Chapter 30
Tuesday, 2 October, 1888
If Chief Inspector Fisher was disconcerted about meeting Lord Wescomb at a pub in Bloomsbury, he didn’t act it. As smooth as ever, he followed Keats up the stairs to a private room on the second floor above the Museum Tavern. Wescomb was already in place at a table near the front window, a pint at his elbow.
Keats cleared his throat as the peer rose from his chair. My Lord, this is Chief Inspector J.R. Fisher of Special Branch.
Wescomb gave a nod in response. Chief Inspector, Lord Wescomb.
My Lord.
Wescomb offered his hand and they shook solemnly. The peer returned to his seat, picking up the pint. Would you like a drink?
he asked.
Yes, I would; however we are on duty at this moment, Fisher replied.
Ah, yes. The pint returned to the table. Well, then, we might as well get to it. Keats has made me aware of all that has transpired this week, Chief Inspector. It is regrettable that this knowledge has been obtained by someone outside our sphere,
Wescomb said, tugging on his plain waistcoat. His jacket and trousers echoed the same theme. Keats wondered if he’d dressed down on purpose.
Fisher placed both elbows on the table. The week has been regrettable for me, as well. Though I am relieved to know that my mental state is intact, the existence of your kind has made my task infinitely more difficult and strained relations between the sergeant and myself.
Wescomb gave a brusque nod. How may I help you understand we are not a threat?
To be blunt, my lord, you cannot. I am blessed with a copper’s suspicious nature; I consider all men, and women for that matter, as potential criminals until they prove otherwise. The very nature of the Transitives makes my job nearly insurmountable.
Protecting Queen and Country? Wescomb asked, tugging on the waistcoat again. Keats chalked it up as a nervous gesture; everyone had them. He looked at Fisher. Almost everyone.
Indeed. Let us start with the mathematics. How many Transitives are among the aristocracy?
Wescomb pondered along with another tug. 5 or 6 score I believe. Eighteen in the House of Lords that I know of.
Are any of them inclined toward Republican sentiment?
A few, myself for one.
Do any pose a threat to our government?
Wescomb’s face turned pensive and for a moment Keats regretted placing him in this situation. If the answer was affirmative, names would have to be put forth. If he replied in the negative and some crazed duke took a potshot at the prime minister, there would be hell to pay.
Some are more Republican than others and believe the monarchy should be abolished. Others can tolerate the Queen, but would prefer she no longer suck money out of the country’s purse.
And you stand on which side? Fisher pressed, allowing no ambiguity.
Time is the ultimate leveler, Chief Inspector. Britain will eventually realize the monarchy is an archaic vestige of our glorious past. Until then, I shout ‘hoorah’ at Her Majesty when she passes by and don’t make too much fuss when she wants more money for whatever her whim fancies. Fisher shifted uncomfortably at his candor. Wescomb grinned wryly. I judge from your reaction you are a Monarchist.
Yes. It’s family tradition. One of my ancestors served in the court of Charles the Second.
As did one of mine, but then she was just a mistress, quickly put aside once old Charlie got a leg over.
A chuckle from Fisher. My progenitor served as a page. He lost his job when he was caught romancing one of the ladies-inwaiting.
Who knows, we might be related, Wescomb said, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Perhaps, Fisher replied, leaning back in his chair. It gave a dry creak. It appears we’re both pragmatic men. You wish your kind to remain hidden from view, and I wish to keep England safe from all threats, foreign and domestic. I propose we could work together toward that end, with my sergeant acting as our intermediary.
Wescomb swiveled toward Keats. What do you think about that proposal?
I think it a sound strategy, Keats replied. We can’t be sure that all of us are on the straight and narrow. One incident will bring ruin to our kind. To be honest, working with the Chief Inspector will offer some degree of protection for him as well, should The Conclave decide to act rashly.
That’s not particularly reassuring, Fisher replied in a lessconvivial tone. I will raise the stakes, your lordship. I keep my more sensitive records in a private cipher. I have already made notes on this situation, and have left instructions that those be decrypted and presented as evidence at an inquest should something untoward happen to me.
Keats let out a long sigh. A classic Fisher counter maneuver.
The fellow always had a strategy.
Wescomb nodded. Well done, Chief Inspector. No wonder Keats holds you in such high regard. A slight incline of Fisher’s head acknowledged the compliment. I will do everything in my power to insure those notes aren’t needed. Nevertheless, at present, it is best that only the five of us know of this alliance.
Five? Fisher asked, puzzled.
In addition to Dr. Montrose, I wish to include my good wife, Sephora. I share all matters with her as she has one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever encountered and has frequently kept me from making a complete ass of myself.
Fisher shifted his eyes toward Keats, seeking an opinion.
Lady Wescomb is one of a kind, sir, he replied.
Then we shall leave it at that, Lord Wescomb, Fisher said, offering his hand across the table. Wescomb shook it heartily.
Come to supper this Saturday. My wife will want to meet you, Chief Inspector.
I shall look forward to it. Fisher rose. I am satisfied with the groundwork we’ve laid; however, I will wish to know more about your ability.
I agree, Wescomb replied. Keats can be your tutor. Restraint is the key. Neither of us needs an Inquisition.
Only the innocent suffer when man deigns to play God,
Fisher replied.
Wescomb rose, offering his hand again. Then we have a bargain.
For the time being, Fisher hedged. He shook the outstretched palm again, nodded at Keats and trudged downstairs.
Wescomb sighed and picked up his pint. No fool, he.
Not in the least.
After a sip of the brew, Wescomb said, There are worse men to emulate. I believe you have chosen wisely. I just hope that time bears that out.
If not, Keats murmured, we all lose.
What is it we’re looking for? Alastair asked, scanning the row of newsprint. He was seated near the fireplace in Keats’ rooms, a half-drained cup of wine close at hand.
Any sort of criminal activity. Anything that sounds unusual,
Keats replied, struggling to keep his enthusiasm at bay. After their recent confrontation, to have the doctor accept his dinner invitation had proved a pleasant surprise. When Alastair agreed to return to his rooms and help him scan the papers, Keats was stunned. When he’d asked why Alastair would offer such a thing, the reply had been very succinct. I can’t learn to trust you if I don’t know you.
Alastair turned another page. I see they now have a name for this monster––‘Jack the Ripper.’ Good lord.
They received a letter from him. They think it might be the genuine article, Keats replied, Oh, if you need more wine, let me know.
No, thank you. I’ve plenty as it is. My landladies have been splendid about all this mess. No need to ruin my welcome by staggering home drunk. More page-turning.
There is one tidbit I haven’t shared with you yet, Keats began. I asked a few questions of those who live near the clinic.
It appears that a pair of ruffians incited the crowd into destroying the place.
Alastair’s face sobered. Perhaps one fellow who limps and another who talks barely above a whisper?
Precisely.
Alastair glared at his host. Damn The Conclave; why can’t they leave me be?
Perhaps it’s time you took the battle to them.
I honestly thought I had.
No, you need to shake them up even more.
Alastair returned the paper to reading height. Any suggestions how I do that?
None whatsoever. Keats returned to his paper, reading the headlines aloud. ‘Child Safely Rescued From Burning Building.’
His eyes skipped over the page. ‘Citizens Urge Stronger Police Action Against Ripper.’ Keats snorted. Don’t panic folks, we’ll find the bugger eventually.
Perhaps some things are not meant to be known, Alastair said from behind his paper screen. Here’s one of interest—a team of greys and a wagon stolen from a stable in Rotherhithe.
That’s promising, Keats replied after a long sip of his tea.
I’ve got paint over here.
Pardon?
Someone stole green paint. It’s amazing what people will filch.
Alastair lowered his paper. Well, you can bet it won’t be used in Whitechapel.
Keats chuckled. Ah, that’s more like it. Fifteen casks of rum pilfered from a warehouse in Canary Wharf two days ago.
Perhaps the painters needed a tot.
Keats chuckled again. A blasting firm’s office was ransacked, but nothing stolen. That seems rather odd. Why break in and not take anything?
Does that warrant a pin on your map? Alastair asked.
Not likely. Keats folded the paper and set it aside. Enough of this. A glance up at the clock. I’ve got to rub elbows with the revolutionaries. How about I give you a ride to Whitechapel and spare your feet?
Alastair set aside his paper. No, I’ll walk. I need to think.
Your feet, not mine.
Alastair handed over his host’s coat at the door. Thank you for supper. Next time I shall buy, he said.
Keats grinned. Allow me to hazard a guess—in repayment, I will be required to construct new benches for your clinic. Tit for tat.
Alastair smiled broadly. You can never fool a cop.
Not unless you’re a pretty lady with a nicely turned ankle,
Keats said.
They parted at the street, Alastair’s long legs setting off toward the East End at a brisk pace. Keats knew he’d swing toward the bridge, just like a homing pigeon.
What a curious fellow, he murmured. Their friendship had definitely turned a corner. At least some good has come of this imbroglio.
Once he’d secured a hansom, Keats made a point of waving jauntily as it passed his friend on the street. In response, Alastair’s laughter soared above the sound of the carriage wheels on the cobblestones.