A flush rose from Purcell’s collar. “We’re in a police station, Major, not a public house.”
“Even so.” The major folded his body into Purcell’s leather chair and adjusted his shirt cuffs. “The Chief Inspector informs me that you are in charge of the investigation, Langton. I’d appreciate a résumé of your findings so far.”
As he repeated the bare facts of the case, Langton evaluated Major Fallows. The grey hair and deep-set eyes put his age around fifty years, perhaps more, but he looked attentive and alert; he sat bolt upright, the opposite of Purcell’s customary slump. He did not interrupt while Langton stood and itemized the events.
Langton did not relay everything he had found; for some reason he did not yet fully understand, he kept back McBride’s news of the telegrams’ destination address. Nor—thanks in some part to fear of ridicule—did he mention the possible involvement of the Jar Boys. He finished his explanation and waited for the major’s response.
Fallows nodded. “It’s quite obvious: Kepler and Durham inveigled their way into the Span Company, with robbery as their probable
motive. For some reason we don’t yet know, they fell out and Durham killed Kepler. Whatever scheme they had in place is no doubt in tatters.”
Purcell breathed an audible sigh. “You don’t believe it to be a plot.”
“Not from the evidence,” Major Fallows said. “It seems no more than straightforward avarice.”
Langton could see no logic to support the major’s dismissal of the case. He glanced at Purcell, then said, “I don’t believe it is quite so straightforward, Major.”
“Really, Langton?” The major stared at him. “Do go on. Please.”
Purcell, red-faced and frowning, stood between the two men. “Look here, Langton, Major Fallows is one of Her Majesty’s most experienced—”
“Please, Chief Inspector. I want to hear.”
Langton looked past Purcell. “Well, Major, if robbery was the motive, what did Durham and Kepler hope to gain?”
“No doubt the Span Company keeps a reasonable amount of operating capital in its offices.”
“Enough to justify months of preparation and deception?”
“I would imagine the Company payroll is quite large.”
“It was,” Langton said, “during the main phase of the construction, when many thousands of navvies and engineers worked on the Span. But only a few hundred men maintain the structure now. Durham and Kepler missed their opportunity by months if robbery was their motive.”
In contrast to Purcell, the major’s expression did not change. “Go on.”
Langton said, “If Durham did kill Kepler, why disfigure the body? He could have hidden it away, anchored it to the bottom of the Mersey or thrown it into one of the many disused shafts that litter the shore. Instead, the killer dumped the body in the busiest dock in the area and mutilated it in such a way as to guarantee publicity and investigation.”
“Perhaps Durham is mad,” Purcell said. “Without reason or logic.”
Langton nodded. “Perhaps, sir, but I believe there is more to this than simple robbery. Especially since Kepler was a Boer.”
“That does not exclude him from also being greedy.”
“True, Major, but a possible witness was also murdered.”
“This Stoker Olsen? You’re quite sure his death is connected?”
Langton stared at him. “The alternative stretches coincidence, Major. I don’t think either of us is that naïve.”
At that, Purcell became almost apoplectic. “Now see here, Langton, I will not have you speak to—”
Major Fallows stopped the flow with a raised hand. “That’s quite all right, Purcell. Inspector Langton has made some good points. Perhaps my initial opinion was too hasty. But that is all it was: an opinion. I have a duty to Her Majesty which obliges me to investigate any possible danger to her person no matter how slim the evidence.”
Fallows stood up and brushed his sleeves and waistcoat. “With that in mind, Inspector, perhaps you would be good enough to show me the evidence you have collected so far?”
“Of course, Major.” Langton followed him out of the office and saw by the look on Purcell’s face that this matter was not closed.
Down in Langton’s office, Fallows settled himself at the desk with the case file and statements laid out before him. “Don’t let me keep you, Inspector. I’m sure you have many pressing duties.”
As he lifted his coat from the stand, Langton smiled at the irony of being dismissed from his own office. “If there’s anything you need, Major, ask Harry, the office boy.”
“Thank you.” Then, as Langton reached the door, “You believe I have been too swift to reach a conclusion in this case.”
Langton waited. Up in Purcell’s office, he had wondered why the major had wanted to reduce the case to a mere robbery. And Langton could understand why Purcell grasped so firmly at that explanation: It removed the embarrassment that a plot against Her Majesty would bring, a plot formulated in Purcell’s area and under his very nose. Robbery was so much more palatable and so much easier to deal with.
The major continued, “As we discovered in Africa and South America, panic can cause almost as much damage as an actual attack. I must
ensure that public confidence is not jeopardized, and that Her Majesty’s visit is not unduly interrupted. I trust that you understand the situation. Until later, Inspector.”
Langton stood for a moment outside his own office, going over the major’s warning. He agreed with the logic but not with the end result. For Major Fallows had implied that the Queen’s visit obliterated all other considerations, even the truth. As patriotic and dutiful as Langton was, he could not simply dismiss this case because it might cause panic. Chief Inspector Purcell might.
And what would Major Fallows make of the references to the Jar Boys? He was sure to find it in the file and Kepler’s postmortem reports. If the public got hold of that possibility, they would create their own sensationalist theories. The more outlandish the story, the longer it ran in the newspapers.
Thinking of the Jar Boys made Langton remember Forbes Paterson and Doctor Redfers. He checked his fob watch; he still had time to see both men. But he found Paterson’s room empty again.
“I gave him your message, sir,” the clerk in the main office told Langton. “Is it really important?”
When Langton said it was, the clerk beckoned him closer, looked left and right like a pantomime theatrical, and lowered his voice. “I don’t suppose Mr. Paterson will mind me telling you, sir: They’re down in the Hole in the Wall pub, celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
“They put some big swindler in the cells, sir. They’ve been after him for a year or more.”
Langton thought immediately of Doktor Glass.
“You’ll keep it under your hat, won’t you, sir?”
Langton thanked the clerk and hurried down the stairs. He knew the small, cramped pub down a winding side alley, such a favorite among the police that it sometimes seemed like their unofficial social club. He hurried through the cold streets and pushed his way inside the pub, automatically stooping to avoid the low, dark beams hung
with horse brasses. Even at this time of the afternoon, the smoke-wreathed room bustled with drinkers. Langton squeezed through the crowd, peering at faces through clouds of cigar smoke. On a cold winter’s day like this, the warmth and the smell of beer and food seemed like an oasis.
Inspector Forbes Paterson sat in a red leather booth at the back of the snug, surrounded by his fellow detectives, inspectors, and sergeants, all red in the face, grinning and laughing. Glasses and bottles hid every square inch of the table in front of them. Sepia photographs of sporting heroes and prizefighters looked down from the walls, and Paterson himself resembled a pugilist: broad, heavy, with pummeled features and an exorbitant moustache waxed to points. “Langton, sit down and have a drink. I got your message, but the boy Harry said you were in Percy’s office.”
Langton smiled. “Percy” was one of the least insulting nicknames given to Chief Inspector Purcell. “Sorry to interrupt; do you have a minute?”
Paterson looked over the rim of his pint. “Private?”
“Please.”
Paterson finished his pint and carried the empty glass to the bar. As the barmaid refilled it and poured a fresh glass for Langton, Paterson leaned over and spoke a few words. She nodded and pointed to a side door.
“This way,” he said, sliding one of the pints toward Langton.
Langton paid for the drinks and followed Forbes through the crowd, trying not to spill his beer. The side door opened onto a narrow staircase that led to a second-floor function room that smelled of dust and stale beer. A fire burned in the grate behind a mesh guard.
“Bev said we could use this until they start setting up for the night,” Paterson said, pulling two chairs from against the wall and placing them by the fire. He raised his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Langton sipped the dark beer. “I’m sorry for interrupting your celebration.”
“Oh, we’ll be here awhile yet.” Paterson looked away, into the flames. “How are you holding up?”
Langton knew what he meant. “Work helps; the busier I am, the less I…”
Paterson nodded but still stared at the fire. “People believe that time helps, too.”
“Maybe so.” That didn’t reassure Langton; he wanted the pain to lessen but he didn’t want to forget Sarah. He couldn’t imagine the day when the thought of her didn’t pierce his heart.
That reminded him of Doktor Glass. “I believe you had some luck today.”
Paterson grinned. “A year we’ve been after him. Every one of my boys put in extra hours, worked themselves dry, but we got him.”
Langton kept his voice level. “Who was it?”
“A determined, clever, devious little swindler by the name of Archibald David Healey. His specialty was separating recently widowed women from their wealth. And he was good at it, too. Séances, fake mediums, apparitions, the works. Most of his gang’s victims were too embarrassed to testify; in the end, we had to hook him with our own little game. We used an actress from the playhouse and set her up in a fine house in Toxteth. Worked a treat.”
That gave Langton a germ of an idea; he put it to one side for now.
“So what did you want to see me about?” Paterson asked.
Even now, Langton hesitated, but he had to know. “Have you ever heard of the Jar Boys?”
The smile left Paterson’s face. “I’ve heard of them.”
“Are they swindlers? Or just stories?”
Paterson cradled his pint in both hands and didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “This is between us?”
“Completely.”
Paterson nodded and gulped his drink. “They’re real. We had a handful of cases in the past six months. They used to target the poor, who were too afraid, too cowed, or simply too superstitious to speak
out. Once they started on the middle classes and the supposedly educated…”
“They?”
“I’ve heard of three local gangs, although they seem to be fighting among themselves lately,” Paterson said. “There’s plenty more in London, but three’s enough for me. More than enough.”
Langton leaned forward. “What do they do?”
Paterson spoke slowly, apparently choosing his words with care. “They used to pay the poorer families for the privilege of attaching some kind of machine to their loved ones just before they passed away. Are you sure you want me to go on?”
“Please.”
“They used various stories: The machines eased the pain, or delayed the inevitable, even that they pointed the dying to heaven. This was with the poor.”
“And with the others?”
Paterson reached automatically for his glass, saw it was empty, and frowned. “The gangs told these supposedly educated families another lie: that the machines could store their loved ones’ souls until a new body was found. And these people actually believed it. They only came to us when the gangs disappeared with their money as well as the contents of the jars.”
Langton stared at him. “The families paid them?”
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
But as he thought of it, Langton could see a reason: Some families might do anything to extend the lives of their dying loved ones. They might grasp at any and every possibility. “Do you believe they trap the victims’ souls?”
Paterson hesitated. “I’ve talked with more than a few who’ve witnessed the Jar Boys at work. They’re convinced that something happens; they swear you can see a bright mist streaming toward the jar. But as for it being the soul…I don’t know, Langton. I think desperate people see, and believe, what they wish to.”
Langton believed that, too. “What do they do with these jars?”
“You’d have to ask them.”
“Have you caught any of the gangs?”
“We had our hands on a few of the smaller fishes, but the bigger ones always swim a little deeper, out of our reach.”
Langton took a chance: “Have you come across a Doktor Glass?”
Paterson turned to him. “How did you hear that name?”
“I’m investigating a body washed up in Albert Dock.”
“The faceless chap?”
Langton nodded.
“You think he’s connected with Glass?”
“Possibly. What do you know?”
“Only that Doktor Glass is the worst of all of ’em,” Forbes said. “Springheel Bob’s gang is bad enough, the Caribs no better, but nobody will speak of Doktor Glass out of fear. If he really is involved with your faceless man, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
At that moment, as if on purpose, a maid opened the door, saw the two men, and gave a start, almost dropping the white linen folded over her arm. “Sorry, sirs. I was told to start setting the tables.”
“Give us just a minute, please,” Langton said. Then, when she’d left, he asked Paterson, “You know nothing about him?”
“I wish I did. I hate cruelty, especially to the old and the weak. His arrest would comfort many, not to mention solving at least three murders, maybe more.”
“How do you mean?”
Paterson said, “You can’t always depend on when someone is going to die. Only the Lord himself knows that. That interferes with Glass’s schedule, so he’s been known to speed the course of action.”
“He’s murdered the victims?”
“I’m sure he has.” Paterson got to his feet and reached for his empty glass. “Proving it is another thing altogether.”