Sometime around 2:00 p.m.
A line of London’s most impoverished souls wrapped around the entirety of St. Teresa’s church in Cheapside. The Sisters of Mercy free clinic, which opened its doors to the public every other Wednesday from 9:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m., was about to close for the week. Not because it was nearing two o’clock, but rather because the locked cupboard where the clinic stored its always insufficient supply of antibiotics was nearly bare. The heavy onslaught of cholera, scarlet fever, small pox, mumps, rubella, and measles that seemed to plague the destitute, especially the children, was overwhelming this season.
Dr. Jackson Elliot, the only doctor who volunteered at Sisters of Mercy with any regularity, sat in a cramped room at the back of the church, its only door, opened not to the sanctuary, but to the alley running behind the building. With stethoscope in hand, Dr. Elliot examined a small boy, whom he already deduced upon seeing the boy’s inflamed eyes had contracted the measles. Jackson was now simply trying to determine whether the boy had any other maladies that might prove to be life threatening. Other than the measles and being severely malnourished, which was all too common amongst the citizens of Cheapside, the boy seemed as healthy as he could be under the circumstances. There was no cure for the disease, unfortunately, but Vitamin A had been shown recently to reduce the symptoms and, luckily for this boy, the Sisters had one bottle left. Dr. Elliot passed the bottle to the boy’s mother, a woman with hollow eyes who spoke only a few words throughout the entire examination. She thanked him in a meek voice and shuffled her son along, quickly stowing the pills closely in amongst the rags she was wearing.
Regrettably for the scores of children waiting in line with the same malady, the clinic wasn’t expecting another shipment of drugs any time soon. With Britain still reeling from quelling the rebellion attempt in India and gearing up for war with America, which everyone seemed to think was inevitable, the country’s coffers were next to empty.
Dr. Elliot pulled a rope across the opening and tied it to an iron ring nailed into the wall of the church. “Sorry, everyone. Clinic’s closed for the week,” he shouted over the crowd. “There’s no more medicine. You can try St. Edward’s over on Surrey Street. Make sure you get plenty of rest and drink lot of clean water. I can’t stress that enough, clean water.”
There was a collective moan from those waiting, coupled with the muffled sobs from mothers clutching their children. One such lady in question, a small girl clinging to her skirt, hung back while the crowd dispersed. Jackson, knowing what was coming, busied himself by packing up his medicine bag and stowing the few supplies the clinic did have inside a locked cabinet just inside the door of the church.
“Excuse me, doctor,” she finally said after almost all the other patients had shuffled away. “We’ve already been to St. Edward’s. They don’t have no medicine neither. Isn’t there anything you can do for my girl?” she asked, pushing her scared-looking daughter in front of her. Both of the girl’s cheeks were swollen so that she looked like a hamster storing away food.
“Your daughter has the mumps. I know she is in pain, but she wouldn’t respond to antibiotics, even if I had any. The best thing to do is to just go home and wait it out.”
“But she cries so at night. The landlord says he’s going to chuck us out if’n she don’t stop. Please, you must have something.”
Jackson looked into the scared girl’s eyes and then back to the mother.
“Here, take this,” he said, fishing into his black bag and producing a bottle of pills. “These are called aspirin. There’s only four left. This should get her through tonight and tomorrow night. I’m sorry there isn’t more.”
“Oh, bless you, sir,” she said grasping his hand. “Thank you, thank you.”
“Please, don’t mention it,” he responded. “Just take care of that girl.”
“Of course.” With tears in her eyes, the lady pulled her daughter along, disappearing around the corner of the church still muttering ‘thank yous’ as she walked away.
“Don’t you ever get tired of helping those in need?”
Jackson whirled around at the sound of the familiar voice. The beauty before him never ceased to take his breath away. To say Dr. Elliot was surprised to see Sophia would have been an understatement. He smiled like a little child at her, wondering what he’d done to earn a reprieve from her wrath. According to Thomas, she’d been none too pleased with him after their earlier row.
“I do, unfortunately, but I’m lucky. I don’t require a great amount of sleep. And I’m afraid people do not stop getting sick just because I might get fatigued.”
“Spoken like the Jackson Elliot I’ve known all my life. Always giving to others.”
“You are one to talk, Miss Sophia. Is there any family in London more generous than the Hill family? And what might you have in that basket?” he asked. “Could that be yet another donation of medicine for our clinic? You really shouldn’t have.”
“So that cupboard isn’t empty then?” she asked passing him the basket, which he took gratefully, despite his objection. He handed it back after he’d emptied the contents into the cabinet and relocked it. He stepped out of the room, closed the door behind him, and locked it, as well, pocketing the jingling keys and giving his full attention to Sophia.
“Listen,” Elliot began, “about yesterday—”
She took a deep breath and held up her hand, the look on her face immediately silencing Jackson. On the way over, Sophia had been going over the words that she would say in her mind, but now that she was standing before him they seemed frozen in her throat. As she stared at him, all she wanted to do was throw herself into his arms and beg him to say that it wasn’t too late. After their quarrel, she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe she’d taken too long to get her head on straight.
“Olivia and I had a talk today,” she said.
“You mean Olivia spoke and you listened for fear of being hit over the head with something?” he asked.
She laughed. “Pretty much.” She took a step closer to him. “She said some things that I needed to hear. Things that you have said plenty of times before, but for some reason I never really heard them. I was so hell-bent on protecting you that I never stopped to really consider that maybe you didn’t want to be protected. I mean, who am I to tell you what you can and cannot do? Who am I that I should decide what pain you do or don’t feel? Who am I—”
It was his turn to interrupt. “You’re the woman I love.” He breathed. He closed the distance between them and placed a finger under her chin, lifting her face so he could see her. “What are you saying?” he asked her, staring into her soft brown eyes, hoping like hell she was saying what he thought she was.
“I…” She bit her bottom lip and let out a slow, shuttering breath. “I’m sorry. If you still … I mean … if you would, I just hoped…” She huffed. “Dammit, I had everything I was going to say to you all worked out in my head, but now it’s a jumbled mess.”
Jackson wiped a tear away that was rolling down one of her lovely cheeks. She was beautiful when she was flustered. He knew she hated crying in front of anyone, always afraid to show the tiniest bit of weakness. But he wanted desperately for her to feel safe with him, to feel she could let go and let him help her shoulder some of the burden she’d been carrying “Are you saying you will allow me the honor of pursuing you, Sophia Hill?”
She nodded as a shaky smile appeared and more tears fell.
“Why the tears?” he asked gently as he stepped even closer. “Why are you shaking?”
“Because I was afraid I was too late. After our fight, I thought maybe you were done with me, and I wouldn’t blame you if you were. I wouldn’t hold it against you, Jackson. I’ve been terrible.”
His name on her lips was the sweetest thing he’d heard in weeks. Too late? Never. “Sophia, you have held my heart from the moment I laid eyes on you, silly girl. I would have waited until my last breath.”
“What about mine?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
“I would still be waiting until it was my time to join you.”
“I would never ask that of you. After I’m gone, I would hope you would find someone else to love.”
“I know, and that is one of the many, many reasons I love you. But the facts are some of us only know how to love one way, and that is with every single fiber of our being. And I believe when a person loves that way, it only happens once. It is not something that can be replicated with another. You are my love, my only love.” Jackson wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him. It was a right he’d longed to have, and now, it was finally his. He would take every opportunity to touch her. “So, if I ask you to accompany me to dinner tomorrow, I might get to hear something other than the usual pathetic excuses to avoid me?”
She grinned up at him. “I’m afraid so.”
It was late afternoon when Inspectors Hill and Foster knocked on the door of the Browning residence at the corner of Piccadilly and Grosvenor Place. They were greeted by a smartly dressed gentleman only a few seconds after knocking.
“You must be the policemen my wife was telling me about,” remarked the man, ushering them into the house. “It’s practically all she’s talked about the past two days.”
“I’m Inspector Hill,” said Thomas extending his hand. “My assistant, John Foster, had the pleasure of meeting your wife on Tuesday, along with one of our constables.”
“Pleasure. Robert Browning, at your service,” said the man, shaking both the inspectors’ hands. “Do come in.” The trio walked into the same drawing room where Foster and Jones had questioned Mrs. Browning two days previously. Mrs. Browning was already seated in the room, reading a bedtime story to young William.
Foster walked over the window and pulled back the curtains. “You can see the park from here, sir,” he said to Thomas. “It’s far, but certainly possible that Mrs. Browning got a look at our killer.”
Mrs. Browning dropped William onto a rug where he gripped the book, gnawing on a corner.
“Like I told your assistant, I didn’t get a good look at the man or the woman, it being so far away and all.”
“That’s okay, ma’am. You’ve been very helpful already,” responded Hill. “Foster, why don’t you head out there to the gate and let us take a look at you.”
“Sure thing, boss.” John clambered out the door and down the steps. Inspector Hill and Mr. and Mrs. Browning watched as he crossed Piccadilly Avenue, which was still busy at this time of evening, and moved around the corner to the Park Lane gate. Here, Foster stopped and looked back at the house. He couldn’t see the figures in the window staring at him, but he waved back at the house anyway, drawing only a few questioning glances from passersby. The assistant inspector then took a few steps into the gate, hesitated, and then milled about for a few minutes. He crossed the threshold of the gate and walked into and out of the park several times before he eventually took a few deliberate steps toward the center of the park. Unbeknownst to him, Foster now disappeared from view to his audience at the window. He took a few rambling steps across the lawn of the park then deliberately stumbled and fell into the grass in the exact spot where Miss Stroud, the second victim, had been found. He heard the giggles of a pair of ladies strolling by, parasols in hand, but ignored them. Finally, Foster rolled onto his back and looked up at the sky.
The previous day’s rains had removed all but the faintest traces of the grizzly crime. Today’s weather was fair, and the sun was already beginning to move below the horizon. After a few seconds, Foster hopped up and examined his tracks across the grass, from the cobblestones to his current spot. He was trying hard to mentally compare the imprints he’d just made to those left by the victim. He thought he’d done a pretty good job of recreating what might have happened, based upon what Mrs. Browning told him and his own observations of the crime scene. He gazed back up at the Browning residence and noticed that it was clearly not visible on account of the trees and shrubbery. Death scene satisfactorily reenacted, Assistant Inspector Foster began marching out of the park.
Back in the drawing room, after Foster had disappeared from their view, Hill turned to Mrs. Browning. “Well, Mrs. Browning, you certainly would have had a clear view of our suspect from here, at least until he went into the park. I was not able to see Mr. Foster clearly after he stepped inside of the gate. Can either of you two see him?”
“Not really. I can just make out a shadow or two here and there beyond the trees,” said Mr. Browning. “If I didn’t know he was there, I wouldn’t notice anything.”
“Me, either,” agreed Mrs. Browning.
“Which is consistent with what you told my assistant earlier, I believe, if I have my timeline correct.”
“Here comes your man now,” said Robert as the three watched Foster come out of the park and head back toward the house.
“Mrs. Browning, please take careful note of the height of my assistant.”
“Okay.”
“Do you see those two concrete pillars on each side of the gate?”
“I do, sir.”
“You see my assistant. He’s a bit taller than those pillars, correct?” asked Thomas.
“I believe so,” she responded.
“Think carefully back to the other night. Do you think the man you saw was taller or shorter than the pillars, or about the same height?”
“Taller, I’m certain. As I told Mr. Foster before. The man was very tall.”
“And what about build?” continued Hill. “Was he as big as my man there?”
“Well, no one’s as big as that bloke,” interrupted Mr. Browning.
“No, no,” said Mrs. Browning. “The man I saw was much thinner. He had a trim build.”
“Can you remember anything else about the man or the woman? Something about the hansom cab, maybe?”
“I’m afraid not. Again, it was dark and I was terribly exhausted.”
About this time, Foster returned and came in the front door.
“What’d ya think?” he asked.
“About what?” asked Hill.
“The bumblin’ and stumblin’ I was doin’ across the park. Was it realistic?”
“I’m afraid we missed your grand performance. The view of the lawn was blocked by the trees.”
“Curses,” said Foster. “I was really getting inta character.”
“But that’s not a bad thing,” said Thomas. “It means Mrs. Browning’s tale is consistent, not that I have ever doubted you ma’am,” said Hill. “But we must verify everything. Now, it’s starting to get dark. What time does the guildsman come ’round to switch on the lights?”
“About a quarter hour past sundown, give or take a few minutes,” said Mr. Browning.
“Is he ever late?” asked Thomas.
“Never. Like clockwork that one is.”
“Foster, let us go down to the street and meet this fellow when he comes. Mr. and Mrs. Browning, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to come back up and take another look after the lights have been turned on. I want to simulate the conditions as closely as possible.”
“Of course,” Robert agreed. “No problem. We’ll be right here. Just come on back in when you need to.”
Hill and Foster positioned themselves next to the pole, Foster lounging against it, Hill consulting his notes in the waning evening light. They didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later, a barrel-chested man wearing a brown leather vest and stiff trousers came marching toward them, a slight limp to his gait. He held a large ring of keys that jingled in his hands as walked. His shaved head sat directly on his rounded shoulders, and his bare arms were roped with muscles.
“Excuse me, lads,” he said, attempting to step past Inspector Hill.
“Excuse us, sir,” responded Thomas, moving out of the man’s way. Foster too stepped away from the post as the man bent down to unlock the case containing the light’s switch. “You work for the mechanic’s guild, I presume.”
“What’s it to you?”
“We’d just like to ask you a couple of questions. It will only take a minute.”
“Well, I ain’t answering,” he replied, flipping the switch. A humming noise could be heard, followed by a burst of purple light, which issued forth from the top of the post, casting the entire area in a sepulchral glow.
Hill continued, ignoring the man’s brusque comment. “Please, Mr…”
“Barnabas. And I got a schedule to keep,” he said, slapping the cover closed and locking it again.
“Of course, we all do, and that’s just what we need to ask you about,” said Thomas. “I wonder if you could—”
“I said I ain’t talking.” Barnabas reiterated and moved to step around Inspector Hill. It was then that Foster took a step to the right, blocking the man’s path.
“Look, Barnabas,” he said, not unkindly. “I know you are a busy man, an’ so are we. Sorry, I think we failed to introduce ourselves proper. I’m Assistant Inspector Foster, and this is Inspector Hill, Scotland Yard. Are you aware a woman’s body was found in the park two nights ago?”
“Aye, I read the paper,” he responded.
“And you pass by this park every night. Might be ya seen something.’”
“I didn’t,” he growled and made another attempt to be on his way.
“Wait,” Foster barked, again stepping in front of the man to block his path. The two eyed each other warily, a couple of angry dogs, each refusing to give up a tasty bone. But Barnabas was a squat English bulldog trying to stare down a Rottweiler. The stocky man was used to having his way, but now he was up against a beast bigger and stronger and he knew it. “I’ll make a deal with ya,” Foster said finally. “I know you guild types are real secret like. We’ll walk with ya to the far corner ’a the park. I know you’re going there to turn on the next light. If ya answer our questions truthfully, Inspector Hill and I will be on our way. Ya keep your schedule. Everyone goes away happy. Otherwise, we’re gonna have to get a warrant. That means we come up to the guild and start poking around, causin’ all sorts ‘a trouble. I’m sure your bosses would really appreciate that, wouldn’t they?”
Barnabas was silent, and Foster could see the man silently weighing his options. “And those warrants take lotsa paperwork,” continued Foster. “I hate doin’ paperwork, don’t ya hate doin’ paperwork, Inspector Hill?”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas replied.
“So do us a favor. Let us walk with ya, huh, Barney?”
“C’mon,” he growled, resuming his steady limping pace.
“We just need to know if the light was switched on Monday night,” said Inspector Hill.
“Of course it was. I told ya I got a schedule to keep. Same schedule today as it was Monday.”
“No chance you could have missed turning the light on that night?”
“Hell no. The bigwigs would have my hide. They don’t take kindly to dereliction of duty.”
“How long have you been a mechanic?” Foster asked.
“I ain’t no mechanic. Sure, I do some tinkering, here and there. You got to have some skill to apply for any job with the guild. But I ain’t no inventor. I’m just a key man.”
“A key man?” asked Thomas.
“Yeah, keeper of the keys. Security and the like.”
“So you do more than flip light switches, I suppose.”
“O’ course. Like I said, I’ve got some skill. Something breaks down, they call for old Barnabas. I got the keys. If it’s something locked up, I go in and see if I can fix it. If not, I goes and gets a mechanic.”
“And how long have you been a key man?”
“Going on three years, I guess. Once they figure out what you can do, the guild assigns you a job. That’s how it works. I got key man.”
“So, they figure, you’re a pretty sturdy fellow. No one is likely to mess with you on your rounds. The keys are pretty safe in your hands,” said Hill.
“Exactly.”
“How many key men are there? Just you?” asked Foster.
“No, there’s three of us, but I’m the only one works this side of town.”
The three approached the next lamppost, which was positioned at the northeast corner of Hyde Park, at the intersection of Park Lane and Oxford Street.
“Now, I’ve answered your questions, can I be on my way?” Barnabas asked as he stopped and faced the inspectors.
“One more question, and we’ll be off,” replied Hill. “If someone wanted to get their hands on some flux crystals, could they break into the guild and, say, use those keys to help them do it?”
Barnabas doubled over in laughter. “Break into the guild? No one would be that stupid. And even if they were, these keys wouldn’t help,” he said pulling them from his pocket and jingling them at Foster and Hill. “They might open a door or two in the guild, but the crystals are guarded night and day by men with flux guns. Only certain really important people are allowed in.”
“Thank you for your time, Barnabas. Enjoy your evening,” said Inspector Hill as he and Foster turned and walked back toward the Browning residence.
“What do you think?” asked Hill once the two were out of earshot.
“About Barney? He seems like a nice bloke,” responded Foster.
“No, not about Barney, I mean … about what he said. You know what I meant.”
“I think he was telling the truth,” said Foster. “But why did ya ask him about stealing the crystals?”
“If we’re looking for a mechanic, the question was probably irrelevant. But Dr. Elliot seemed to think this crime could only be committed by a medical man. If that’s the case, where did our killer get the crystals? They aren’t exactly just lying around. He would have had to have gotten them somewhere.”
“Hmm, you’re right,” said John. “But I still think we’re dealing with one of those wrench turners. Or…” He paused. “Perhaps both. Maybe someone in the guild is working with a doctor. They would certainly have the means to pay the man a healthy sum, convince him ta work wit’ ‘em.”
“But to what end?” asked Hill.
“Who knows? I told ya before. Those crystal jockeys are crazy.”
“I can’t exactly put ‘those crystal jockeys are crazy’ in my report to the Chief Inspector.”
“Don’t worry, Thom. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
The pair had reached the Browning’s front stoop once again.
“Indeed,” said Hill. “Take a look at the park. It appears to me there’s plenty of light from the purple lamppost to see the entrance. You can clearly see carriages up and down the street and people milling about.”
“Aye, I don’t think there’s any need for me to go and pretend to be our killer again.”
“I don’t think so,” agreed Hill. “Let’s bid the Brownings and a good evening and be on our way.”