20

As soon as Thomas Colby got out on the promenade deck, he lit a cigar and looked out over the dark, brooding Atlantic.

Dinner on board the SS Britannic was a formal affair, and he and his wife, Emilia, had been dressed in their finest for the occasion. Colby felt privileged that they were sat at the Captain’s table, but towards the end of the third course an iron foundry proprietor started to bore him with a potted history of Bessemer furnaces, so he’d decided to have his after-dinner cigar early and grab some fresh air.

He’d brought Emilia along on the trip to enjoy some shopping and socialising while he was busy in morgues and hospital labs, but when earlier she’d started rambling on about the new Canadian furs in New York stores, he’d cut her short.

He exhaled cigar smoke on the salt air. With the turn the investigation had taken, he realized his impatience with small talk and niceties unrelated to his work was more acute than usual. Drawing a veil over the Hebrew nature of the body marks had been Grayling’s idea, and so he felt uncomfortable continuing the subterfuge of why they hadn’t picked up on that earlier; besides, it reflected badly on his professional acumen.

Though later when the ship docked and Jameson was there with Lawrence to greet them, Jameson too indulged in small talk. How was their voyage, was it Emilia’s first visit to New York and what did she have planned? Jameson nodded back towards the dockside.

“I believe these great ocean liners will be the making of New York. You can walk to the heart of Manhattan from them, whereas the closest the big liners can get to London these days is Tilbury or Southampton.”

“Yes, good point,” Colby agreed. For once Colby welcomed some diversionary talk, because it tiptoed round the thornier issues at hand. Though when they did finally turn to the investigation and he enquired, “I understand you’re making some strong progress with this fellow Argenti,” Jameson’s face clouded.

“I’m afraid there’s been some bad news.”

Joseph Argenti had hovered close to death for much of the past twenty-four hours, and if his fever didn’t break soon Jameson feared the worst.

The pull of the current had increased and forty seconds later there’d been another air gap before Argenti, along with Jeremiah Lynch, had finally been sluiced out into the East River dockside. They were quickly spotted by nearby stevedores and fished out. A sailor watching the commotion assisted in reviving them.

After dropping Emilia off at their hotel, the Brunswick, Jameson brought Colby up to date on their way to Bellevue hospital.

A nurse cooling Argenti’s body with a damp towel gave a courteous smile and stepped back from attending to him as they approached.

“How long has he been unconscious now?” Colby enquired.

“All but the first eight hours. As the lung infection took hold, his fever steadily rose and finally he slipped under. If it wasn’t for the water’s high salt content I fear we’d have lost him already.”

“How are you treating the infection?”

“Tartar emetic and paregoric.” Jameson gestured towards the nurse. “And regular cooling for the fever, which has ranged between 103 and 105 degrees.”

Colby nodded, thoughtful. “I think you’re right. Tonight will be the most critical point. Does his family know? Are any of them here?”

“His wife. She’s returned home for a couple of hours to see to her children. I said I’d wait here until she returns.” Jameson checked his pocket watch. “Probably still forty minutes or so. She said she’ll stay with him overnight along with the duty nurse.”

It was arranged that Lawrence would take Colby back to the Brunswick and they’d reconvene at the Bellevue again in the morning.

“Not the best circumstances under which to be doing Lucy Bonina’s second autopsy,” Colby remarked. “But time is pressing and I only have a week here.”

“I understand.”

Jameson was left alone with Argenti and the duty nurse. When she went to change her water and towels ten minutes later, Jameson reached across and gently stroked Argenti’s brow. He could feel his fever burning against his palm.

“Fight against it, Joseph. Your wife and children are saying their prayers for you, and miss you dearly. As do I, my friend.”

“He lost two o’ his men, but he’s survived it – still in th’ hospital. An’ the toff got clean away.”

Tierney was in the brewery yard inspecting a new horse as Tom Brogan brought him the news. The horse brayed and pulled back as he checked its teeth and molars. He had to hold it steady with the reins.

“An’ what’s the outlook from th’ hospital?”

“Word goin’ round Mulberry Street is not too good.” Brogan waggled one hand.

Tierney brought his attention back to the horse, an eleven- or twelve year-old Clydesdale mare, so a good ten years more service before it was ready for the knacker’s yard.

“When are yer set to meet with Sewer Charlie again – give ’im his last bit o’ payment?”

“He’s done as tol’ and laid low for a coupla days. He’ll send a kid from th’ Shambles to let us know where he is. Prob’ly some time later today.”

Tierney nodded thoughtfully as he checked the horse’s flanks and fetlocks for injuries. Tierney figured that since the main bond with Argenti and Jameson was the Ripper investigation, they’d vigorously pursue any fresh leads on that front. The rest had been worked out through his contacts at Sweeney’s Shambles and Sewer Charlie’s knowledge of the East River tides. A group of policemen lured down into the sewers and drowned in pursuit of the Ripper? No possible connection to himself.

“With the way things have turned out, we’re obviously gonna have to rethink.” He took a fresh breath as he stepped back and gave the horse one last appraisal. “Also, slight change o’ plan fo’ when yer see Sewer Charlie.”