed it on the bed. His inquisitor pointed at the bandage on his arm. The wound was bleeding again, courtesy of the crowd.
I was assaulted the other evening, Alastair explained.
Where?
Near my clinic.
Robbery?
I think so, though I had no money on me at the time.
Which was?
Pardon?
The time?
About two or three in the morning.
Why were you out that late, Doctor?
I couldn’t sleep. In his mind, Alastair could hear the hole deepening with every answer he supplied.
One of my men says he saw you last night on Aldgate High Street, that you stopped to help him with a drunken woman.
Yes, I did. There wasn’t much I could do for her.
Do you know her name? Alastair shook his head. Were you in Mitre Square last night?
Alastair’s throat tightened. Yes. I crossed through the square to go to Bury Street.
What’s there?
A patient of mine, a Mrs. Butler. Her son helps us at the clinic.
Did you see the drunken woman later in the evening, perhaps on your way back to your lodgings?
No. Why is that important?
Are you in the habit of associating with dolly-mops?
Alastair frowned. I offer medical treatment for their ailments.
Do I consort with them? No.
Are you sure you didn’t encounter the woman later in the evening, perhaps demand some personal payment for your earlier treatment? There was a low snort from one of the constables.
Alastair’s temper flared. That’s insulting. To suggest I would expect a woman to––
You wouldn’t be the first. The officer continued, Where were you the rest of the night?
I left Mrs. Butler’s at approximately a quarter to midnight.
Once I returned home, I went to bed. The lie sounded hollow.
What if they talked to Keats? What would he tell them?
Rather precise with times, aren’t you?
Alastair shrugged.
Any witnesses?
And there it was. His witness was gone. Yes. Miss Lassiter accompanied me to see Mrs. Butler, and returned with me to the boarding house. He inwardly winced. That sounded wrong. Miss Lassiter lives at the boarding house, as well, he quickly added.
Ah. Then we’ll have to talk to her.
If you can find her. She is the woman who was injured tonight in the alley.
Well, that’s right handy, isn’t it? Do you have anyone else who can vouch that you were in your own bed?
Before Alastair could answer, there was a tap at the door. A clerk of some sort hurried in and whispered into the senior man’s ear. His message caused a grimace.
Blast them. How did they find out? he asked.
The fellow shrugged and shot Alastair a quick look.
Right then, we’ll step back until they get here. But if that mob breaks through, I’m not risking my men for someone who isn’t my responsibility. You tell them that. The clerk bobbed his head and left.
His questioner gave him a sour look. Seems you’re too hot for us to handle. Alastair heard the resentment and envy. With a final glare, the cop slammed the cell door behind him. Someone had just pulled rank.
Who had that kind of power? And where in the devil was Keats?