Why is he here?
The sigh that escaped Keats’ lips broke his superior’s trance.
Oh, I apologize, Fisher said, rising. He immediately sank into Keats’ chair. Noting the opened book on the ottoman, he studied the cover. Ah, Beeton’s Christmas Annual. He leafed through it until he reached the bookmark. A Study in Scarlet by Mr. Conan Doyle, he said, looking up with an amused expression. What do you think of it?
Holmes is quite an amazing detective. A bit of a misanthrope, but utterly unique.
Fisher nodded and returned the book where he found it. There are those who say it is a bunch of twaddle.
Keats frowned. Holmes’ method may be as viable as any other in the right circumstances.
Indeed.
Keats blurted, Sir, why are you here?
Fisher studied him. First, give me a report of your night’s activities.
He’s buying time. Flaherty is not to be found. I made a round of the pubs and spoke with my contacts. He’s vanished as surely as if the devil had personally carted him off to purgatory, which is too much to hope for, Keats grumbled.
Which pubs? Fisher asked. Of course, he’d want the details.
The man was so thorough he could probably tell you precisely how many coins he had in his pocket and their exact denominations.
Keats ticked the establishments off with his fingers. Paul’s Head, Horn of Plenty, Blue Coat Boy, Britannia, Queen’s Head, Princess Alice, Kings Stores, Ten Bells and the Alma. I wanted to go to the White Hart and the Frying Pan, but it grew too late.
Good heavens, you have made the rounds, Sergeant.
Keats nodded.
Yet, no sign of the man. Blast, what mischief is he up to?
Nothing good, sir. You can lay odds on that.
Do you have anything to drink?
Keats jarred at the change of subject. I can make tea.
We are not on duty at present. Perhaps something more robust?
I have whiskey, sir.
Irish?
Indeed.
That’ll do.
Keats unstopped the bottle and poured the liquor. His superior took the glass and sniffed at it. A faint smile played across his face. We’re told the Irish are ignorant, lazy and not worth the powder to blow to Hell, and yet… He took a sip of the liquor. I think we misjudge them, to our loss.
Keats nodded in agreement. To a restful retirement in Bournemouth.
Amen, Fisher replied and took a heavy gulp.
Keats savored the whiskey. My report could have waited until morning, he observed.
The Chief Inspector’s eyes rose from his glass. A short nod signaled the barrier was about to be breached. I have had the most…remarkable experience, and I’m not sure how to proceed.
Fisher paused and then continued, You are a sensible fellow and a discreet one.
Keats’ anxiety overrode his sense of pride at the compliment. I try to be, sir.
What I am about to relate to you could…ruin my career.
Good Lord. Well, then, he said, gesturing around him, consider our conversation as going no further than these four walls.
A solemn nod. Fisher set his glass aside and then knelt by the hearth again, prodding the coals with the poker as if trying to find the proper words inside the flames.
I was in Rotherhithe tonight, tracking an informant on Swan Road. I thought he might supply useful information regarding that kidnapping last week. Finding a hansom for the return journey proved impossible, so I walked. Along the way I was accosted by a hysterical family who were forced to flee their lodgings because of an invasion.
Invasion?
A lunatic burst in upon them, frightening them senseless.
They escaped, but unfortunately their small daughter was trapped with the intruder.
Good heavens, Keats said.
I sent the father in search of a constable and went to see what I might do. Fisher abruptly dropped the poker onto the hearth and rose. Perhaps I’m being overwrought. Maybe after a good night’s sleep…
Their eyes met. Keats saw uncertainty, a hint of fear. Go on, sir. I want to hear what happened.
Fisher took an immense breath and let it out so slowly Keats thought it would be dawn before he finished. The man returned to the chair and clasped the glass, tilting it slightly to let the amber liquid gently roll from one side to the other. Keats couldn’t help but notice the fine tremor in his hands.
I found the man gibbering in a corner of the room. The little girl was petrified, but he hadn’t harmed her. I coaxed her away, and she rejoined her family.
Keats let out a whoosh of air in relief. Thank God.
Fisher’s eyes grew solemn. The man was ill, shaking with a fever. I knelt beside him and asked if I could help him, and, by God…he…changed.
What?
Changed…altered form.
He cannot mean… In what way, sir?
One moment, his face was dirty white and sweaty, and then it became as black as Newgate’s knocker. Even his eyes and hair altered color. It was as if another man had taken his place for an instant.
Oh, God. Keats struggled to keep his voice level. Did he say anything?
Only nonsense. He was out of his mind with fever.
Then what happened?
I had thought perhaps my eyes were playing false with me, but he changed again. I would have sworn I was looking at a charwoman, old and gnarled with knobby hands and soot under her broken fingernails. Then he shifted into a young girl with fine rings on pale hands, flaxen hair and clear, sea-blue eyes. Fisher rose and paced the room. I shook myself severely, certain my senses were befuddled. The illusion vanished and he slumped to the floor.
He’s seen one of us, someone too ill to control their ability. How the hell do I explain this?
Before he could formulate a strategy, Fisher rubbed his hands over his face and murmured, Then he died.
Keats’ eyes jumped to his superior. Did you touch him? he demanded, springing to his feet.
No. Why?
Sensing his error, Keats sputtered, Ah…I thought perhaps there might be some sort of…contagion.
Fisher gave him an odd look, then polished off the remainder of the whiskey. He continued, The constable arrived, and the body was transported to the morgue. I demanded an immediate autopsy.
And?
There was nothing unique about the fellow; he had a lung abscess. It was what killed him.
You’ve filed a report?
Not yet.
Perhaps he still had a chance to mitigate the damage. What is your dilemma, sir? he asked, more in control.
I know what I saw, Keats. I am not a man given to excess drink, nor one who frequents the opium dens. I am a stable man, free of delusions. And yet…
Keats refilled their glasses, waiting him out.
I feel I cannot trust my judgment. I saw the most extraordinary thing, and I cannot explain it. There is only one logical conclusion: The stress of my position has worn my mental state to the point where it cannot be trusted. I feel I should resign.