* * * * *
David Powell was about to lay a restraining hand on his friend’s shoulder when he realized Lewis wasn’t actually throttling Innocent, but gripping the boy’s collar tightly in one fist – very tightly and very firmly, but not brutally.
After all, there was a difference between Lewis Todd and the thugs who’d kidnapped them.
The police sergeant leaned over. His face inches from Innocent’s, Lewis growled slowly and with noticeable menace: “Why are you here? How?”
Innocent (or was it Nicholas?) spluttered a reply. The look on the young man’s face was frightened, yet he hadn’t raised a hand in struggle and lay still as he spoke.
However, before the young man finished his explanation, which was the same he’d given David before, Lewis shook his head and cut him off.
“No. It’s no use.”
The frustration in his friend’s tone surprised David, who stood still at his friend’s side with one hand outstretched to check the violence that didn’t come.
“Lew?”
Lewis released Innocent abruptly and sat down with an ‘oof.’
“I can’t understand him,” the bobby replied to David’s unspoken question, his voice a rasp once more. “He could be saying anything – a taunt, a threat, a plea – and I’m none the wiser.”
“He said he was sprung from prison and brought here against his will,” David murmured.
His friend looked at him sharply, eyebrows shooting upward.
“You understand him?”
The priest nodded.
“He understands me, my questions?”
Innocent, who had sat up cautiously, and David both nodded at the same time.
Lewis frowned, coughed, and then said, “Then I want to know everything about why you’re here, Mr. Harker, why we’re here, and what’s to be done with us. And don’t test me. I shan’t restrain you – what would be the point in here? – but if you threaten me or my friend in any way I will incapacitate you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” the priest said quickly.
“I mean it nonetheless,” the sergeant returned, the steel in his voice directed as much toward David as Innocent.
The young man nodded once but hesitated. Cocking his head to one side, the Innocent studied the policeman for a moment and then thrust a hand into a pocket in his trousers. He freed his handkerchief and offered it to the sergeant.
“F-f-f-f-or ‘at.”
Lew raised an eyebrow; Innocent pointed; David interceded.
“You tore a stitch or two throwing the boy about,” the priest explained as he sat down stiffly next to the pair. “He’s trying to help.”
The stoniness of the policeman’s expression melted a touch, and he accepted the handkerchief with a nod. Mopping up the red trickle on his side undammed by his exertions, Lewis gestured for Innocent to speak.
For the next hour or more, David translated. Though Innocent at first only repeated the brief tale of how he’d been taken from prison and locked up there, Sergeant Todd soon began asking questions.
“On your behalf, the family lawyers pled innocence to the murder charge, yet you signed a confession to the opposite. Why?”
(I wouldn’t have signed it if I’d known what ‘murder’ meant.)
“What did you do when you finally understood the charge?”
(Frank had explained the situation to me – he understands me like Father David does – but not until I was already in jail. Frank helped me write a letter to you then, a sort of revised confession.)
“He didn’t kill anyone,” David reiterated. He was sure of it. “Ever.”
Lewis glanced at the priest curiously, and then spent a good deal of time questioning Innocent about the most recent murder, as well as several others connected to the case. Though the young man’s memory of details was poor and understanding of things simplistic, he said something every now and again that made the sergeant’s eyes flash. Someone who didn’t know the policeman as well as David mightn’t have noticed the flares of interest, but since the bobby didn’t explain what peaked it so, the priest continued his interpretations without further comment.
“Why did you send me the letter?” the policeman asked after he’d finished going over the case’s details to his satisfaction. “You could’ve posted it to the police station, or to Inspector Tipple who has charge of the investigation, or any number of people.”
(I remembered your name and face best, and Frank had recommended it since you have a reputation for fairness and seem more inclined to listen than Inspector Tipple.)
Hearing this, Lewis’s ears tinted a faint red, but he went on with his queries.
“None of us policemen could understand you. When that became clear, why did no one come forward to speak for you?”
(Frank said he tried, but no one let him. A few others could understand and speak for me, but didn’t. Then the lawyers told me to say nothing more.)
To this answer, Lewis let out a distinctly dissatisfied sounding grunt.
“And when you signed that confession written for you, we wouldn’t have pressed the matter further,” the policeman muttered to himself. He scratched at the whiskers darkly shadowing his chin, the gesture angry, and then asked, “Why does my friend think your name is Innocent?”
(My mother called me her ‘innocent one.’ I miss her.)
“Do you know the men who’ve captured us?”
A nod.
“How might they have learned that you sent me a letter?”
(I only told Frank, so I don’t know. He wrote it for me.)
The sergeant’s face went even more pensive for a moment, but he continued after only a brief pause.
“Who are they?”
(I don’t recognize all of them, but some I do. They work for my uncle.)
“This uncle is the same one who gave you the knife after Milo Gervais’s murder?”
Another nod.
“Did he kill Milo Gervais?”
Innocent gave a hesitant shrug. (I didn’t see what happened.)
“Did you see him kill anyone else?”
(I…maybe. A man fell down once after Uncle Conway finished speaking with him. My uncle was angry with him and with me after.)
The young man had been sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his knees. As the conversation dwelt upon his uncle, Innocent’s shoulders hunched and he began rocking back and forth.
Unaware of or ignoring the boy’s agitation, Lewis frowned and stated, “The Harkers are very loyal to one another. One wouldn’t think…. I don’t recall there being a Conway Harker.”
(No. He’s my mother’s brother. Conway Duke.)
“Oh!” That stopped the policeman short for a minute or so, and David could almost see the thoughts churning in his friend’s head, as if the pieces of a tremendous puzzle were slowly fluttering and falling into place.
The young man’s rocking slowed and stopped in the silence.
“Is it a grab for power? Why gather up and detain all the people who might finger him for that murder…?” the sergeant mused mostly to himself, and then to the young man: “What are his plans for us?”
Though Innocent had no reply, David couldn’t help but think that a person was missing from that ‘all’: what had become of Frank O’Malley? He didn’t voice that thought, however, instead asking a question of his own.
“Where were you yesterday afternoon and evening?”
Innocent’s answer – that Uncle Conway had asked him to deliver a message to the police – David repeated aloud for the bobby’s benefit. Lewis nodded, accepting the explanation, then asked softly:
“What do you want, Innocent?”
The quiet question surprised the priest. For one, he hadn’t expected Lewis to call the young man by anything other than his given name or surname. And also, David thought it was less a question the bobby would ask than would the man himself.
“T-t-t-t-o g-go ‘ome.”
??
?When we get free of here, then, I think my friend here can help tell your story properly.”
Innocent beamed; David cocked his head at his friend.
“You believe him?”
A brief smile flitted across Lew’s face.
“It’s more that I believe you. That you’re ready to vouch for him isn’t lost on me, and means much.” The sergeant tugged a sideburn fast blurring into his beard scruff. “The court will require more than just his translated word to stay a murder conviction. For me, though: it’s enough that I trust you.”
Sunday afternoon
Horace Tipple was surprised how quickly he and his men found themselves in the labyrinthine tunnels under Harker Fine Goods.
Why, it was only just after noon.
They’d relied on blueprints and city diagrams and what little direction Conway Duke was able to give before he’d been escorted home; finding the tunnel entrance in the factory was easy.
The inspector, with Sergeant Bartholomew and three squads of bobbies, discovered the flight of stairs partly concealed in the back of the storeroom and followed it down. Another three Whitechapel squads were hunting for similar entrances in nearby buildings; hopefully, searching from below and above would reveal how Harker could come and go so easily.
Policemen on loan from Bethnal Green and St. George’s were keeping watch on the streets, ready to nab any of the gang who might be flushed out by the raid. Horace had circulated Lewis’s folio of sketches among the 100 or so bobbies taking part before they started out from Leman Street.
The detective was determined that they wouldn’t end the day empty-handed.
Searching the tunnels they found at the foot of the hidden stair, though, was ploddingly slow work. There were just so many twists and turns and branches that they couldn’t speed through the appropriately depicted labyrinth, even though they reached a promising, broad, lamp-lighted corridor within minutes. It seemed very similar to what Conway Duke had described.
“—As we’ve measured it, sir, the chambers we’ve found thus far were once storerooms for Harker Fine Goods,” Detective Sergeant Haggerty was saying. Broderick Haggerty, the only plainclothes policeman in the tunnels other than Horace, was a blunt-speaking fellow with a thinning mop of ginger hair. The inspector hadn’t had much cause to work with the junior detective before, and certainly not on the Harker case, but Haggerty seemed game to step in at a moment’s notice.
“Only ‘once?’”
“Yes, sir.” Haggerty gestured to the two constables hunched over a map they’d spread out on an old packing crate. The pair was marking off paces counted with a measuring stick, a compass aiding their plotting. “We’re under a trio of outbuildings Mr. Archibald Harker has slated for demolition in a few weeks. They and their storerooms down here have been unused for about two years due to damage caused by a kiln rupture.”
Horace pursed his lips as he wondered why the corridor was as well-lighted and maintained as a thoroughfare.
Haggerty opened his mouth to comment further, but was interrupted by Sergeant Bartholomew trotting back to them.
“Sir! A room just there—“ the bobby pointed back over his shoulder vaguely, “—there’s something you should see.”
Leaving Haggerty to his map men, Horace followed the sergeant’s lead. As they made their way down the passage, the inspector noted a pair of constables a few paces back, tailing him as they had since they left the Leman Street station.
“Were those your idea, Sergeant?”
“What? Oh….” Bartholomew looked back at the constables in tow and bobbed his head once.
Horace chewed his lip. “Why do I have an escort?”
“Sir…what Mr. Duke said: that was a threat.” The sergeant’s reply was soft but steely. “I’m not the only who thinks Harker…or his puppeteer” – his voice went even softer – “wishes you harm and has the means to carry it out. Having men at your back, at least, grants us some peace of mind.”
Horace nodded in acquiescence. “As you wish. But you must know I haven’t any intention to give in to whatever our foe is planning, and every intention of wresting back what and who are ours.”
By then they’d reached the room the sergeant wanted to show the inspector. As it turned out, it was the first goldmine of four.
In that room, Horace saw evidence of recent occupation, or perhaps captivity. Two pairs of shoes had paced through and footprinted the old pottery dust caking the floor – one an average size for a grown man, the other considerably larger – and a wad of black fabric that (when held up) seemed to be some sort of clerical garb lay forgotten in the corner.
If nothing else, these small signs refuted any doubts Horace still had about whether Harker, Todd, and Powell could be entangled together.
A constable brought word of a fresh discovery in the room next door while the detective and the sergeant were still inspecting the first for clues (the bodyguards waited in the hall).
This chamber’s secret was more ghastly: a large, rusty stain had marred the floor and painted macabre swirls in the clay dust before drying.
“I think….” Bartholomew began, his eyes roving over the room without dwelling too long on the stain on the floor, “—I think we may have found where Frank O’Malley died.”
Horace chewed his lip but said nothing.
While the next few chambers were uninteresting and unhelpful, they eventually came to one that showed signs of habitation: sleeping cots, a table, several candle stubs, a lantern that had been extinguished recently (it was still warm), a few heels of bread gone only slightly stale.
While this was telling, the room next door shouted silent volumes to the mute whispers of the other three.
This chamber had all the signs of bodies living rough. The dust on the floor was much more scuffed than it had been elsewhere, and there were spatters of red everywhere. Sprinkled on the floor here; near the wall, there; a streak or two where someone may have lain and bled for a time. Taken together, perhaps the rusty streaks didn’t amount to as much as in the second room, but this wasn’t particularly comforting in light of the telltales of prolonged violence.
Sergeant Bartholomew, swearing softly and eloquently to himself under his breath, stooped to pick up a dark blue rag while Horace stood still in the center of the room, his eyes narrowed and roving.
“Lew’s, I reckon,” the sergeant murmured, shaking out what was left of a policeman’s tunic.
The old detective spared a glance for the tattered uniform. Yes, the chevrons were as expected, and the sleeves looked to be long enough for a man Sergeant Todd’s size: Bartholomew was right.
“But where have they gone?” the sergeant asked.
Horace squatted down, not really listening, and touched his fingertips to something in the dust.
“Sir?”
The inspector rubbed his fingers together, his eyes tracking out of the room into the corridor; he stood after a moment and strode out, still staring at the floor.
“Sir?”
“Sergeant,” Horace replied tersely. “You’ll note the droplets on the bricks. They’re not quite dry and they mark a path that way.”
He pointed down the hall in the direction the policeman had not yet searched. “Gather a squad to start tracking it.”
The sergeant quickly gave the order and nearly a dozen bobbies bent to the task in short order.
“We’re being led somewhere,” Sergeant Bartholomew murmured unhappily, his voice pitched so only the old detective could hear.
“Of course. But that doesn’t mean we must see only what they wish.”
This new bout of tracking took them much further down the corridor, around a sharp corner, down a slight incline, and toward a narrower, unlit side hallway. A few paces beyond where the trail vanished in the blackness, the main corridor ended in a wide, heavily bolted metal door.
“Sergeant Bartholomew. You’ll keep three men with you and get this door open,” the inspector declared. “This lock is new, the door
well-kept, and the bit of floor I can see under the bottom edge is as well-traveled as this corridor’s. Find out where it leads. It’ll give us some idea about the nature of this place, I’m sure. And if you come across anyone – anyone, whether hostile or seemingly friendly – see he returns with us to the station. We’ll sort it out later.”
The sergeant didn’t look happy about letting the old detective continue tracking without him, but he didn’t argue.
As the rest of them moved into the closer confines of the dark passage, Horace didn’t need to be particularly perceptive to notice his men tensing. However anxious they were, though, the men seemed to be keeping their professional wits about them.
The footing in the side passage was rougher than the main corridor’s had been, and the pace slowed accordingly. Agonizingly.
Patience, old man, Horace chided himself.
They had to pause at each of the periodic intersections to determine where the trail of blood went before continuing, but continue they did.
After a few twists and turns, the detective lost all concept of where they might be in relation to the factory overhead.
Were they even still under the property?
“Sir.”
One of the lead constables had called a halt just out of sight around a slight bend.
Moving forward, the inspector saw the cause.
Well. That was unexpected.
“Gentlemen.”
“Gov,” the man standing nearest replied, his hands raised nonthreateningly. Crowded behind the fellow (who was a slim sort with hair that glinted palely in the lamplight) were several other figures, easily twice the number of policemen present. Though, like their leader, the assembled thugs offered no visible threats, their combined numbers oozed menace. “S’pose you’d be Hinspector Tipple.”
Seeing no reason to prevaricate, Horace nodded.
“Well then, Gov,” the spokesman said, “Hi’ll take you on to negotiations wif Mr. ‘Arker. Just you. Your blokes an’ mine’ll stay ‘ere.”
“Sir!” One of the old man’s bodyguards reacted instantaneously; it made the inspector sigh inwardly.
“Constable,” Horace chided, and then he nodded to the blonde. “I’ll accompany you.”
Before he stepped forward he added (rolling encouragement to his men and a threat to their adversaries together): “And you and your men should know there are several further squads of policemen combing these tunnels. You raise a hand against any of my men in my absence – or after my return – and all hell will come down on you. Police whistles carry a long, long way, even in these dark, twisty passages.”
The leader cocked his head to one side briefly and then shrugged. “Won’t take long.”
Then he turned, a lamp in hand, and strode off down the narrow corridor.
Not sparing his men more than a glance, Horace shouldered his way through the throng of heavies to follow the bobbing light into the darkness.