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WINSTON HAILED A HANSOM cab to take him back to the station. The driver hurried the horses along as though he sensed his passenger’s frustration. The city passed in a blur of grey and black, dotted by the occasional lamp. Winston’s mood matched the gloomy scene. How would he explain to Chief Constable Philpott that he had lost Cole and had no notion of where he was going?
At the constabulary, Winston ordered the desk constable to alert the train station and port on the improbable chance Cole was still in the city. After passing along his instructions—a little more sternly than was necessary, but he was beyond tempering his tone—Winston slumped at his desk, head in hands.
“Sir, what happened?” Miller’s voice shook Winston from his thoughts.
“Why are you here? I wasn’t expecting to see you until tomorrow.” Winston cringed at the sharpness in his voice.
“You had me worried, sir. I waited for you.”
Winston pushed a sigh of frustration through pursed lips, and he spilled a summary of the details. “Doctor Cole killed Huntington and Chase, and I’m afraid he escaped after trapping me.” As he spoke, Winston rubbed the side of his hand, a bruise already forming where he’d pounded the door. “We can look at Cole’s house tomorrow, but that evidence seems unnecessary now.”
Miller’s shoulders fell. The weight of the news showed on his face.
Winston met the young man’s eyes and extended some reassurance. “Our time has not been wasted; we can use the evidence in a trial should we ever find the man. Tomorrow you can write up the rest of your notes.”
Despite pressure building in his head, Winston gave another directive. “Miller, please send one of the night constables to keep watch at Cole’s house. It’s unlikely he’ll return, but if he does, I want him detained, and I want to know about it immediately.” Miller set off to follow his instructions.
Winston smoothed the front of his waistcoat and dusted the tops of his shoes, though it did little to improve his mood. He had one more stop to make before returning home.
AN AURA OF STALE SMOKE and warm leather greeted Detective Jack Winston as he entered the cigar room of the Vancouver Gentlemen’s Club. Upon seeing his nephew, Chief Constable Philpott excused himself from a table of men. He picked up a decanter and a pair of glasses and led Winston to the unoccupied library, ushering him to a corner. Even if someone entered, the men would remain undisturbed in this spot. After setting the glasses and amber liquid on a side table, Philpott perched on the arm of a chair. Winston paced, recounting all that had happened at Doctor Cole’s house.
When Winston stopped moving, Philpott motioned for him to sit. He poured a generous measure into each glass, giving one to his nephew. “You’ve done well, Jack.” He settled back onto his perch. “If nothing else, you’ve rid the city of a killer.”
Winston was a little mystified by the chief’s calm response. “But ... he’ll go elsewhere, kill there.” He sipped the drink, wincing at its smooth burn.
“He could. And we’ll certainly alert other police forces to watch out for him and the girl.”
Winston knit his brows into a frown. “That’s better than nothing. I’d rather have captured him, though.”
“I’m sure you would have. And perhaps you will. But not today.” The chief constable refilled Winston’s glass. “Finish that up, then go home, rest. Your mother will never forgive me if I don’t insist, as your superior officer and your uncle.”
“I’m too tired to argue, Uncle Lawrence.” Winston said. He rested his elbows on his knees, head hanging. “I can’t help but feel a failure, sir.”
“You’ve not failed, lad. You are still new to this. You may not have achieved the resolution you wanted, but that doesn’t make you a failure.” He reached over and squeezed Winston’s arm.
Lifting his head, Winston saw kindness in his uncle’s eyes, and nodded his thanks. They sat in silence as he emptied his glass.
IN HIS ROOMS, WINSTON fought to remove his shoes with fingers almost too clumsy with fatigue to undo the laces. Once his feet were finally free, a sudden wave of relief washed through him. Would anyone have thought to look for him had he not escaped from Cole’s secret room? The horror of the idea unleashed a surge of energy, and he reached for the journal.
Dear Riley,
It is with a mix of emotions I write to you. I am exhilarated, having had a tremendously exciting day. But I am also disappointed. Cole trapped me in the same room in which he had kept the missing men. I managed to free myself, but I feel a failure, as I did not apprehend the murderer. But I am relieved that tomorrow I can confirm to those who loved these men that we can now explain how they met their end.
I can only speculate that Cole killed those men because he felt he had no choice: he needed to save his daughter. And it seems he was successful. I will discuss with the chief constable how much detail to share with the press. They will be hungry for information. The spectre of a killer doctor will alarm the city’s citizens, even if he has fled, and I’m not sure of the value in that. If he killed those men while attempting to save his daughter, is he likely to kill again?
These concerns will wait for another day.
Until then,
Jack