Bastard.
~??~??~??~
Sunday, 28 October, 1888
Spitalfields
“I concur with your findings: a slight concussion, but nothing to the extent that would cause such issues with her memory,” Reuben replied, stepping back after his examination. Jacynda watched him placidly, the stuffed animal in her hands. “I know this is a delicate subject, but have you determined if she has been…violated?”
“Mrs. Butler did not mention anything untoward after she helped her bathe this morning. I specifically asked her to be observant for any unusual signs. I was concerned that if I had another physician conduct such an intimate examination, it would frighten Jacynda even further.”
“I agree.” Reuben looked back at the patient and winked. A wink returned. “I am so sorry I didn’t meet her before this,” he remarked regretfully.
There was a pounding on the front door. Alastair opened it before Mrs. Butler could even exit the kitchen. It would take some time to realize he had someone to do for him. The young messenger held a telegram. Alastair dug a few coins out of his pocket and traded them for the paper. A quick glance proved it was from Lord Wescomb. The first line confirmed the worst.
Keats in custody.
“Oh, dear God,” he murmured. It was plain to see—his friend had been found because he’d brought Jacynda to Whitechapel.
“Alastair?” Reuben probed. “Bad news?”
“It depends on how you look at it,” he replied, handing over the telegram. As he sank in a chair, a tide of emotions battled for supremacy. Keats would be safer in custody. And yet…
“They’ll move him to Newgate at the first opportunity,” Reuben observed, dropping the telegram on the small table by the door. “I’ve never been inside there. I can only imagine what it’s like.”
“I had hoped he would find Flaherty, secure his alibi.”
“And then you wouldn’t have to testify?”
Alastair looked up at his mentor, chagrined. “Yes. That sounds so selfish.”
“Not really. You will state the truth, and that’s all you need do.”
Alastair rose, his unease translating into motion. “I shall visit Keats as soon as possible, see how his wounds are healing. I did not have the chance last night.”
Reuben raised an eyebrow. “Aiding a fugitive is frowned upon by the constabulary, though I heartily approve in this case.”
“He brought Jacynda to me for treatment. He risked everything for her.”
“Not the actions of a murderer, I would say,” Reuben observed.
“No.” Alastair looked toward the patient. “Thank you for examining her.”
“Wish I’d had better news.”
The instant Reuben stepped outside, he smiled in approval. “Cleanest steps on the block. I knew you’d be the ideal tenant.”
~??~??~??~
Keats held his breath as Chief Inspector Fisher entered the cell. He’d been dreading this since he’d read of Nicci Hallcox’s death. From the moment he’d joined Scotland Yard, there’d been a sort of synergy between him and his superior. Master and eager pupil. The first rift appeared when Fisher learned about the Transitives, that his sergeant was one of them. Now there was a wide gulf between them. Nearly all of it was Keats’ fault.
After a quick look in his direction, the chief inspector scrutinized the room, as if he’d never been in a cell before. Then his superior began to pace, a sure sign of emotional turmoil in this most controlled of men.
This was going to be worse than Keats had imagined. He straightened his collar and cuffs like he was up for inspection, even though he was wearing clothes fit for a dockworker and then cleared his throat. “How are you, sir?”
The chief inspector’s gaze moved toward him, examining him with as much intensity as he had the cell. “I’ve been better, Sergeant.”
“Sir, I—”
“Why in the hell didn’t you turn yourself in, man?” Fisher exploded. “Do you honestly believe you are above the law?”
Taken aback at his ire, Keats could only sputter, “No, sir, I’m…I’m not. I felt I was the best choice to find Flaherty.”
“That’s nonsense! While you were playing copper, the press hammered home your guilt. By now everyone has heard of the Mayfair Slayer and believes he’s good for the rope.”
“You honestly think I’m capable of such an obscene act?” Keats demanded, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.
The chief inspector turned away. A rough shake of the head. “No, I don’t. I think your only crime is being an overzealous fool.” He turned toward Keats. “It wouldn’t have been easy to sort out if you’d come in the moment this happened, but now it’s damned near impossible. Evidence is disappearing and—”
“What evidence?”
“The pawn ticket you were issued in Ingatestone, the one they found in your suit when they arrested you. Hulme claims it has gone missing. He also says he wasn’t able to find the pawnshop owner.”
“What in the hell is going on?”
“Pressure. Pressure unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s being brought to bear on all of us. There are those who do not want to see you acquitted, Sergeant.”
Keats looked away, wrestling with his emotions. “That is clear enough.”
“I expected far better of you, Jonathon. You have sincerely disappointed me.”
That cut like a razor. All he’d ever wanted was to make this man proud of him. He’d done everything to that end, and now he was being taken to task for trying too hard. His anger mushroomed, sweeping aside all thoughts of caution.
“And I expected better of you, sir,” he said sarcastically.
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you bring Dr. Bishop into this case? Why not let the Home Office coroner deal with it? They’re impartial enough.”
When Fisher made no reply, that goaded Keats on. “Now Alastair’s involved, and you know his record—that death in Wales. The Crown Prosecutor will have a merry time with that, the evidence be damned.”
“It’s not for you to question my decisions, Sergeant.”
“In this case, I shall. It’s my neck in the noose. So why did you involve Dr. Bishop?”
“I trust him.”
“That’s it? I would have thought the same of any of the others. What about all those lectures you gave me about impartiality, sir? It appears your decisions are just as erratic as mine.”
His superior glared at him. “There is more at stake here than your life.”
“Your job, perhaps?” Keats chided. “Don’t worry, Ramsey’ll be there to take over. He’s just been waiting for both of us to stumble.”
“How dare you believe this is all about my position!” Fisher snarled.
“In the end, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” Keats replied. He strode to the cell door and thumped on it, eager to end this torment. A jailer appeared almost instantly. “We’re through here,” Keats barked.
His superior passed him on the way out the door. As he heard Fisher’s footsteps retreating down the hallway, Keats cursed under his breath.
He had failed not only himself and the Yard, but the one man who meant everything.