Thursday, 25 October, 1888
Scotland Yard
“It’s a load of bollocks,” Inspector Ramsey fumed, tossing the papers on his superior’s desk with disgust. “Keats is a damned liar. Flaherty would cut his throat right off, not stuff him in some box and ship him across the country like a bunch of apples.”
Fisher retrieved Keats’ report, organizing it into a neat stack, unruffled by Inspector Ramsey’s outburst. “I know how much you detest the sergeant, but the fact remains he is one of us. To that end, you will conduct the most thorough investigation of your career. Do you understand?”
Ramsey’s face flushed with anger. “Sir, I—”
“What if this load of bollocks, as you call it, is the truth?”
Ramsey settled back against the chair. It gave a decided squeak at his weight.
“If he’s guilty…” The inspector paused and shook his head. “Bloody hell.”
“If he’s guilty, then that’s his fate. But by God, Ramsey, it just doesn’t feel right.”
“You’re too partial to the little bugger. It clouds your judgment.”
Fisher’s moustache twitched. “I admit it, I am partial to Keats, but that doesn’t explain why my gut has been in a knot since this started.”
Ramsey looked away, then down at his boots. “I…oh, shite,” he muttered under his breath. He looked up. “I don’t like it either, sir. It puts us all in a bad light. Keats is a swaggering little gnome, but he wants your job and he damned well won’t get it by strangling some pox-ridden tart.”
“Blunt as usual, but correct. I want you to do two things: verify the validity of Keats’ alibi, and ask around about Inspector Hulme. Something’s off there.
When he rose, Fisher added, “Oh, one other thing. Police Commissioner Warren has saddled us with some American reporter. He’s here in London doing a piece on Scotland Yard.”
“Damned poor time for it,” Ramsey observed.
“I pointed that out, but Sir Charles disagreed. Vehemently. Let’s see, I have the man’s card…here.”
Ramsey took it, looked at the name and snorted. “Robert Anderson?” he read with a smirk. “We already got one, and ours is a Sir. Don’t need another.”
“Common name, apparently,” Fisher replied. “Warren wants the world to know we’re going about this case totally without prejudice. I was against the notion, but I was overruled, yet again.”
“Can’t someone else squire this fellow around?”
Fisher looked him straight in the eyes. “There’s no one else I’d trust with this, Inspector.”
“You always say I’m too blunt. I could say something wrong and it’ll end up in the newspaper.”
“I’ve been given permission for this man to be fully involved in every portion of this investigation.”
Ramsey stared in horror. “What? Is Warren mad?”
“Very likely. So take this Mr. Anderson everywhere. Let him hear it all.”
“I don’t know if that’s a wise idea, sir.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be my head on the platter, not yours.”
“But—”
Fisher leaned forward. “It doesn’t matter, Martin. I’m not going to be here much longer. Warren is just looking for a reason to send me packing. We’ve never seen eye to eye. If my career is at an end, I want the truth out there for once.”
Ramsey grunted. “I don’t think they want to know the truth, sir.”
“That’s entirely possible. Either way, take this Anderson fellow under your wing. Show him what he needs to know. I leave it up to you.”
A resigned nod. “Where do I find him?”
“He’ll be at the Clarence at one sharp. I have no idea what he looks like. Warren didn’t bother to tell me that.”
“I’ll find him. Reporters all look the same.”
“If you find Keats, kick him in the arse for me, will you?”
Ramsey nodded, a smile lighting up his face. “With pleasure, sir, right after I give him a swift one of my own.”
Then the man was gone, his heavy boots thumping on the stairs.
Fisher’s eyes fell upon Warren’s latest note. He reluctantly slit it open. It was almost a twin to the one he’d received the day before, and the day before that.
He skimmed the message, pulling out the relevant passages. “Dismayed at my lack of progress. Wishes to see me promptly with a full report.” He crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the fireplace. It slowly unfurled, mocking him. With a low sigh, he collected his bowler and headed off for yet another dressing-down.
What had his wife said over breakfast? ‘Let them sputter, J.R. They are in no better position than you. Only you can solve this case, and they know it.’
Fisher smiled. Jane loved him so much, she never gave an inch.
In the courtyard, the Rising Sun was bustling like any other pub in London. Maybe when he got back from Whitehall, he’d have a pint, even if he was on duty. What would they do? Give him the sack?
He laughed at the thought, and began to whistle as he headed for the far gate.