“He mentioned a Winston in this time period but gave no details.”
“Well, she’s one of the top courtesans in this city.”
“Not surprising he’d know her. Though against the rules, Harter has enjoyed a number of women over the centuries.”
She smirked. “I never crossed that line. TPB would have caught me for sure. Rover One can get away with murder.”
“Not quite. However, I’m pleased to see you’re using the pendant,” Morrisey observed.
“My spare brain,” she quipped. “It never fails.”
His boots came off and he assumed a Lotus pose on the couch. “I’m glad I’m here. Between us, we can sort this out.”
He sounded so positive. “You should take a nap,” she counseled. “You need to mitigate your time lag.”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” came the curt reply.
This one’s going to be a challenge.
~??~??~??~
Ramsey heaved his tired bulk into a chair. If he hadn’t been in Fisher’s office, he would have let loose a sizeable yawn.
“You look knackered, Martin,” the chief inspector observed.
“We’re a pair,” Ramsey replied.
His superior smiled faintly. “Sleep has come at a premium recently.”
“I heard they almost hanged him.”
A nod. “Very close. If the Prince of Wales had not intervened, our sergeant would be in the ground by now.”
“The prince?”
“Yes. I’m not sure how His Royal Highness became involved in all this. I think it had something to do with the Lassiter woman.”
Ramsey snorted and then dropped a sheaf of papers on the desk. “My report,” he announced. “I found everything right where the Fenian said it would be. The coffin is downstairs with the boots, locked up in a storage room with a constable at the door. He knows that if he budges, I will tear him apart. I have arranged for another constable to relieve him at two-hour intervals. They know how important the job is.”
“Good. I’ve done roughly the same with the Fenian. I feared someone would knife him.”
For a time, the room went quiet.
“Go on, say it,” Fisher prompted.
“Hulme botched this investigation from the start,” Ramsey blurted out. “First, he didn’t find those calling cards at the scene. Every fellow’s allowed a mistake every now and then. But then he didn’t bother to follow up with Keats’ alibi like he should have. He even misplaced the pawn ticket for the boots. He was sitting in the pub in Ingatestone rather than doing his job. What is wrong with him?”
“Perhaps you should ask him.”
“Well, I intend to.”
“Don’t stray too far, Inspector. We may be summoned in front of the Lord Chief Justice this very afternoon.”
Ramsey rallied. “So it’s going that high, is it?”
“Yes. There’s been hell to pay in the papers, questions flying right and left. Even Mr. Stead of the Pall Mall has weighed in, and his verdict is that something is definitely amiss with Keats’ conviction. His readers are writing letters to the paper, asking why the sergeant is paying the price for others’ sordid behavior.”
“About damned time,” Ramsey muttered.
“Amen to that.” Fisher leaned back in his chair. “I trust Mr. Anderson has enjoyed his time with the Yard?”
“He has, especially the part in the woods last night.” They shared a laugh. “He’s the one who found the coffin. You know he’s with Pinkerton’s, don’t you?”
“Yes. I found that out just after I’d assigned him to you.”
“Good,” Ramsey said, rising from his chair. “Will the new evidence do the trick?”
“I pray so. Lord Wescomb will do his very best, of that I’m sure.”
Ramsey nodded and headed downstairs to double-check the secured storage room one more time. He’d be damned if any of the evidence went missing on his watch.
~??~??~??~
Rather than arguing with someone more stubborn than she, Cynda bundled her charge off to the East End. As they trudged along Aldgate High Street, she desperately tried to work out a strategy.
“You need to wear him down,” Mr. Spider advised. “He’s no different than any other new Rover. He needs the full orientation routine.”
Her delusion had a point. New Rovers were always so enthusiastic, so wired they just couldn’t relax and do their job. Depending on the time period, that distraction could be fatal.
She smiled when the answer came to her. It would be the perfect solution.
One tour coming up.
The ‘orientation tour’ involved hauling the new Rover’s butt all over creation until he or she got too sleepy to move. After a good snooze to mitigate the lag and ramp down the high adrenalin, the brain would work much quicker. The upshot was that you lost fewer new Rovers that way.
Usually they caved in after about an hour. After two hours of trudging Morrisey all over Whitechapel and Spitalfields, showing him the most infamous pubs, most of the Ripper murder sites, Alastair’s former clinic, and Annabelle’s Boarding House, he was just beginning to flag.
What is it with this guy?
By the third hour of hoofing it around, she was about to call it off, fearing she’d met her match. Finally he caught her arm, pulled her out of the flow of pedestrian traffic and said in an exhausted voice, “I know what you’re doing. I’ve read all your run reports. This is the ‘orientation tour’ gambit, isn’t it?”
Oops.
“Okay, you got me, boss. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“I wanted to see all these places. That’s why I asked you to show them to me.”
“You just wanted to make sure my brain was working right.”
He nodded contritely. “Well, at least now I know the East End fairly well.” He yawned, trying to hide it with his palm.
She put his hand on his shoulder, leaning closer. “Here’s the deal: I work alone. I don’t need a babysitter.” Especially someone who’s not a Rover.
“I know your history, Miss Lassiter, but right now you have a choice of me riding shotgun or wandering around on my own. I ask you, would you turn an apprentice traveler loose on these streets?”
Bull’s-eye. He knew her too well—she would do anything to keep a new Rover safe, even one who wasn’t supposed to be here.
“Throw him a bone and maybe he’ll back off,” Mr. Spider suggested.
Good idea.
“You need sleep, and I need to do some work without you around. Let’s split the difference. I’ll take you to the hotel. We’ll go out together this evening.”
“What are you going to be doing in the meantime?” Morrisey asked, his suspicions clearly aroused.
“Going to an inquest,” she said.
“Oh, that sounds rather benign,” he replied, chagrined. “In that case, I suppose I could use a bit of a rest.”
“Good. Tonight, we go hunting for Fiona. We owe an anarchist his daughter.”
Morrisey nodded, barely stifling another yawn. “Fine. Now get me to a bed before I collapse.”
Works every time.