Chapter 25
Monday, 1 October, 1888
The moment Alastair stepped outside the cell, he could hear the low rumble of the crowd. Noting his dismay, a constable smirked and drew a line across his neck. That would solve all your problems, wouldn’t it?
They were met at the side door by a sergeant with a florid face.
It’s not getting any better, sir. They just keep coming.
Fisher sighed wearily. We’ll need one of your blankets for the duration, and a constable to serve as guard on top of the carriage.
We need to move now—daylight will only serve to complicate matters.
The journey to the carriage was accomplished in neardarkness, at least from Alastair’s perspective. With the blanket obscuring his vision, Keats helped him forward, murmuring directions as they exited the building. Banging his shins on the steps, Alastair hoisted himself inside the carriage, falling heavily into the seat. He immediately extricated himself from beneath the scratchy cover.
Across from him, Fisher adjusted his coat. Keats entered next, latching the carriage door behind him. He held a truncheon.
We’re sending out another carriage in hopes of distracting your well-wishers, Fisher explained. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it to the Yard unscathed.
If we’re lucky, Alastair muttered, shooting Keats a glare. His betrayer looked away.
They’d gone only a short distance when a burgeoning roar came from somewhere nearby.
Most likely the other carriage has been intercepted, Fisher observed in a remarkably calm tone. Hopefully, the good citizens of Whitechapel will be too busy with that one to notice ours.
Am I under arrest? Alastair asked.
Keats and the Chief Inspector traded looks. No, not technically, Fisher said.
More shouts. Hey you, get off! their driver yelled. A whip cracked through the air, followed by an enraged oath. The carriage lurched to an abrupt halt, nearly pitching Alastair into the Chief Inspector’s lap.
So much for our diversion, Fisher said, shaking his head.
Official police business. Stand aside, a voice announced from the top of the carriage.
O-ffish-al my arse, someone called. Let’s ’ave ’im out of there.
Well, that’s splendid, Alastair grumbled. I might not be under arrest, but I can still be hung.
Keep quiet! Fisher whispered. He turned to Keats. Cover him with the blanket. I’ll go throw my rank around and see if it will do any good. If not, your first responsibility is to the prisoner, do you understand?
Yes, sir, the sergeant replied, weighing the truncheon in his hand.
Prisoner?
The blanket flopped over Alastair, casting him into shadow.
He heard the door open and someone, presumably Fisher, step out. The door slammed. Under the cover, it quickly grew hot and stale.
What is the problem here? Fisher demanded in a stentorian tone.
We want ’im, guv’ner. There’s too many of us for you to say no. Just stand aside.
Alastair recognized the voice—it was one of the men who’d accosted him on the steps of the police station.
The carriage jostled, as if someone were putting weight against it. Fisher immediately protested, but his words were drowned out by the shouting.
He’s not going to be able to stop them, Keats said. You know what you have to do to stay alive.
Why would you care? Alastair growled, his voice muffled under the blanket.
Stop being an ass. I don’t want to see you hung.
Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were a cop?
I was on special assignment. I…
You didn’t trust me. And now it appears I shouldn’t have trusted you.
We can hash this out later. Just do what you must to survive. Getting hung will not allow us to help Jacynda.
As he’d hoped, mentioning the American lady did the trick.
What about Fisher? Alastair finally asked. Certainly he’s not one of us.
Don’t worry about him ––we’ll work it all out later. For God’s sake, don’t be a damned fool and throw your life away just to make a point.
Keats opened the door and stepped outside. Most of the faces arrayed in front of him were in shadow, half-lit by torches held throughout the crowd. A quick look around proved they’d not moved very far from the police station. Were reinforcements on the way? Not likely. The station would have its own problems at present.
When Keats’ face became clearly visible, disappointment rolled through the crowd, followed by a chorus of boos.
That ain’t him, someone called. He’s a rozzer for sure.
Constables will be arriving any moment, and we will press charges if you do not disband immediately, Fisher announced.
Good bluff. But will they believe it?
A man stepped forward, slapping a thick piece of wood into his palm.
Po-lees bizness, ya say? We got bizness ourselves. If ya don’t want to get yer nice suits all mucked up, ya best step aside.
Absolutely not, Fisher replied. This person is in my custody.
I will not allow—
A brick smashed into the side of the carriage, splintering the wood. That triggered the throng. Keats ducked a wildly-thrown blow, fighting to keep his position near the carriage door. His superior disappeared into the swarm, roaring his outrage. The constable on top of the carriage blew his whistle in increasing panic, then dropped from on high into the fray. The boiling mass of bodies caused the horses to spook, and the carriage pitched forward as the teamster struggled to hold the beasts in place.
Someone wrenched open the carriage door and blindly rummaged inside.
Got ’im! the man cried, and then stumbled backward in surprise.
The crush moved forward, intent on bagging the prize and earning bragging rights at the pub once they’d done their civic duty. Keats lunged for the door but made little progress, pinioned by men stronger than he.
Come out of there! someone bellowed.
A slim head dipped into the doorway, the black veil obscuring the face of its owner. A delicate hand clad in a black glove clasped the side of the carriage.
The chief agitator stepped forward. ’old on. What’s this? he asked, baffled.
Keats sighed quietly in relief. Shaking off his captors, he took his place at the bottom of the stairs. As he reached out his hand, the woman’s gloved palm met his and she cautiously exited the conveyance. An astute observer would have noted the carriage adjusted more than would be required for a woman of her slight weight.
If Keats had any doubt of the doctor’s feelings for Jacynda Lassiter, his personification of her laid that to rest. Alastair had created the illusion with the uncanny accuracy born of a man who idolizes a woman.
Sergeant, why are these men accosting us? his friend asked.
Keats’ throat tightened. It was her voice. If he had not known Alastair was behind the illusion, he would have sworn it was Jacynda.
He cleared his throat. There are some ruffians, miss, he said, glaring in the direction of the crowd. They were mistaken as to who was inside the carriage.
Heavens! Alastair retorted, drawing a hand to her mouth just as a frightened woman would. But not like Jacynda. She’d be giving this lot a going-over. That would have been a delight to watch.
Fisher waded into sight, his coat askew and bowler missing.
Blinking at the vision in front of him, he shot a bewildered glance at his sergeant.
The young lady is unharmed, sir, Keats announced, as would be expected. Please, please don’t make a scene, or we’re all dead.
Alastair was not that proficient at shifting, and it had to be a tremendous strain for him to keep the illusion in place. Any disruption in his concentration…
Fisher straightened his coat, no doubt to allow himself time to deal with his confusion, and then strode to Keats’ side. So it seems, Sergeant, he replied, as if nothing were amiss.
A stocky sailor pushed through the crowd and stuck his head inside the carriage. He swung around and demanded, Where the hell is he?
Keats rounded on him. Mind your tongue in front of a lady!
The man cowered backward and blended back into the throng, his bravado gone.
The chief instigator spat on the street and nodded in respect.
Smart ones, ain’t ya? Well, we’ll find ’im and do ’im proper.
Fisher shifted to stand eye-to-eye with him. The man you’re hunting is not connected to the Whitechapel murders. We wish to speak to him on another matter. If you take justice into your hands, you’ll be the one sized for the rope.
That drew murmurs from the crowd.
Then ’oo’s this one? the fellow asked, pointing toward the illusionary woman.
That is not your concern. We’re escorting the lady to Scotland Yard for her safety. If any of you wish to join us…
There were more murmurs, and then the horde thinned into groups of two and three, merging with the night. Fisher turned to hand the lady back into the carriage.
A rough fellow poked the chief inspector’s hat at Keats.
Sorry, mate, the man whispered.
Keats nodded and followed his superior inside the carriage.
Once the door closed, he let out an explosion of pent-up air. Fisher retrieved his hat, dusting it off with his handkerchief. Every few seconds, he shifted his attention from the hat to the woman seated across from him. Aware of his scrutiny, Alastair deftly rolled the veil upward and tucked it into the hat.
The carriage bumped forward at a brisk clip. Keats knew Fisher would easily discern what had just happened, given his experience with the dying Transitive in Rotherhithe. How long would it be before he learns my secret?
Is your landlady discreet, Sergeant? Fisher asked, still working on the hat.
Ah, yes, sir, she is.
Then inform the driver of the address.
Sir? I thought we were––
Fisher set his hat on his lap and gestured toward Alastair. It appears we need considerable privacy to discuss this newest revelation. We most certainly will not find that at Whitehall.
Yes, sir. Keats surveyed his friend. Alastair sat stone-silent.
How do you explain the impossible?