Even though the stories were no doubt embellished, Langton had to close his eyes and grip the side of the wagon for support. The thought of deep, oppressive darkness disoriented him. Too many resonances.
“Are you all right, sir?” Sapper George asked. “I didn’t mean nothing by them tales. My missus is always saying I talk too much.”
Langton shook his head. “I’m just tired. But I don’t have any great desire to follow you down there.”
“I hopes you don’t have to, sir. Now, your man Durham: As I said, he headed inland, probably finding his way by the direction of the waters. Either way, it looks like he come up by Parliament Street.”
“Toxteth? He made it all that way?”
Sapper George scratched his head. “I know it’s strange, sir, but distance doesn’t mean the same down there. Sometimes, you think
you’ve been crawling for days and you’ve only made a few hundred yards. Other times, it feels like you’ve been down there an hour or two and you’ll suddenly pop up the other side of the city, miles away. Shortcuts, like.”
Toxteth. Langton remembered that Professor Caldwell Chivers lived in a luxurious mansion not far from Upper Parliament Street.
“You’re sure it was Durham?”
“Sure as we can be, sir. His boot prints were nice and clear, easy to spot. And he left this jacket by the sewer exit next to the cathedral crypt.” Sapper George unwrapped the bundle of oilcloth and laid out the sodden jacket. He brushed away the albino cockroach that crawled from the pocket and pointed to labels along the inner seams. “Property of the Span Company, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“You want us to keep looking, sir?”
“No, call your men back. I’m sure that Major Fallows has a few jobs for you.”
Sapper George grinned, revealing gold teeth. “I bet he has, sir.”
Langton started walking toward the rank of hansom cabs waiting on the Goree, then turned back to Sapper George. “Do these tunnels burrow underneath the Span?”
Already halfway down the shaft, Sapper George stuck his head up above street level and said, “Some of them do, sir, but the Span Company bricked them up. Wouldn’t want someone laying a charge down there, would they?”
No, they wouldn’t,
Langton thought. If plotters, Boer or otherwise, did exist, then where would they strike? And how?
* * *
L
ANGTON FELL ASLEEP
in the hansom cab taking him home. He woke at some bump in the road, unsure for a moment who or where he was. Then he recognized familiar streets, gardens, his own trim house. “Just here, driver.”
He saw the front door open as he climbed down from the cab. Elsie took his hat and coat. “We were worried about you, sir.”
“We?”
“Me and Sergeant McBride, sir.” Elsie turned away as a faint blush colored her neck and cheeks. “He just came over to check I was all right.”
Langton smiled but didn’t comment. He could see McBride and Elsie happy together. He wished it for them.
“This came for you, sir. Yesterday evening.”
Langton broke the envelope’s seal and read three short sentences of precise copperplate writing. His smile faded. He folded the letter into his pocket and stared into space.
Elsie waited a moment, then said, “Can I get you some coffee, sir? Something to eat?”
“I’m not hungry, Elsie.”
“Please, sir, you should eat. Cook said she could whip you up some eggs, bacon, toast, anything you fancy. Or a proper dinner if you like.”
Langton knew she was right. He needed fuel. “Thank you, Elsie. Give me half an hour. Just something light. And plenty of coffee.”
As he undressed in his room and ran a quick bath, Langton glanced at the letter on the washstand. Why did Sarah’s parents want to see him now? Why this particular moment? The brief text requested—almost demanded—him to call on them, but gave no hint about the reason.
Cold water opened Langton’s eyes and reminded him of cemetery rain, and the last time he had seen Sarah’s parents: her father glancing at him from under the wide black umbrella and silk top hat; her mother staring at the intricate rain patterns on the curving mahogany casket as if she could decode them. They had spoken only a few words to him that day. And nothing since.
So why now? What did they want from him?
Shaved and dressed, Langton entered the drawing room and
found a new fire in the grate. Weak sunlight filtered through the curtains, glowed from polished wood, and showed a single place laid at the table. Elsie really did her best to take care of the house. And of Langton.
“There you are, sir. Bacon and eggs, and some good thick toast. Careful of the hot plate.” Elsie slid the willow-patterned plate before Langton and poured coffee from the silver pot. “Set you up for the day, even though it’s a bit late for breakfast.”
Langton smiled as the comfortable atmosphere of home relaxed him. Perhaps time had started its healing. He only had to look down the table, to the empty chair, to know that wasn’t so. He forced himself to eat while Elsie fussed around the room; her chatter washed over him like the gentle warmth of the fire.
Then, as he pushed away his empty plate, Langton touched the letter in his pocket. He should call Sarah’s parents and arrange a time to visit, even though he wanted to return to the interrogation of Reefer Jake. And he had so many other tasks. “I think it’ll be another late night tonight, Elsie.”
“Is there anything I can do, sir?”
“There is something.” Langton drained his cup and left the table. He remembered Mrs. Grizedale’s attacker, and Redfers. Doktor Glass obviously didn’t like loose ends. Or perhaps he was simply vindictive. “Elsie, I want you to be careful.”
“Sir?”
“Lock the house up tight. If someone calls, check who they are before you let them in. Even better, don’t let anyone inside the house. Shout for help if someone tries to force their way in; before I go back to work, I’ll ask next door’s footmen to keep an eye on you.”
Elsie’s eyes opened wide. “Why, sir, whatever for? You don’t think—”
“I just want to make sure.” Langton took his coat and hat from the hall stand and turned at the front door. “Remember, Elsie: Take care.”
“I promise, sir, but I’ve got Sergeant McBride to look after me.”
Again, she blushed. “I mean, if he’s not too busy, sir. I don’t want you to think he’s ignoring his job or anything…”
“I know, Elsie. He’s a good man.”
That made Elsie’s face even redder. Langton put her out of her misery by standing on the top step while he buttoned his coat. He waited until he heard the mortise lock click into place behind him, then looked up at the solid façade and wondered if Doktor Glass would want to harm Elsie. Perhaps not, but she might get in the way when Glass targeted Langton.
Langton didn’t want that on his conscience. In life, there was only so much guilt that one man could bear.
* * *
L
ANGTON CLIMBED THE
stairs to Forbes Paterson’s office just after two in the afternoon and found it empty. Presuming that he had gone down to the basement cells without him, Langton almost collided with Paterson on the stairs.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Paterson said. He held the brown envelope containing Reefer Jake’s personal possessions.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Paterson grinned. “I don’t think our friend Jake is going to complain. No, I wanted you to take a look at these before we question him again.”
Back in his office, Forbes Paterson laid out the contents of Jake’s envelope: clay pipe, pigskin pouch of dark tobacco, a few coins of various sizes, an ivory-handled lock knife. The last item caught Langton’s eye: a brand-new key with the outline of a bridge stamped into the metal. Langton had seen that design before, on the key found with Kepler’s mutilated body.
“It’s to do with the Span, isn’t it?” Paterson said.
“It is.” Langton held it up to the light. A complex design, all jagged teeth and notches. “What interest would Jake have in the Span?”
“Has he any connection with your murders?”
“Let’s ask him.” Langton pocketed the key and followed Forbes Paterson down to the basement cells.
Another duty sergeant opened the barred doors. “Here to see the big fella, sirs?”
“Has he given you any more trouble?”
“Not after we chained him to his bunk. Quiet as a lamb.”
Something troubled Langton. He rubbed the key in his waistcoat pocket.
The sergeant swung open the heavy door and called inside, “All right, you. Sit yourself up.”
Enough light seeped through the barred slit of dirty glass to show a body lying on the stone shelf bed. As the sergeant flicked on the electric light, Langton caught a strange smell, so out of place that he had trouble identifying it. White flowers.
“Come on, you. You got company.” The sergeant prodded Jake in the stomach with the bunch of keys.
Jake didn’t move. He didn’t open his eyes.
Then Langton saw a small pane of glass missing from the window. A breeze carried in cold air from outside. Cold enough to make the cell feel like a tomb.
“Get Doctor Fry,” Langton said, dropping to his knees beside the bunk. He jabbed his fingers into the massive neck but knew it was too late. He found no pulse behind the cooling grey skin. He looked up at Paterson and shook his head.
Paterson looked at the missing pane and down at the lifeless body. “How? How did they get to him?”
“He let them,” Langton said. “He could have called out to the sergeant; he could have struggled. Look at his body—he didn’t resist.”
Jake’s massive frame lay on the bed as if in sleep, with his hands clasped over his stomach, his face relaxed. Langton checked the man’s neck, just below the ears. In the harsh electric light, two small square burns. Just as Langton had expected.
Doctor Fry rushed into the cell, his coat flapping, his hands already
opening his bag. As Langton and Forbes Paterson stepped back, Fry examined Reefer Jake. It took only a few moments. Fry set down the stethoscope and closed his bag with a metallic click. “Dead no more than thirty minutes, gentlemen.”
“From what cause?” Langton asked.
“I think from this.” Fry pointed to a red dot on Jake’s inner wrist. “They probably injected something to stop his heart, but I can be more precise after the postmortem. Thanks to your investigations I’m becoming quite practiced at them.”
Forbes Paterson turned to the sergeant standing in the doorway. “I want the area outside the window examined. They must have dropped over the walls on Victoria Street or Crosshall Street; have constables question anyone whose windows overlook the area…”
As Paterson continued to give instructions to the sergeant, Langton fought the sense of futility that rose within him. He had no doubt that Doktor Glass had planned this, and that Jake had willingly participated in his own murder, but Langton doubted that Glass had left much evidence. The man had begun to take on almost supernatural qualities for Langton. What could the police do against such a complex, organized entity?
“I’ll send O’Neill down with a gurney to collect the body,” Fry said, making for the door. “I suppose you want the results as soon as possible?”
Langton forced himself to reply, “Whenever you can, Fry. This is enough to overwhelm anybody.”
Paterson seemed about to speak but waited until they were upstairs. “What is it, Langton? What’s wrong, man?”
Langton shook his head. “Everything we do is known. This Doktor Glass seems no more than a step behind us, maybe even one ahead.”
“You think he has informers inside headquarters?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps.” It would make sense. How many people had access to the most important information, to Langton’s own case
files? McBride and Purcell. Harry, the office boy, at a pinch. All equally ridiculous suspects.
“You’re getting tired,” Forbes Paterson said. “Sometimes we get too close to a case. Draw back a little.”
How? Langton felt the Queen’s imminent visit as a weight pressing down on him. Purcell and Fallows wanted answers. Answers Langton could not yet provide.
He thanked Paterson and climbed the stairs to his own office, so deep in thought he hardly noticed the constables and clerks milling around him. He retrieved the case files from the safe and added news of Reefer Jake’s death. Now they would never have the chance to ask Jake about that Span key. Or about Sarah.
Langton pulled the key from his waistcoat pocket and traced the bridge motif with his thumb. Just like Kepler’s key. What locks or doors did Jake’s complex key open? What connection did Jake have with the Span?
At the sound of a knock at his door, Langton closed the files and slipped the key into his pocket. He waved McBride into the visitor’s chair and asked, “What did Mrs. Dunne have to say?”
“Well, sir, I went through Doctor Redfers’s files with her and none of the three gentlemen seem to be patients. She seems a thorough woman, too.”
Langton read down McBride’s notebook again. Arthur Cameron, David Hemplemann, Stephen Powell. Now these men would have to explain to Langton what exactly they had received from Redfers. He didn’t look forward to the interviews but they had to be done. He glanced at the clock—half past three. He still had to visit Sarah’s parents.
Langton sat back and rested his head against the chair. So many avenues to check. Jake and Kepler led back to the Span, as did Durham. Redfers led to the Jar Boys and possibly to Professor Caldwell Chivers at the Infirmary. The man who’d died on the Edge Hill rails
led to Doktor Glass; did the dead man also have some connection to the Infirmary? He’d claimed to be a physician.
“Come on, McBride,” Langton said as he locked away the case files. “Let’s see what we can find in the dead men’s possessions.”
Downstairs, in the basement, Langton saw two shapes huddled beneath white sheets. Fry’s office stood empty, but O’Neill, his second assistant, worked with test tubes and phials of colored liquids at a wooden bench. “Doctor Fry’s just stepped out for a moment, sir. He had a call from home.”
“Do you still have the belongings from the man who died on the rails last night?”
“Over there, sir. Third box from the left.”
Langton found the cardboard box and laid out the contents on a spare table. Expensive watch and chain, fountain pen, almost a hundred pounds in notes and coins, cigar humidor, matches, penknife, and handkerchiefs. At the bottom of the box, the silver syringe case with the remains of the drug that had killed Mrs. Barker’s niece Edith. And, on the reverse of the hinged case, precise words etched into the metal:
Property of Liverpool Infirmary.