The Alloy Heart

by Quinn Loftis

  “Oh, you poor fools. You’re going to regret this,” said Watt, glancing around, appearing relieved that no one had seem him being escorted through the street, as most of the revelers at the Fox and Hound had either called it a night or were lying face down in their spilled drinks. “I’m going to give you one more chance to release me and let me be on my way or, so help me, your entire precinct will be shut down.”

  “You ride with the prisoner, Mr. Foster. I’ll drive the cab,” said Hill, making for the driver’s platform. Foster shoved Watt roughly into the cab and then followed him inside, pulling the door closed with a crack behind him.

  Charlie Bainbridge barreled into the police station on Coventry Street, spitting and spluttering curses like a cat that has just been dropped into a barrel of cold water.

  “Where is my client?” he roared at the elderly constable behind the desk.

  Constable Eldridge Smith dropped his newspaper and scrambled to the back of the station with the speed of a man half his age. He’d been expecting this. As soon as he saw Hill and Foster marching the spindly mechanic’s guild member into the station and through to the interrogation room, he knew he would be receiving a visit from Bainbridge, the guild’s personal barrister. Smith had spent the last thirty minutes trying to steel himself for the blustery attorney, but his efforts, as always, were in vain. Bainbridge was simply a hurricane for which there was no preparation.

  The barrister hopped from one foot to another as he waited the entire minute that it took Smith to retrieve Inspector Hill from the backroom.

  “Who are you?” Bainbridge barked at Thomas. Despite being possessed of medium height and build, the lawyer seemed to fill up the entire room. He brandished his briefcase like a bludgeon, and Thomas had an easier time picturing the man participating in a bare-knuckled brawl in front of a crowd of degenerates than in opening arguments in front of a judge.

  “Inspector Hill, Mr. Bainbridge. I know who you are, of course. What brings you down to our humble little precinct?” Hill stuck out his hand, forcing a smile onto his face.

  “You know damn well why I’m here, Inspector,” said Bainbridge, ignoring Hill’s outstretched hand. “Where is Chief Inspector Cox? I demand to see him this instant!”

  Constable Smith was cowering in the corner behind his desk, hoping to avoid the attention of the barrister, but inexplicably unable to look away from the walking train wreck that was Bainbridge. Thomas dropped his hand, smile still plastered in place. Then he lowered his eyebrows and scratched his chin.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bainbridge. I thought I overheard you say earlier that you were looking for a client. Which is it?”

  Bainbridge audibly growled now, but Hill could not decipher any distinguishable words in the sound. Bainbridge squeezed the handle of his briefcase so hard that his knuckles turned white, and Hill thought the poor leather might begin oozing blood at any second.

  “I’m perfectly capable of meeting with two individuals at the same time,” the lawyer ground out. “Bring me them both. Now!”

  “You are a very successful Barrister, Mr. Bainbridge,” replied Hill coolly. “I’m sure you have many clients. Would you like to be a little more specific as to which particular client you would like to see? I’ll be happy to check and see if he is here.”

  “I am here to see George Watt,” Bainbridge spat. “Stop playing games, Inspector.”

  “Foster,” Thomas yelled toward the back of the precinct. “Please bring out our suspect. There is a pleasant gentleman here who would like to see him.”

  John appeared in the doorway, dragging a very angry, very shackled mechanic along with him.

  “Here you go,” said Foster, giving Watt the tiniest of shoves from behind as he let the man go. The slight bump almost unbalanced the skinnier man.

  “Why is he handcuffed? Remove those manacles this instant!” bellowed the attorney.

  “Have you somewhere to be, Mr. Bainbridge?” asked Hill calmly.

  “What?” barked Bainbridge in response.

  “An appointment, an urgent meeting, somewhere you need to go … in … a … hurry?” Hill said, dragging out the last words as if speaking to a dullard.

  “I have lots of appointments. What are you getting at?”

  “I am just wondering,” replied Hill, “why everything has to be done right this instant? It appears to be a common theme with you, Mr. Bainbridge. I don’t know that it is altogether conducive to good health. Perhaps you should consider stopping to ‘smell the roses’ as it were.”

  Bainbridge made an audible gurgling noise, but its meaning was indecipherable. The connotation conveyed by the look on his face, however, was crystal clear. He didn’t appreciate Hill’s question.

  “As for why your client is in handcuffs, I direct you to the Peeler Police Manual, a document with which I’m sure you are very familiar, Section, 3, Subsection 12.1(a). ‘Upon completion of arrest and/or detention of, and throughout the holding and interrogation of any individual suspected of a violent crime, for the protection of the arresting and/or interrogating officers, and the general public, the subject in question shall be, and at all times remain, shackled.’”

  “Has this man been arrested then?” asked Bainbridge.

  “Not precisely,” responded Hill.

  The attorney smirked. “Is he being interrogated then?”

  Inspector Hill indicated to Foster, who removed a key from his pocket and began unlocking Watt’s wrist manacles.

  “Actually, we were just finished with our interrogation. It’s a shame you couldn’t have gotten here sooner. I’m sure you would have been most helpful with our questioning. I’ve no doubt you are as anxious as we are to uncover the truth.”

  “The truth about what?” asked the attorney. “What is this all about, anyway?”

  “Oh, haven’t you been reading the papers, Mr. Bainbridge? Three women have been murdered. Your client is the prime suspect.”

  “Poppycock,” said Charlie.

  “What’s poppycock?” asked Hill. “That three women have been murdered? It’s been reported in several papers. Why would these news organizations have any reason to fabricate such ghastly crimes?”

  “Not that, you gibface. The fact that my client had anything to do with them. Mr. Watt is an upstanding member of the community—a guild member. You have no idea the hornet’s nest you’ve kicked, Inspector Hill.”

  Thomas sighed. “I’m painfully aware, Mr. Bainbridge. But your client was observed at the scene of a crime, and brandishing a club, to boot. A woman was abducted from the Fox and House pub a week ago. And last night we saw your client behind that same pub, about to attack a young woman.

  “And where is this ‘young woman’ now?” asked the attorney.

  “Regrettably, she fled the scene.”

  “So you don’t have any evidence at all then, do you, Inspector?”

  “You think two eyewitnesses, police inspectors, no less, is insufficient evidence?” retorted Hill.

  “If the inspectors are as shoddy at their job as you two, then yes,” said Bainbridge.

  “I already told you two what I was doing, you fools,” said Watt, finally speaking up.

  “Rats? Really, Mr. Watt, you can’t expect us to believe that.”

  “You can believe anything you want, you—”

  “Mr. Watt,” interrupted Bainbridge sharply. “I’ll handle any communication with the police from this point forward. Say nothing else.”

  “I think we have everything we need from you two for now,” said Inspector Hill. “Watt, take my advice and stay close to London. If you turn up missing, well, that might be construed by some as an act of a guilty conscious. Mr. Bainbridge, you and your client are free to go.”

  Watt moved past Inspectors Hill and Foster, rubbing his wrists and scowling as he stared them in the face. “You haven’t seen the last of me. Remember what I said. You two will lose your jobs over this, I guarantee it,” he said, his voice guttural.

  “Enou
gh,” said Bainbridge as he swung open the door and allowed Watt to pass through before he turned back to the inspectors. “You’ve made powerful enemies here today, gentlemen,” he said. “Powerful indeed.” He let the door swing shut behind him and was gone.

  “That went about as well as could be expected,” said Hill.

  “Aye, what do ya think will happen now?” asked Foster.

  “I’ll give our report to the chief inspector. After he’s done browbeating and threatening us for arresting a guild member, he’ll review it. If he thinks we have enough evidence on Watt, he’ll direct us to formally arrest him. Then he will talk with the families of the victims, and they could move forward with prosecution. That will be the tricky part, as I believe the women have very little family to speak of. If no money or support can be found for prosecution, it’s possible that the queen could be petitioned to assign one of the crown prosecutors.”

  “Crown prosecutors?”

  “A new initiative instituted by Victoria,” said Thomas. “She’s trying her best to reduce crimes in the slums. Since, on many occasions, victims cannot be counted on to prosecute serious crimes privately, criminals go free. Victoria is trying to prevent that by allocating money from the royal treasury to hire crown prosecutors.”

  “Good idea,” mused Foster. “But what if we don’t have enough evidence?”

  “Then perhaps we can get hired on with the railway, because our investigating days will be over.”

  “Do you really think he did it?” asked John.

  “Hard to say. It did look suspicious, him in that alley with a club. But that doesn’t really fit with the other murders, does it?”

  “Nope,” replied Foster. “Quincy never said anything about head trauma to any ’a the other three victims.”

  “But what about his scar? Ruth said the man that abducted Mary had a scar on the left-hand side of face. Watt definitely has that.”

  “But who’s going to believe a workin’ girl? You know what that jollocks, Bainbridge, will do to her on the witness stand. She’ll be so twisted up she won’t know left from right.”

  “You’re right, I’m afraid. What did you think about Watt’s story? Could he really have been there trying to catch rats and possums for a guild ‘experiment’? Seems a bit of a stretch to me.”

  “Like I said before, boss, those crystal jockeys are barmy, every last one of them.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Friday, 20th May 1887

  Sometime around 10:00 a.m.

  “Where are we going in such a hurry?” Sophia asked as Olivia practically shoved her out the door. Ever since they’d awoken that morning, Olivia had been a whirlwind of activity. But no matter how Sophia prodded or poked, her sister refused to divulge any information.

  “We have an appointment we need to make, now hurry along. Don’t dawdle,” Olivia snapped. She didn’t mean to snap at her sister, she was just frustrated because she’d overslept and was running late, though Sophia didn’t know that. Olivia didn’t want to keep Lady Templeton waiting, especially since she’d done so much for them.

  “What appointment?” Sophia asked.

  “Must you be so disagreeable this morning? Just move your tiny feet and quit asking questions.”

  * * *

  Sophia bit her lip to keep from laughing. She knew that would only fluster Olivia more. She would just have to be curious a little bit longer. When Olivia finally stopped walking, they were standing in front of Lady Templeton’s dress shop. It didn’t appear that the store was open, and Sophia was about to point that out but stopped when the door opened and Lady Templeton herself waved them inside.

  “Well don’t just stand there looking like two lost birds, get inside,” she scolded and opened the door wider.

  Olivia grinned at Lady Templeton as she slipped past her and into the dark room. No candles or oil lamps were lit. The only light came from the storefront windows, which cast muted shadows around the space giving an eerie quality to the dresses that were worn by the lifeless dummies.

  “How are you doing, Lady Templeton?” Sophia asked as the door closed behind her.

  “I am just fine, my dear, just fine. Now…” She clapped her hands together and rubbed them like an eager child. “I just happened to be reading the society pages and saw that someone is having a wedding in two days.”

  Sophia’s eyes widened. “The society pages?” How on earth had news of her wedding ended up in the society pages? She turned to look at her younger sister. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

  “Actually, I did not,” Olivia said with a smile.

  “I’m afraid I will have to take the blame on that one, Sophia. I know your father and mother would have loved getting to see their eldest daughter in the paper, celebrating her pending nuptials. I didn’t want you to miss out on having that,” Lady Templeton explained.

  Sophia held back her emotions. “That was incredibly thoughtful of you and generous.” She knew those announcements came at a cost, especially on the society pages.

  Lady Templeton waved her off and then motioned for them to follow her. “Think nothing of it. We have more pressing issues at this moment. Strip,” she said as she snapped her fingers at Sophia.

  “Excuse me?” Sophia asked, trying not to sound too taken aback.

  Lady Templeton turned to face Sophia, her hands on her hips and brow raised. “Are you going to try on your wedding dress while you’re still fully clothed? Because I must advise you that it won’t be the look you’re going for.”

  “My we-d-wedding dress?” Sophia stuttered as her eyes jumped from Olivia to Lady Templeton and back again. “I didn’t order a wedding dress.”

  Lady Templeton tsked. “Of course you didn’t. If we left things up to you, you’d be getting married in a burlap sack with only the birds to shower you. But instead of showering you with gifts and joy, they’d be covering you with something decidedly smellier.” She clapped her hands. “Now, chop, chop.” She motioned to a room just beyond a hanging curtain. “Go on back there and undress down to your undergarments, and I’ll bring the dress in.”

  Olivia held up a hand. “Do not argue, sister. Just do as you’re told.”

  Sophia, still a bit in shock, walked past both women and into the room, where she did as she was told and stripped down to her undergarments. All the while she was wondering where on earth the dress had come from and how she was going to pay for it.

  “Here we are,” Lady Templeton said as she pushed the curtain aside, an elegant wedding dress draped across her arms. “I used your sister’s measurements for the dress. You are here now for a last-minute alterations.”

  As Lady Templeton began helping her into the dress, which was more like a piece of art than an article of clothing, Sophia turned and looked at her sister. “You did this, didn’t you?” Her voice was soft and filled with awe. The dress was just as she described it to Olivia all those years ago. Olivia rolled a long mirror over, and as the dress unfolded down her body, her breath was taken away. It was her dream come to life.

  “How did you remember?” Sophia asked as she touched the lace and delicate buttons.

  Olivia’s face almost hurt from the smile that was stretching across it. Joyful tears were filling her eyes, making it difficult to focus on the vision that was her sister. Lady Templeton passed her a tissue. Olivia didn’t want to miss a single second of her sister’s facial expressions as she took in the dress, the dress that Sophia had spent hours telling her younger sister about when they were children.

  “It wasn’t hard to remember,” Olivia told her. And it hadn’t been. The dress wasn’t elaborate. In fact, it was very simple, elegant, and understated. “And it’s perfect.”

  Sophia’s fingertips covered her mouth as she began to tremble. “It really is,” she whispered. “It’s completely perfect.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the dress. She was getting married, something that she had thought was out of her reach, something she would never live long enough to d
o. She was going to be wearing the dress she’d dreamed of her whole life. Sophia felt the tears sliding down her face, but she didn’t see them. Her eyes never left the beautiful dress in the looking glass. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her breathing increasing as her mind tried to grasp the amount of joy and sorrow swarming over her all at once. Joy over a sister who would go to such lengths to give her something so special and the sorrow of knowing she would be leaving her sister soon. She wouldn’t see Olivia marry or have children. Joy at getting to marry the love of her life and sorrow over knowing they had such a limited amount of time together.

  The emotions were almost more than she could bear. She felt her legs getting weak and reached out grab onto something, anything, to keep from falling.

  “I’ve got a chair behind you, Sophia. You won’t fall,” Olivia said gently as Lady Templeton helped ease her down into the chair.

  “I’m sorry,” Sophia said breathlessly. “I’m just a bit overwhelmed.”

  Lady Templeton pushed around some material that was lying on a table. When she found what she was looking for, she hurried back to Sophia’s side. “It gets warm back here when I’m working and moving around,” she explained as she began to fan Sophia, hoping the cool air would help take away the paleness that had suddenly appeared on the young woman’s face.

  Sophia closed her eyes and let the air rush over her. She took deep breaths, attempting to calm her racing heart. She needed to pull herself together or she’d wind up dying simply because her heart couldn’t handle all that she was feeling. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “Just stop apologizing,” Olivia chastised. “There’s no need for it.”

  “I just never thought…” she began but her sister interrupted.

  “You never thought you’d have a wedding, a dress, or husband, I know. But you are, and it’s going to be spectacular, just like you.”

  “Well said,” Lady Templeton agreed. “When you’re ready, we’ll stand you back up and check the measurements. Then I think it might be best if your sister got you home so you can rest.”