Chapter 5
“So what do you think?” Reuben asked, circling around the center of the room, arms extended like a dervish.
“Ah…I…don’t know,” Alastair sputtered. One moment they’d been discussing a peculiar set of post-mortem findings, and then the next his fellow physician had hauled him to this house and proclaimed it should be his.
Reuben abruptly halted. “There are two floors, three bedrooms, a large room near the kitchen for a cook or housekeeper, and an additional room next door that the tenants used for their shop. It’s not fancy, but the furniture comes with it and it’s near the train station.”
The furniture was decent, the location ideal. Still, that didn’t help Alastair understand what his mentor was up to.
“Reuben, I can’t afford a house,” Alastair protested. “I’ve some money, but—”
“How much?”
That was a rude question, at least from anyone else but Reuben Bishop. “About three hundred pounds now.”
“Three hundred!” the man shouted. “I thought you were impoverished.”
Alastair flooded with embarrassment. “Well, one hundred of it is from the Wescombs, to fund my work amongst the poor, so that’s not really mine, you see.”
“And the other two hundred?”
“Jacynda gave it to me to help me build my practice, but I prefer not to spend it on my personal expenses.”
Reuben shook his head in dismay. “Good Lord, you must have Scottish blood in those veins.”
Alastair bristled. “As a matter of fact, I do. Why does that matter?”
“I’m not asking you to buy the bloody place, you know.”
Alastair cranked an eyebrow upward. It was one thing for Lord and Lady Wescomb to act as his patrons, but Reuben’s intentions were confusing him.
“Oh, dear,” the man groaned. “Here’s the truth: I’m a right bear as a landlord and Henny…Henrietta is very particular that my investment properties remain in good condition. Finding suitable tenants is difficult.”
“Why do you think I would be suitable?”
“You just would be. Now come, come, I haven’t shown the best part yet.” Reuben beckoned him forward, then unlocked a door and pushed it open. The room smelled stale. “Don’t mind the odor. A bit of scrubbing will do wonders.”
It was actually two rooms. The front was rather large, opening onto the street. The other room was a bit smaller, but still quite adequate.
“Do you see what I mean?” Reuben prompted, his eyes aglow.
Alastair walked around the main room, letting his enthusiasm off its leash. “Big enough for a waiting room, and this…” he noted, moving into the smaller space, “is ideal for a surgery and an office.”
Light clapping came from his companion. “So when do you wish to take possession of your new home, Doctor?”
Reluctantly, Alastair shook his head. “I dare not. For all I know, Flaherty’s warning is still in effect. He was furious I came to Keats’ aid that night in Whitechapel, and he may well bomb the clinic if it reopens. If you’re concerned about your property, my tenancy could easily bring it to the ground.”
“Then don’t open the clinic until Flaherty is caught. It will take some time to get matters in order anyway.”
“He may still seek personal retribution,” Alastair protested.
“Then wouldn’t it be better to be in your own home than in a boarding house? As I see it, if he were going to harm you, he would have done so by now. It’s been a fortnight, at least.”
“I know, but…I have no equipment. I sold my benches.” Alastair wandered out into the bigger room again, his mind suddenly churning with possibility.
“You have that hundred quid from the Wescombs. You could use it here,” Reuben prompted. “I know they’d approve.”
What is happening? He didn’t dare think of—
“How much?” Alastair asked, astonished.
Reuben grinned. “Twenty shillings a week. I won’t need a deposit, and I’ll help you get the equipment at the best prices available.”
Alastair cocked his head. “Why are you doing all this for me?”
Reuben’s enthusiasm fell away, replaced by a thoughtful expression. “I had a wise advisor when I was first in practice. He helped me find my way. His only stipulation was that when I found a promising new doctor, I should aid him in the same manner. That’s the debt I’ll expect you to repay down the line.”
“Who was this kind soul who gave you a start?”
“A physician in Edinburgh.”
“He must be very proud of you.”
“I think he is, but he’s not said a word. Dr. Bell is not—”
“Bell? Dr. Joseph Bell?” Alastair exclaimed. “But he’s one of the leading—”
Reuben put his hand on Alastair’s shoulder. “Yes, that’s the man. One sharp-eyed, hard-edged fellow, but he taught me the profession. I’ll do the same for you, if you’re willing.”
“My God,” Alastair whispered, humbled. Reuben was offering him the world.
“As I remember, my reaction was precisely the same.”
“I’ll accept, but only if you’ll introduce me to the fellow,” Alastair replied, grinning. “I’ve always wanted to meet him.”
Reuben guffawed and they shook hands heartily. “I’ve already written him a letter making that very request. Come on, we’ll sign the papers and then have a celebratory luncheon. You can move in tomorrow. Henny can help you find a maid-of-all-work or a housekeeper, if you wish.”
Alastair hadn’t even considered that. A house needed someone to watch over it. The solution came instantly.
“No need,” he told him. “I know the perfect person, if she’ll accept.”
~??~??~??~
“Anderson?” Ramsey called out.
The reporter had brown hair and a crisp moustache. He looked up from the notebook he’d been studying and issued a quick nod. There was a pint in front of him, but Ramsey didn’t spy any of the telltale signs of a heavy drinker. Not all journalists would pass muster in that regard. Or coppers, either.
“I’m Inspector Ramsey.” He didn’t bother to sit. There was too much to be done for them to be chatting about the weather. “Let’s get to it.”
“As you wish, Inspector.” The man rose, tucked away the notebook and left the half-pint of ale on the table. Most of his ilk would have gulped it rather than waste the booze.
Ramsey waited until they were on the street to open his barrage. “I hear I’m stuck with you on the soles of my shoes until further orders.”
“Yes, you are.”
“How’d you manage that one?”
“I know people.”
“Warren?”
A nod. “I wrote an article about Sir Charles’ exploits in the Sinai. He thought it flattered him.”
“Did it?”
“Not really. The folks in Chicago want to know what it’s like in London, so I’ve been here since the second Ripper murder.”
“If you want to know about him, you have to talk to Inspector Abberline.”
“I already have. Now I’m interested in the Yard’s latest case.”
Ramsey groaned. “Everybody wants to know about Sergeant Keats.” He halted abruptly. “It’s like this, Anderson. We’ve got a mess here. The last thing I need is a reporter dogging my heels, but if Warren says you’re with me, that’s the way it has to be. In return, I expect only one thing.”
“Which is?”
“Honesty. Call it straight. If Keats killed that woman, he swings. If not, we’re barking up the wrong tree and it would do no good to hang an innocent man while the real murderer laughs at us.”
“Is Keats innocent?”
“That’s what I have to find out.” Ramsey hesitated for only a moment before detailing the sergeant’s alibi.
Anderson mulled on the information as they continued down the street.
“It sounds fantastical,” he noted after some time.
“I agree.”
Anderson arched an eyebrow. “I understand that you and Sergeant Keats have an adversarial relationship. That, in fact, you detest each other.”
Ramsey eyed him. The reporter seemed to be very well informed for someone hailing from Chicago. How much had Warren told him?
“We can’t stand each other. Been that way since the first time I saw the little runt.”
“What if he murdered that woman?”
“Then everything I’ve worked for over the past fifteen years goes to hell. It throws mud on all of us, don’t you see?”
They paused at an intersection, waiting for a lorry to pass.
“I’ll keep an open mind, Inspector,” Anderson replied.
“Good.” Dodging between a hansom and a brougham, Ramsey followed up with, “Do me a favor, will you?”
“Which is?” Anderson said, hurrying to catch up.
“Remind me to do the same.”
~??~??~??~
“My chest is much better,” Mrs. Butler said. She was sitting at the flimsy table in her minuscule hovel she and her son called home. “I’m coughing less and I don’t have to take that medicine you gave me.”
“Excellent,” Alastair replied, pleased his treatment had a good result. Chest infections were often fatal. “I have some news of my own,” he began.
Then he blurted it all out in a rush, though he’d not intended to. He still didn’t believe it himself. As he gave Mrs. Butler time to gather her wits, his mind flashed back to their initial meeting. In truth, he’d met her son first, as the lad lay in a street with a broken leg. His tending the boy had cost him his position with Dr. Hanson who had long frowned on his charity work. Despite Hanson’s theory that the poor were indolent and gin-soaked wretches, he’d found Mrs. Butler to be a hardworking woman. She’d already lost a husband and two other children to illness and that had bred a tenacity for survival.
“You bought a house?” she asked wistfully.
“No, no,” he replied. “I’m only a tenant. I cannot afford a house of my own.”
She stared at him with open-mouthed incomprehension. The concept of possessing even enough funds to rent a house was beyond her ken.
Davy, now all of twelve, understood immediately.
“You need a maid,” he said brightly.
Alastair beamed. The lad was always quick on the uptake.
“Actually, I’ll need a housekeeper, and I want you, Mrs. Butler, if you’re willing.”
Her eyes widened further. “Me?”
“Yes. The house is very pleasant. Eight rooms, plus space for my clinic. I know your health is not strong enough to handle everything, so I will allocate funds to hire a maid-of-all-work to do the heavy tasks.”
Mrs. Butler blinked, her mind clearly awhirl. “A whole house? Near the train station?”
“Yes. Reuben…Dr. Bishop assures me that most of the street’s residents are of a decent nature. I would not bring you or your son into a situation that was not to your liking.”
Mrs. Butler’s attention roamed around the one-room Bury Street hovel in which they lived. Mold laced its way down one wall, and the single broken window had a rag stuffed in it to keep out the cold. Loathsome things lived inside the walls. Alastair could hear shouts from some brawl above them.
“You make it sound like a palace,” she said dreamily.
“To me, as well,” Alastair replied, though in truth he had grown up in a house much like the one he’d just rented. “You will have Sundays off. I promise you will find me not a demanding master.”