Chapter 23
Monday, 1 October, 1888
Once he’d shaken his own pack of hounds and shifted form, Keats made his way toward Bishopsgate. Listening to the crowd outside the station told him Alastair was already in residence.
Pushing his way to the door, Keats displayed his card and was readily granted entrance. A few minutes later he was on the move again, not bothering to see his friend. He was in no mood to tip his hand just yet. If the truth were to be discovered, he’d need to perform his investigation before the street court passed its verdict.
Admittedly, he’d played Alastair like a pawn; the incident in the alley fell in Metropolitan Police territory, yet he’d sent his friend to Bishopsgate—a City of London police station. He banked on the time it would take for the two divergent organizations to work through the issue of jurisdiction. That was his edge.
He dispatched a telegram to Chief Inspector Fisher with the terse message, Dr. A.M. now in custody Bishopsgate, possible assault on woman. Concerned for safety. Might you intercede?
Returning to the alley where it had all begun, he found the scene altered. Someone had spread straw over the bloodstains and added a wilted flower, no doubt believing this to be another example of the Whitechapel killer’s handiwork. He swallowed heavily at the poignancy of the makeshift tribute. Had he so misjudged Alastair that it had cost Jacynda’s life?
No matter how hard he searched, the scene yielded no clues. As expected, the witnesses had scattered. He went door to door interviewing those few folks who had heard the commotion. To the person, they’d ignored the ruckus and gone on with their lives.