Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save the Queen.
38
Saturday, June 19
James answered a knock at the door and found Harry Fisher, Billy’s oldest son, waiting for him.
“You found him? You can take me to him?”
Harry spat at the inspector’s feet. “Me da’s waiting. You can talk to him.” He eyed Margaret and Elizabeth in male attire, turned back to the inspector. “Only you. These blokes can bugger off.”
Elizabeth blushed, and James had to bite his tongue not to play the outraged father. Time she became accustomed to such language, if she’s to work the street, he thought.
“Right you are.” Turning to the “blokes,” the inspector said, “Won’t take long.”
“Maybe it won’t, and maybe it will,” Harry said. “Let’s be off. Da’s waiting.”
The elder Fisher was in the Dog’s Head at his favorite table, his other son, Ben, and a bottle of whiskey beside him. Billy’s eyes were red and his cheeks wet, but the paleness of his face flashed to red when he saw James enter. His wooden leg slammed to the floor as he stood and shook his fist in the inspector’s face. “You killed my boy, you bastard!” James was knocked back, partly by the strong stench from the man’s mouth and partly by the spittle. He resisted the urge to wipe it off. “What’s this then, Billy? Your boy? Which boy?”
The man poured himself another drink from a half-empty bottle and downed it before answering. “Which one ain’t here, you idiot? Josh, my youngest. Found this morning in an alley with his throat slit. Police Constable Williams was good enough to come to me right away after he recognized him, just lying there like an old sack.” He started sobbing. “I know it was that German you’re looking for! No one in the East End would have the bollocks to kill a son of mine. It’s my fault. I shoulda never listened to you. I tries to do right by queen and country, just once, and what happens? My son pays for it!”
Billy grabbed James’s lapels and shook him. “And for what? Josh weren’t the brightest, but he was a kind lad. Never gave no one cause to do this to him.” He stopped to wipe his nose. This done, he stood as straight as his peg leg allowed. “I want to slit that bastard’s throat meself, right after I whisper my boy’s name into his ear, so it’s the last thing he ever hears.”
He collapsed back into his chair and mumbled, the whiskey finally overpowering his rage and grief: “Me and me boys’ll find him. We’ll find him.”
Harry caught his father before he hit the floor and picked him up by his arms, while the other son picked up his legs, wooden and flesh. “We’ve no more business with you, Inspector,” Harry said through clenched teeth. “If we find this German first, we’ll deal with him on our own. Best you not cross our paths again.”
“Before you go, can you tell me where he was found?”
“You can ask Constable Williams to show you. We’re off. Got to see to Josh’s wake and funeral. Now go away, Inspector!”
With that, the two sons carried their unconscious father off. Peg Leg was a criminal of the lowest class, yet James was touched by the tenderness his sons showed as they bore him away. Well, there’s some good in all of us, I suspect. I hope.
James was used to violent death, though usually it was the result of drunken brawls or two criminals falling out. Although he had no blood on his hands, he knew that Josh would still be alive if he hadn’t asked Peg Leg for help. A father’s tears at his son’s death were no less sincere in Whitechapel than in Whitehall.
It was now approaching ten in the morning. The tragedy of the young burglar’s murder made it clear why Ott had to be caught as soon as possible and James felt the need to rush somewhere, to do something heroic and save the day, but where, what? His quarry was no more tangible than smoke but every bit as real. James had been a policeman long enough to know that doing nothing was sometimes the best thing to do, though it can also be the hardest. I can at least talk to PC Williams and have him show me where the body was found. That counts as doing something.
When he arrived at the Spitalfields Station, he saw Sergeant Bean at the desk. He recalled when he worked there, how the bobbies called him “beans for brains,” and James had to stifle a smile when the sight of the man brought the memory back. “Good day, Sergeant,” he said. “Constable Williams report in yet?”
“Nay,” Bean said. “I reckon you’ll be wanting to speak with him about the late Master Fisher he found with his throat slit. Body’s probably still at the morgue, if you want to see it. Williams said it was done with one slice. Whoever did it was as cool as an adder and just as deadly. Don’t know what an idiot like Josh did to have an experienced killer use his blade on him, but there’s no mistaking the work of a man who’s killed before.”
James shuddered when he thought how closely he and Margaret had come to being added to the assassin’s list. “I reckon you’re right, Sergeant. Thank God we don’t get many like him. I’ll pay my respects in back. Please call me when Williams gets in.”
“Aye,” the sergeant said, calm and inscrutable as always. He’d seen the world’s misfortunes on the beat, and now they were paraded before him while he sat on his lofty perch in the station. Inspectors, bobbies, and criminals all came and went, and as time passed they looked more and more alike.
James found his old comrade, Inspector Harry Caldwell, having a spot of tea, his feet up on his desk. “Good thing Abberline’s retired, or he’d pound you into the ground . . .”
“Unsharpened!” Harry replied, laughing as they recalled the old chief inspector’s favorite threat. “You’re a long way from the Yard, my friend. What’s this about?”
“Fisher.”
“What? The death of one of the busiest burglars in London merits your shoe leather?” Harry put his feet down. “Have some tea and tell me why.”
“I’m partly to blame for his death.”
Inspector Caldwell whistled at this. “Now that’s a tale I’d like to hear.”
“I asked Peg Leg to find a man. I think Josh found him.”
“You hired Fisher to find someone?”
“‘Hired’ isn’t the word I’d use. I explained how it would be good for him. He saw the light and agreed.”
Harry gave a sitting bow. “They must teach mind control over at the Yard. I don’t recall you having a silver tongue.”
James sat down with his tea. “So, what have you found out?”
Caldwell shrugged. “Not much. No one saw him arrive there. An old woman, probably meaning to pick his pockets, discovered the man she thought was a passed-out drunk was actually dead. Williams found the throat wound. Oh, and his pockets were cleaned out, so she probably picked his pockets anyway. Her reward for being a good Samaritan, I suppose.”
“Good citizens are hard to find. Anything else?”
“Not so far. To be honest, I reckoned it must be someone with a grudge against his father, and I figured before I could sort it out Peg Leg would deal with it himself. Justice isn’t very patient in the East End, if you’ll recall.” Harry leaned forward. “Now, Special Branch Inspector Ethington, why did you ask our mutual acquaintance, Master Fisher, to help you hunt down someone? I’m deeply hurt you’d turn to him before you would me. I carry a set of darbies, if you recall. Fisher’s only experience with manacles is wearing them, though not as recently as I’d like.”
“I reckoned it takes a thief to catch one. He’s the best, and he has—or had—three sons to be his hounds. You already have the flyer for the man I’m looking for.”
“Ott? You think he’s down here?”
“He’s hiding somewhere. He knows we’re after him. We almost caught him yesterday, so I reckon he’s either fled to the continent or he’s in the East End, where people don’t ask too many questions.”
“Took a shot at you, eh? Taking this rather personal, I see.”
“You ever been shot at, Harry?”
Caldwell rubbed his chin. “Well, no. Not as I rec
all.”
“You’d recall if you had. And yes, I am taking it personal, but that’s not the only reason.”
Harry sipped his tea, waited a moment, then set his cup down. “All right, James. Out with it. What else?”
“I have intelligence that he’s here to kill the queen during the Diamond Jubilee, either during the procession or at the ceremony itself.”
“That would make him, what, the eighth man to try to kill her? If I were him, I wouldn’t like my odds. Her Majesty eats assassins for breakfast.” Harry raised his cup of tea. “A woman to respect, with or without a crown. God bless her.”
“God save the Queen, Harry, but help Him the best you can.” Inspector Ethington was into his second cup when PC Williams stuck his head through the door. “Sergeant Bean said you wanted to see me, Inspector?”
“Yes, Williams. I need you to show me where you found the body before I view it in the morgue. Won’t take a moment.”
Williams shuffled his feet and looked down. “Well, Inspector, could it wait until tomorrow morning? My wife’s pregnant, due any day now. The closer she gets to delivery, the more she worries about me. I’ve only got two more hours on my shift today.”
James coughed. “Sorry, Williams. I must insist. You can go straight home from the scene if your time’s up. I can go to the morgue on my own. Is that fair?”
Williams nodded, the creases on his forehead smooth again. “Aye, sir. It’s on the way. I was afraid you’d drag me off to the morgue after. It’s in the opposite direction.”
“Then it’s settled. You don’t want to be late for lunch with your wife. Unless her mother’s near to hand, it may be the last hot one you have for a couple of weeks.”
Williams smiled at that. “Her sister lives close by, so I doubt I’ll go hungry. Let’s go!”
James turned to Inspector Caldwell. “Well, Harry, are you coming, or do you need a formal invitation?”
Harry sighed. “Things were so quiet here once you went away.” He stood, picked up his bowler, and nodded. “Since you asked so nicely.”
Ten minutes later, they were standing in the alleyway, looking at the spot Josh had been laid to rest.
“Was he just dumped here, Williams? You’d think he’d have been noticed before sunrise.”
“Nay. He was propped up, sir. Posed, you might say. The cut on his neck was covered up by a strip of wool wrapped to look like a scarf. Folks figured him as just another passed-out drunk.”
“Hum. Couldn’t have gone far encumbered by a dead man without drawing people’s attention. Anyone notice when he was put here?”
“I’ve asked about. Sure, drunks ain’t a rarity here. A hundred people coulda seen him and not recall. Sorry.”
“I had some of our other men ask about as well, James,” said Inspector Caldwell. “I honestly didn’t expect to find his killer, but we did the usual, at least.”
Which is why you’re still at Spitalfields, James thought.
James noticed the constable shifting his weight from side to side like a little boy needing the toilet. “All right, Williams. You’re free to go.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m off to log out then.” Williams touched his helmet and was gone in an instant, leaving James alone with Inspector Caldwell in the dim alley. How far could I walk with a dead man beside me? James wondered. How big a circle do I need to draw?
“Harry, I need you to roust out enough men to search every room within a four-street radius. Make sure each man has a sketch of Ott. We need to complete this before dark. I reckon he stays inside during the day, so the next five hours may be our best chance to catch him.”
“And where are you off to?”
“The morgue. Time to pay my last respects to young Josh Fisher.”
39
Saturday, June 19, cont.
Herman had fallen into a troubled sleep once he’d returned. Now his stomach was grumbling and he fretted, waiting until full dark to go out and buy food. Keys would not be making any more deliveries.
Then he heard voices, shouts, knocks on doors, and he peered out the dirty window. Three constables with nightsticks, a flyer in their leader’s hand, were entering homes and asking questions. Herman knew whose likeness they carried. He saw them come to a door and knock. After no one answered the third knock, a pale man with rings of keys and a set of picks set to work. The door opened after about five seconds. A senior constable went in with the locksmith and the constable carrying the flyer, while the other constable stayed outside to watch the courtyard. After a minute or so, the other three came back out again, the locksmith secured the door, and they proceeded to the next residence. In the West End, the police would not enter a locked residence without a warrant. In Whitechapel, such formalities were the exception.
Herman knew if he tried to leave while the others were inside the constable watching the courtyard would call out. His room was in a corner of the yard and the only way out was forward, past the search party. He was trapped, and the constables were making their deliberate way toward him. Unless . . . It was time to see if he could do what needed to be done.
He assembled the rifle. When the next door opened and three other men went in to perform their duties, he cracked open his door and sighted on the head of the constable outside. He swallowed hard. Then, with the slightest pressure, the rifle coughed and the man fell onto the street without crying out.
Herman quickly disassembled the rifle and threw it into its case. He was out the door and almost to the entrance to the court when the senior constable found his colleague dead on the doorstep. The East End was a violent place, and Constable Harris had seen his share of dead men, but never one taken silently and behind his back. He pulled out his whistle, but his hands shook so that it took him a couple of breaths before he could blow into it. By that time Herman was around the corner and into the street, just a tradesman with an odd tool case and a satchel with spare clothes.
Well, he thought. Now I know I can kill. Satisfied, Keys?
It was clear where he had to run from, but where to? Somewhere a good distance from here, anyway. He caught a horse-drawn omnibus, not caring where it went, and rode for fifteen minutes before hopping off. He’d bought a sausage and was sitting on a park bench when the shakes hit him and he had to lay the sausage down beside him before he dropped it. I’ve killed a man. There’s no going back, now. If men have a soul, mine’s damned.
He lay back on the bench, shivering from the cold sweat. He covered the sausage with a rag in his pocket before the sight of it made him gag. Even damned men have to eat, he thought, and he spied a pub across the park. Suddenly, he wanted a beer more than anything else in the world, and made for it. He may have been born in Russia, but when it came to beer, he was a converted German.
His stomach settled down after the beer, so he had a second and felt even better. Seated on a bar stool, he considered his options. Returning to the East End was out. Keys had apparently known the young man he’d killed, which meant the family knew the Irishman. Herman had no doubt the burglar would turn him in to save his own hide if either the police or the dead man’s family caught up with him, and Keys knew what Herman looked like now.
Then it occurred to him. Where is the best place to hide? The place least expected. Herman drained his beer and left to find a secondhand clothing store. He hoped he still had time.
40
Saturday, June 19, cont.
James showed his badge to the clerk and asked to see the surgeon who’d examined the body brought in that morning with the slit throat. The man at the counter was as gray as the majority of the morgue residents, and only slightly more animated. He waved his right hand toward the back. “Hopkins,” he said, and returned to his study of a copy of a penny dreadful with the picture of an American cowboy on the front cover.
Police Surgeon Hopkins was dressed in a smock that had once been white. Now, after multiple washings with blood on it, his “uniform” was a mottled burgundy. He was of average height but had
an impressive set of flaming red side-whiskers that would have disqualified him from passing unnoticed in a crowd.
James showed Hopkins his badge of office, and when he inquired about the young man’s death, the surgeon nodded.
“Lad hadn’t a chance. The incision was so clean, I reckon he was unconscious when the deed was done. If he’d moved his head or struggled, the line wouldn’t have been so straight and even.”
“So, not a knife fight, then?” James asked.
“Nay, Inspector. He was bled like a lamb, and whoever did it had done it before. Brought to mind the bad old days of the Ripper in his surety of hand.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
Hopkins was about to answer when he was called to the back: “Mister Hopkins,” a constable said. “Sorry to bother you and the inspector, sir, but I’m here on a sad duty.”
Hopkins’s brow furrowed. “Constable Harris, after all you’ve seen, it must be a terrible thing indeed. What’ve you brought me?”
Harris looked down and shook his head. “One of our own, sir. Constable Williams.”
“What!” James said. “What happened?”
“We were too short-handed to do the search with the men we had, so I ordered Williams to stay after his shift. He was with me as we did a search around the site where the Fisher lad was found this morning.” Harris cleared his throat. “As you suggested, Inspector.”
James felt his gorge rise. Another death at my feet, he thought.
The surgeon removed the oiled canvas tarpaulin covering the body and whistled. The single bullet hole above the right temple was obvious. He rotated the head from side to side.
“Note the absence of an exit wound on the opposite side. The small amount of blood around the hole tells me the man died instantly.” The surgeon took a ruler and laid it beside the hole.
James stared at the hole and reflected that Sergeant Q had the right of it, the hole would easily accommodate a man’s thumb. Then he recalled Constable Williams’s words to him earlier that day, about fearing the inspector would “drag him to the morgue,” and let out a long, shuddering breath as he fought to keep his composure.
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