Chapter 29
Monday, 1 October, 1888
Alastair paced the room, his anger mounting with each passing moment. Was Keats friend or foe? Why had he helped Alastair escape the mob only to accuse him of harming Jacynda?
When he heard the sound of footsteps behind him, he turned, ready to do battle. The dejected expression on Keats’ face made him blurt, What has happened?
He is furious at me. We’ve always worked so well together and now…
He didn’t give you the sack, did he?
No, but I swear it was close.
Keats slumped into his chair. You’re angry with me, aren’t you? he asked.
Alastair sat in the chair recently vacated by the chief inspector.
I would say that’s a fair estimation. I’ve known you for over a year and now I find you’re not what you claim to be. I feel…ill used.
Keats’ eyes snapped open. I didn’t claim anything. You decided I was a fop. I just played to your expectations.
Alastair delivered a curt nod. You could have set me straight.
I should have, but the longer it went, the harder it became.
I don’t know if I shall ever fully trust you in future.
A sad nod from Keats. That is fair, though I hope we can come to some reconciliation.
Alastair abruptly changed subjects. Is there somewhere I can wash my hands?
Keats waved toward the hallway and closed his eyes.
Alastair peered into the first room he encountered. It wasn’t what he expected: a nook of no more than eight-by-eight in size, with one small window for illumination. Maps adorned the walls, festooned with tiny colored pins. Curiosity urged him to step into the alcove, but he held himself in check, marveling at the contents from the doorway.
When he heard the sound of footsteps behind him, he turned, readying the apology.
Keats peered over Alastair’s shoulder into the niche. I see you found it.
You weren’t particularly clear with your directions.
Keats pushed past him and then lit a gas lamp. The glow made the maps come alive. No doubt you think I’m quite obsessed with all this, he said giving a sweep of his hand.
Perhaps I might if I knew what it all meant.
Chagrin crossed Keats’ face. Ah, yes, I suppose it wouldn’t make much sense to you. He pointed to the nearest map. Each of these pins indicates an event, such as a burglary or an assault.
I scour the papers and post the pins so that I might discern a pattern.
Alastair maneuvered his way into the room and studied the map. Given the staggering number of pins, I’d say we’re drowning in crime, he observed.
That encompasses the last few months. The Chief Inspector taught me the technique. He believes that a series of smaller crimes often lead to bigger ones. I’m watching for unusual events that might somehow tie into my investigations.
Alastair eyed his host. And what are you investigating, Keats?
A slight hesitation and then, Anarchists, those who see fit to create mayhem or otherwise attempt to overthrow the established order. It sounded as if he were citing a manual.
I see. Are there many seeking to overthrow Queen and country?
Keats’ face sobered. More than you may wish to know.
Oh… Alastair gazed around at the various maps and the newspaper stack on the desk. I am impressed.
Keats frowned. If you are mocking me…
No, just the opposite. The two men studied each other soberly. Your intervention saved me tonight, and I shall never forget that.
Perhaps someday you’ll be able to repay the favor, Keats replied.
Alastair gave a conciliatory nod.
Come on, I’ll show you where you can clean up, his host replied. We’ll see if one of my coats might replace what’s left of yours. Most likely it will be too short in the arms, but at least you’ll have something to wear for the time being.
That’s kind of you.
I think it best you stay here until midday, at least until the furor dies down. You can have my bed if you wish. This cot is comfortable and I sleep here often, he said gesturing toward the bed in the corner of the small room. Keats took a few steps away and then turned, his expression thoughtful. Do you believe it was Jacynda at Bishopsgate Station?
No, I don’t. I suspect it was one of our people attempting to deflect scrutiny away from the Transitives.
I thought of that. If it wasn’t her, do you believe that she is still alive?
Yes, I do.
God, I hope you’re right. Keats swung away abruptly. Come along, let’s get you tidy.
Alastair held back for a moment, gazing over his shoulder at the maps. Keats was as fixated about police work as he was about medicine. They were nothing more than two lonely men, each in search of a legacy.
What would have happened if Jacynda had remained?
To his extreme relief, neither of Alastair’s landladies believed him to be a cold-blooded killer. Instead, they’d fussed over him like maiden aunts. Mildred pressed his spare coat so that he would look presentable, while Annabelle insisted he have a piece of fresh apple pie she’d just pulled from the oven.
Nothing that can’t be put to rights by hot pie, she said pushing a plate in his direction. It held a substantial portion of the dessert, and after he’d finished it, the plate was refilled.
The pie worked as a sedative, and after lying on his bed, he fell into a dream-filled sleep. This time, he hadn’t ventured—Jacynda was gone. Or at the least, she wasn’t in the room next to him, and that was the key.
Five hours later, groggy from the deep sleep, he donned his coat and headed down the stairs. He was met at the bottom by Hix. His fellow lodger clutched something to his chest—a book, it appeared. His free hand adjusted his spectacles.
Mr. Hix, Alastair politely.
Montrose, was the reply. The fellow wove around him, trudging up the stairs as one gloved hand skimmed along the railing.
Keen to resume work at the clinic, Alastair hurried along the street. Every noise startled him. He constantly looked over his shoulder, fully expecting a mob on his heels. He paused and purchased a newspaper. There was only a brief article about the events in the alley. Reading it through twice, Alastair couldn’t help but chuckle. Instead of being painted as a fiend who preys on unsuspecting women, he was the hero, a man who had thwarted another horrific killing. The cops were denying it was the butcher’s work, more likely that of a mimic. In the end, Alastair Montrose was a cleared man.