“Mind your tongue,” Alastair warned through gritted teeth, fighting back the urge to confront whoever deemed his friend capable of such barbarian conduct. The coarse man muttered a half-hearted apology, but didn’t retract his statement.
There would be no use arguing with any of them. They’d already convicted Keats. If hangings were still public, they’d be there, drunk as lords, to watch his friend twitch at the end of the rope.
With a sick anger lodged in the pit of his stomach, Alastair watched the inevitable play out. The court moved swiftly: Jonathon Davis Keats was remanded for trial for the murder of Nicola Hallcox.
With every step in this case, he’d hoped reason would prevail. What was Keats thinking? A quick look up to the dock yielded no answers. His friend’s face was unreadable.
The courtroom emptied rapidly. To her credit, Evelyn had remained throughout the entire ordeal, one time taking his hand for comfort. Having her here with him had made the horror bearable. When they reached the street, he turned to her. He had many things he wanted to say but reined himself in. He dare not in such a public venue.
“Would you…like to go for some tea?” he suggested.
She shook her head. “I must go home.”
Alastair’s hopes crashed to earth. She had only been here to comfort him, nothing more.
She adjusted her arm in his. “My father’s carriage is just there,” she said, gesturing farther down the street. They strolled toward the conveyance.
He took a gamble. “I would like to see you again, Evelyn, if you are agreeable.” The seconds ticked off. He heard none of the commotion around them, his attention riveted on what her answer might be.
“Perhaps we can go walking in Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon,” she offered. “Would that suit?”
“Of course,” he replied, before even considering his schedule. “May I call for you at…ah…two?”
Another smile appeared, this one much more reminiscent of when he’d first met her. “Yes. I would like that, Alastair.”
They reached the carriage and he handed her inside. After her maid was settled, Evelyn called out, “Tomorrow, then. I am looking forward to it.”
As am I.
~??~??~??~
“Quaint,” Anderson noted, looking around the main street of Ingatestone. They stood in front of a chemist’s shop. A sign in the window advertised Thermogene Medicated Wadding for all nature of chest ailments.
Ramsey took a deep breath. “Clean air. Not like London.”
“Or Chicago,” Anderson responded.
“Another nice thing about the country is that people pay attention, and they like to talk. If anyone saw Keats up here, they’ll want to jaw about it. It makes them famous, you see. They actually saw a killer.”
“Or an innocent man,” Anderson corrected.
After asking a helpful citizen who seemed impressed that they were from London, they found the local sergeant at his post in front of the dining hall. His hair was combed back, his moustache bushy. From the bulging of his coat buttons, apparently he was inside the establishment more than was prudent.
“Inspector Ramsey, Scotland Yard,” the inspector intoned. He offered one of his cards. The copper waved it away. “Need to ask you about the fellow who’s up for murder in London. Sergeant Keats says he was here in Ingatestone the middle of this month.”
“Heard about all that,” the man replied. “What you want to know?”
“Did you see the sergeant that day?” Ramsey asked, his notebook out.
“I probably wouldn’t have noted him. We get strange characters through here, what with the rail line and all. As long as they’re not up to mischief, I ignore them.”
“I see. Where are your pawn shops?”
The sergeant listed them off as Ramsey noted them. There were two.
“Did you or one of your constables go into the woods with Inspector Hulme to try to locate a coffin?”
“Who? Oh, that one. No, he didn’t go nowhere. Sat in the pub all evening.”
“Doing what?” Ramsey pressed.
“Nothing. Didn’t drink much, just a couple pints. Nursed them all night. Then he got on the train back to London.”
“Anything else you can tell us?”
A shake of the head.
“Then thank you for your time, Sergeant.”
“All I got,” the man said.
They finally tracked down the newspaper boy. He didn’t remember Keats, but then he didn’t seem the brightest of Ingatestone’s population. The eel-pie seller didn’t remember the sergeant, either.
“This isn’t a good start,” Ramsey commented, studying the list of pawn shops.
“Maybe he did make it all up.”
“Could be, but why go to all that effort? It’s too bizarre a tale.”
It wasn’t until they reached the second pawnbroker that someone recognized Keats’ photograph. He was seventy, if a day.
“I saw the gent. He pawned his boots here.” He looked down at the inspector’s card. “Never thought I’d ever talk to someone from Scotland Yard. Wait til I tell my missus. She’ll not believe it.”
“When did he pawn them?” Ramsey asked.
Muttering under his breath, the old fellow shuffled off, then returned with a ledger that looked as old as he was. He cracked it open and ran a bony finger down the columns of surprisingly neat writing.
“Wednesday, the seventeenth of this month, in the morning.” He looked up. “I keep track. Never know when it’ll be important.”
“Did he pawn anything else?”
“No, just a pair of boots. Excellent condition. I gave him top price. I could tell he hadn’t been down for long.”
“Down?” Anderson asked. “What do you mean by that?”
“Down on his luck, if you know what I mean. He’d been living rough, but not as long as some of them I get in here. His suit was dirty, but the cuffs weren’t frayed and his boots were almost new. He had that stunned look when life takes a bad turn. The ones who’ve been down for a time don’t have that anymore. They expect it to be bad.”
“Did he say anything?” asked Ramsey.
“He was right sad to pawn them. Said they were the best he’d ever had and once he got some money from his family, he’d be back. Keen not to lose ’em.”
“Did he buy another pair?”
“Right y’are. Sold him an old pair to tide him over. Nothing like the ones he pawned, I can tell ya that.”
“Do you still have those boots for sale?” Ramsey asked.
“I’m wearing ’em.”
“They’re evidence. We’ll need them for the trial.”
The man’s face fell. “They’re right fine boots.”
Ramsey dug in his pocket. “I’m willing to buy them from you.”
“You got the pawn ticket?” the fellow asked. “I like to get them back. Keeps my records tidy.”
“No, it went missing somehow.” Hulme had never explained just how that had happened.
A shrug. “Well, I supposed it don’t matter. You got something better than a pawn ticket,” he said, pointing to the inspector’s card.
The old man shuffled off again across the wooden floor. He returned in his stocking feet and placed the boots on the counter. “Fit me right perfect. I tried ’em on the moment he left. Needed a bit of cleaning, they were muddy and such, leaves stuck to the soles. They’re a good pair, that’s for sure.”
“Leaves? Like he’d been in a forest?” Ramsey quizzed.
“Just like that.” The fellow consulted his ledger and quoted the price. The inspector handed over the coins.
“Did this man have any injuries?” Anderson asked.
The inspector cursed to himself for not asking the question first.
“Yes. A bruise on his left chin. Nasty one. He said he tangled with a big Irishman.”
Ramsey and his companion traded looks. Keats had said he’d been struck a blow. “Has anyone else been to talk to you? Another inspector from London?”
A shake of the head.
Why hadn’t Hulme followed this lead? It was easy enough.
“You have a card, sir?” Ramsey asked. “We may need to call you to testify.”
The bony hand produced one. “I’d love to come to London. Never been there before.” He grew pensive. “Did that copper do what the papers say?”
“We’re not sure,” Ramsey replied, tucking the merchant’s card in a pocket.
The old man shook his head. “I’ve seen lots in my time. Mean ones. They have that look in their eyes, cut you for a farthing. This one didn’t. He looked lost, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do.”