Detective Inspector Horace Tipple waited expectantly while the chief prison warden at Holloway consulted the logbook and a sheaf of paperwork.
“Um. Yes. Here ‘tis. The prisoner was signed over ‘ccording to custom at a quarter past one this afternoon. Out of my hands, then. Sir.” The warden (his name was Bates) added the courtesy title belatedly, his face purpling and shiny with sweat.
Horace looked the records over with an impassive glance, not expecting to see anything helpful in the scribbles. There wasn’t.
“Were you present when Mr. Harker’s person changed custody?”
“Ah….” The warden’s face purpled even further – if that were possible.
“Fetch the man or men present at the time, then.”
“Right, sir.”
Bates seemed only too happy to comply, and returned within moments with a less-than-thrilled young prison guard.
“This here’s Griffiths, Inspector. He was—”
“—Thank you.” The words were a dismissal; Bates happily fled.
Horace looked Griffiths over, and decided a different tack was needed.
“Trying day?”
The young man gulped and nodded. “Sir.”
“You’ve been here long?”
“Six weeks come Monday, sir.”
“You’ve signed prisoners away for transport before?”
“I have at that, sir.”
“Describe for me your customary process.”
As Griffiths did so, Horace cast his gaze about, taking in the passage they were standing in. It went from the interior of the prison, past a guard station, and out to a cobbled yard. The missing murder suspect had gone past this very point on his way to the paddy wagon, which was supposed to have taken him to the courthouse. While the inspector was in here speaking with the warden and guards, several of his men, along with a bevy from the Islington police station, were making inquiries in the surrounding neighborhoods.
(Almost as soon as the prisoner’s disappearance became known, the Islington division had attempted to claim jurisdiction, as Holloway fell under its auspices. However, since the Harkers and the murder suspect were East End and Whitechapel natives, respectively, Horace had politely demanded a berth for his division in the ensuing manhunt. Islington capitulated.)
“And you saw nothing amiss? Each fellow behaved as he ought?” the detective asked once the guard had finished.
Griffiths thought quietly for a moment; Horace made no attempt to hurry him along.
“Well, sir…I’ve never seen those blokes ‘afore, but I’ve not been here long enough to know everyone who passes through. Anywise, the chaps knew the procedure and looked the part of policemen well enough.”
“Would you know them again if you saw them?”
“I…don’t rightly know, sir.” Griffiths replied, a note of honesty in his voice. “I was more watching the prisoner than his minders.”
Horace nodded in understanding. He’d hoped the opposite was true, for he had a sergeant under his command who could produce astounding likenesses merely from others’ verbal descriptions. Knowing the faces of the last to see the missing Harker would speed the manhunt considerably. Especially since Tipple was reasonably certain that ill had not befallen the wagon in transport, but that its driver and guards had conspired to make it and its occupant disappear.
But the boy’s duties did not require that he watch the watchers as well, and Horace didn’t fault his inattention. He thanked Griffiths and departed, deciding nothing further was to be had at present from the prison and those charged with its keep.