Monday, 12 November, 1888
Scotland Yard
Fisher looked up as Ramsey entered the office. “Ah, there you are, Chief Inspector. Congratulations, Martin. I hear it’s official.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ramsey shook his head. “I kept thinking you’d change your mind. Not that it would have troubled me if you had.”
“No. I’m ready to go. I may have always been partial to Keats, but I knew in my heart you had the potential for this job. These last few weeks you withstood immense pressure and conducted one of the most thorough investigations of your career. You are worthy of becoming Chief Inspector, Martin. I have no doubt of it.”
Ramsey looked away for a moment and then back, his eyes glassy. “It was a damned nightmare.”
“One of the darkest I’ve ever seen,” Fisher agreed. “We nearly hanged an innocent man just to keep a sybaritic few safe from public condemnation. That’s not why I became a copper.”
“What will you do, sir?” Ramsey asked.
“Jane and I are moving to Brighton, near her family. I fancy a house near the water. It’s idyllic there. No Home Office toadies or police commissioner watching my every move.”
“Your good wife will be,” Ramsey quipped.
Fisher chuckled. “Yes, she has already said that I must acquire a hobby, a pursuit that keeps me occupied. She is accustomed to running her own household, and would not appreciate a retired chief inspector’s interference.”
Ramsey quirked a bushy eyebrow. “So how long will it be before they start pulling my chain?”
“Not long. It’s been embarrassing for them, what with Warren’s resignation and the prince putting pressure on them about Keats. You’ll have a lot on your plate.”
“Do you think Hulme killed himself?”
Fisher shook his head. “No, but that’s one avenue of investigation you should not pursue.”
“I don’t like the notion that someone can murder a copper and get away with it.”
“Or frame one, for that matter.”
Ramsey sighed. “Where will I find someone to take my place when the time comes?”
Fisher smiled. “That’s your problem, Chief Inspector, not mine. Not anymore.”
Ramsey offered his large hand and Fisher shook it earnestly.
“Watch your back, Martin. If you need advice, contact me. Visit me sometime during the next week. We’ll dine together. There’s a private conversation we must have. You don’t know all the players in this game, but I’ll tell you what I know. Just not here.”
“Does it have something to do with those coins?”
“Those remain a mystery.”
Ramsey nodded. “What about Keats?”
“I suspect you and he will bump heads soon enough.”
“That I don’t doubt,” the new chief inspector replied.
“Let me clear out my things and you can move in.”
“Take your time, sir. I’m in no hurry. The sooner I’m in that chair, the sooner they’re at my throat.”
~??~??~??~
“If you would prefer not to do this, I am willing to view the body,” Keats offered, clearly puzzled by her reticence. “Just give me a description and I’ll see if it’s him.”
“No. You’ll just be guessing,” Cynda replied.
“I hadn’t expected you to find this so difficult,” he noted sympathetically.
“It’s not. It’s just that… Chris. I had to identify him just like this.” Cynda touched his arm. “If it’s him, I’ll need a couple seconds alone with the body.”
“As you wish.”
This morgue attendant seemed a bit more on the ball than the last one she’d encountered. Keats did the talking, explaining how Cynda was looking for a lost relative and that when she’d read the article in the newspaper, she felt the need to view the body that had been fished out the Thames just this morning.
“Who ya missing?” the man asked.
“My cousin,” she said, trying to sound suitably upset.
“What’s he look like?”
She told him. He heaved himself out of the chair and waved them forward into the room.
The form was covered by the usual gray sheet.
“Ain’t pretty, miss. Been in the water a few days. Doesn’t do nothin’ for ’em.”
“I know. Go on.”
Keats took hold of her arm as the sheet was drawn back. Cynda winced and wrinkled her nose at the smell. Unlike Chris, who had been found very quickly, this body had been given the full Thames treatment. One leg was at an odd angle, chunks of flesh were missing. The bloating had begun, but the face was still recognizable. A massive bruise sat just below his chin.
She gave Keats a look. He took the hint.
“Who found him?” he asked, leading the attendant a few steps away.
“Couple of watermen. They hauled ’im in.”
Alf and Syd, maybe? She hoped that was the case.
Cynda leaned closer. Carefully touching the Dinky Doc to the corpse’s neck, she held it in place until she got the post-mortem readings she needed. Water in lungs. Copeland had landed in the Thames and drowned like a rat. No matter how hard she tried, there was no sympathy.
“You family, too?” the attendant asked.
“No, I’m an agent of private enquiry,” Keats replied.
“A what?”
“Sort of a detective. Did this fellow have any personal possessions on him?”
“Nothin’.”
So much for his interface. If Guv wants it, they can send someone else to find it.
“Is he the one, miss?” the fellow called out.
Yeah, he’s the one. “No,” she said, turning away, holding a handkerchief to her face, mostly to stifle the smell. She walked hurriedly toward Keats. “I need air,” she said, trying to sound breathlessly feminine.
“Thank you, sir,” her companion said, dropping a coin in the man’s outstretched hand.
Cynda jammed the handkerchief back into her pocket the moment they reached the street. Copeland had met a nasty end, killed for his failure. If no one claimed his body, he was headed for a pauper’s grave. She saw no reason to alter that.