Chapter 24
An hour later, he found the woman who had stumbled over Alastair, drunk and holding court at the Britannia, telling her tale to anyone who would buy her a drink. From her condition, it appeared she’d been talking for a long time. The tale had grown with each recitation.
After introducing himself, Keats asked, What did this fellow look like, madam?
About six feet, bushy eyebrows, I think. He had a wicked scar on his cheek. He spat and waved his knife at me. I ran for it, I did.
A couple of the locals gave a cheer, and she executed a curtsey that nearly toppled her over.
On which cheek was the scar? Keats asked.
She thought and said, Left one, it was, while pointing to her right. Keats made note of that.
Hair color?
Black as coal.
Eyes?
Red, like the devil.
How old was this fellow?
Oh… The woman pondered for a bit while the small group around her bent closer in anticipation. I’d say about fifty. Shabby genteel, he was. And he had a black flowin’ cape and a big bag.
What color was the bag?
Black. A hiccup. She demurely put a hand over her mouth and giggled.
What was he doing when you first saw him?
Crawlin’ around on the ground, sniffin’ like a hound.
Pardon?
He was crawlin’ around on all fours like a dog. I thought it right queer. Then he looks up at me and leers. I ran for it. I ain’t no fool.
That might be debated. What about the woman?
She was dead. He’d cut her throat.
Had he…disarranged any of her clothing?
No. She was propped up against the wall like a puppet.
Did he say anything to you?
More thought, and then a nod. ‘You’re next, luv.’
Your name and where you live, madam? Lest we ever need your ridiculous testimony.
Katherine Miller, she said. I live on Sandy’s Row.
Thank you, madam, he said, tucking the notebook away.
You catch him, you hear? I want to see him swing. I want a front-row seat.
Yes, madam.
Keats paused outside the pub to wipe his face with his handkerchief. Fate had delivered a witness who was useless. It was a safe bet that if Alastair were tidied up and placed in front of her, she’d not recognize him.
Thank God.
He made another pass through the alley. This time, he got lucky.
I saw a man go down there with a lady, the cobbler said. He had a pair of patched boots in his hands, apparently on the way to deliver them to their owner. She weren’t one of the whores.
How could you tell?
She was carrying a heavy bag, a brown one. Whores don’t do that. They wear all their clothes.
That’s sound reasoning, Keats replied. What did the man look like?
Well dressed, graying moustache, older gent. Seemed out of place. Too posh for here, that’s why I watched him. His shoes were right fine.
Keats kept the smile to himself. A cobbler would notice the man’s footwear.
Did you overhear any of their conversation?
I did. The lady asked him where he’d been all this time, and whatever he said upset her. She was angry at him.
Did he seem to threaten her in any way?
No. But there was something not right about him. Felt cold, like the grave.
Keats made note of the man’s name and address. Thank you for your time. If you should think of anything else, he said, offering his card. The fellow’s eyes descended southward to Keats’
boots.
I can make you a better pair; they won’t hurt your feet like those, I promise it. I’ll give you a good price, you being a cop.
I’ll come to your shop as soon as I can.
Right. Good night, sir.
Good night to you.
Keats hailed a passing hansom and jumped aboard. New Castle Street, he ordered. Perhaps he’d learn more at the boarding house.
A few blocks from his destination, he spied a telegraph office.
Dismissing the cab, he hustled inside and sent a wave of messages across Whitechapel in hopes of locating Jacynda Lassiter. Once he’d finished, he made his way to the boarding house, knocked on the door and presented his card.
You’re a copper? Mildred asked, frowning at him. Funny how you never mentioned that before.
Right now, the police are not held in high regard.
Her frowned deepened. So, what do you want?
I wish to examine Miss Lassiter’s and Dr. Montrose’s rooms.
Miss Lassiter’s gone, was the quick reply.
I know. I still want to see their rooms.
Why?
The doctor is in custody with regard to an incident earlier this evening involving Miss Lassiter. I am investigating the matter.
The frown turned ominous. He wouldn’t hurt her.
I agree, but I still must investigate.
I thought you were his friend, Mildred charged.
Keats nodded reluctantly. I am. Which makes this doubly hard, madam.
The frown dissipated. She reluctantly waved him in. After asking her a few pointed questions, he tromped up the stairs, his heart like a leaden weight. How had it come to this?
Keats began in Jacynda’s room because he knew it would be the hardest. Fortunately, the landlady hadn’t cleaned it yet.
Inside the wardrobe he found a crumpled chocolate wrapper, one of the feathers from Jacynda’s hat and her ruined black dress. The garment brought back memories of the beer-wagon incident and her brush with death. Had someone succeeded in his quest? Then where was the body? Why carry it off?
Tucking the feather into his jacket pocket, Keats used the landlady’s key and entered Alastair’s room. It was much like the man: tidy in a sparse sort of way. Medical books stacked high on a table, his spare suit in the wardrobe, exhibiting wear at the cuffs and elbows. A shirt, a few pairs of socks. Not much to show for once having a lucrative practice in Mayfair. No doubt Alastair had sold the rest of his wardrobe to fund the clinic as monies ran thin.
Tucked under the hairbrush on the dressing table was an envelope addressed to his friend. With a pang of guilt, Keats slit it open.
Alastair,
I know you will be able to make a difference with this money, so I leave it to you. The account is now in your name. You’ll need to buy a new shovel every now and then as you move that mountain of yours…
You will always be in my heart.
Jacynda
Keats’ eyes clouded, and he blinked hard to clear them. Had he been so blind as to think he’d had a chance with her? He flipped to the paperwork. Two hundred and fifty-eight pounds, he murmured. Where had she gotten such a sum?
More puzzles, he muttered, returning the letter and the bank form to the envelope. He tucked it into his jacket and continued his search. So far, he hadn’t uncovered a reason why the doctor would want to harm Jacynda Lassiter, nor had he discovered a reason why Alastair hadn’t. Maybe I’m not the only one who isn’t what they appear.
Mildred met him at the door. Keats knew the look on her face; she was having second thoughts.
I…well…I suppose you should know, she began.
Know what?
They had an argument. He was quite put out with her.
Stormed out of here in a fine rage.
When?
In the middle of the night, near on to three, I think. They were trying to be quiet, but I heard them.
What was the argument about?
I don’t know.
Thank you, Mildred.
With a half-hearted nod, she left him at the door.
Exhaustion caught up with him; despite the stink of the mattress. Alastair fell asleep, Jacynda’s ashen face parading through his dreams. He roused when the door swung open, stifling a yawn. The newcomer reminded him of a somber patrician with a well-trimmed graying goatee, moustache and tailored clothes.
Doctor Montrose? the man inquired. It was a voice with strength behind it—someone accustomed to exercising authority.
I am he. And you?
His visitor didn’t reply, waiting for a constable to place a chair in the cell. Thank you. You may leave us. I’ll call when I need you.
Are you sure, sir? the fellow asked, eyeing Alastair dubiously.
If he’s the bloody bastard who’s been ripping up those––
Then as long as I’m not a prostitute, there shouldn’t be a problem, correct?
The constable frowned and then nodded, pulling the door closed with a hollow thud that echoed throughout the cell.
The newcomer moved the chair to within a foot of the bed.
Removing his coat, he draped it over the back. Once seated, he dusted a smudge of dirt off his knee.
I am J.R. Fisher, he announced, as if Alastair should know the name.
You’re a policeman? A nod. Alastair made a guess. However, not at this station.
No.
I’ll be honest, Mr. Fisher; I shall not be inclined to say much more until I know who you represent.
Chief Inspector Fisher, the man replied. Each took the measure of the other. I am with Special Branch.
Alastair’s eyes narrowed. I am no dynamitard, Chief Inspector. I eschew violence.
A slight tilt of the head. You may not be an anarchist; however, you might be the most crazed madman this country has ever bred.
Sorry to disappoint.
I shall be blunt, Doctor. I’ve been hauled out of my bed and told an improbable tale. Perhaps you may clarify precisely why I’m here.
I have no notion.
Then tell me how you came to this station.
With a deep sigh, Alastair recounted the evening’s events, careful to leave Keats out of the picture. Fisher listened with rapt attention, giving little indication if he accepted the tale or not.
Do you believe this Miss Lassiter is still alive? he inquired.
If my prayers have been answered. Fisher regarded him with increased intensity. I am not this monster, Chief Inspector. I am a physician who works with the poor, and I have a good reputation.
Fisher’s eyebrow arched. Yet, you’ve killed a man.
Alastair blinked in stark surprise. How do you know that?
My sergeant told me.
Who knows my personal business so intimately?
Detective-Sergeant…Jonathon Keats.
Alastair couldn’t prevent his mouth from falling open. Keats?
No, he’s a…
Oh, lord. It’d been Keats’ idea that he come here. Had his socalled friend made him a sacrificial lamb?
He failed to mention his true vocation, Alastair replied, his astonishment fading into cold resentment.
He does not widely publicize it.
Apparently not even to those he blithely calls ‘friend’.
Fisher donned his coat. We shall speak further on this matter when I have more information.
I’m sure I’ll be here.
Not if the impatient citizens of Whitechapel have their way.
Time had not improved the situation at Bishopsgate Police Station. The crowd, now swollen in size and volatility, rang with open calls that the building be breached and the murderer hung from the nearest gas lamp. Keats found his superior waiting in an office, cup of tea in hand. Fisher gestured for him to close the door, then pointed to the chair next to him. Keats complied, dread rising in his chest.
The Chief Inspector leaned unnervingly close. Why am I here, Sergeant? he asked in a dark whisper.
I was concerned that Doctor Montrose would be hanged before we learned the truth.
Truth about what? Fisher retorted.
Concerning the disappearance of Miss Lassiter, sir. I trust you are aware of the events of this evening.