40

Saturday, June 19, cont.

James showed his badge to the clerk and asked to see the surgeon who’d examined the body brought in that morning with the slit throat. The man at the counter was as gray as the majority of the morgue residents, and only slightly more animated. He waved his right hand toward the back. “Hopkins,” he said, and returned to his study of a copy of a penny dreadful with the picture of an American cowboy on the front cover.

Police Surgeon Hopkins was dressed in a smock that had once been white. Now, after multiple washings with blood on it, his “uniform” was a mottled burgundy. He was of average height but had an impressive set of flaming red side-whiskers that would have disqualified him from passing unnoticed in a crowd.

James showed Hopkins his badge of office, and when he inquired about the young man’s death, the surgeon nodded.

“Lad hadn’t a chance. The incision was so clean, I reckon he was unconscious when the deed was done. If he’d moved his head or struggled, the line wouldn’t have been so straight and even.”

“So, not a knife fight, then?” James asked.

“Nay, Inspector. He was bled like a lamb, and whoever did it had done it before. Brought to mind the bad old days of the Ripper in his surety of hand.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

Hopkins was about to answer when he was called to the back: “Mister Hopkins,” a constable said. “Sorry to bother you and the inspector, sir, but I’m here on a sad duty.”

Hopkins’s brow furrowed. “Constable Harris, after all you’ve seen, it must be a terrible thing indeed. What’ve you brought me?”

Harris looked down and shook his head. “One of our own, sir. Constable Williams.”

“What!” James said. “What happened?”

“We were too short-handed to do the search with the men we had, so I ordered Williams to stay after his shift. He was with me as we did a search around the site where the Fisher lad was found this morning.” Harris cleared his throat. “As you suggested, Inspector.”

James felt his gorge rise. Another death at my feet, he thought.

The surgeon removed the oiled canvas tarpaulin covering the body and whistled. The single bullet hole above the right temple was obvious. He rotated the head from side to side.

“Note the absence of an exit wound on the opposite side. The small amount of blood around the hole tells me the man died instantly.” The surgeon took a ruler and laid it beside the hole.

James stared at the hole and reflected that Sergeant Q had the right of it, the hole would easily accommodate a man’s thumb. Then he recalled Constable Williams’s words to him earlier that day, about fearing the inspector would “drag him to the morgue,” and let out a long, shuddering breath as he fought to keep his composure.

“Large caliber weapon,” the police surgeon continued, “probably around a .44. No gunpowder around the wound, so the shot was fired from some distance. Have you apprehended the shooter, Constable?” Harris shook his head. “No, sir. Thing is, I couldn’t have been more than twenty feet away when Williams was shot, and I never heard a discharge. I went inside to look for anything suspicious, and while I think the occupants of the room are probably thieves, I didn’t find anything that led me to think they was involved with our assassin. They were as surprised as I was when I walked back out to find Williams dead.”

“Were there any witnesses?” James asked. “As crowded as the East End is, surely someone saw something.”

“One old woman whose eyesight ain’t the best says she saw a man lean out a door three doors down for a second, then she saw the constable fall and the man hightailed it out of there. We found traces of smeared blood on the floor of the room she says he left, but the description she gave didn’t fit the man we’re looking for—though, as I said, her eyes ain’t the best. She did insist he hadn’t a mustache.”

“He could easily shave that off. Who lives in that residence?”

“An old acquaintance of ours, Inspector. None other than Mister Keys Malone.”

“Now that’s a name I’d not expected. Keys is a businessman, first and last. There’s no profit in dead bobbies.”

“I agree, sir. And he don’t look nothing like this Ott fellow we’re searching for.”

James sighed. “He’s proving to be as dangerous as I feared. With the Fishers and the police both looking for him to avenge one of their own, he’ll flee if he has any sense.”

Constable Harris nodded agreement. “I’ll do my best to capture the man, but . . . God forgive me for saying this . . . I hope Peg Leg and his lads catch up to him first. They won’t play by Marquis of Queensbury rules.”

“I understand how you feel, Constable, but I need him alive. I need to know if he’s working alone. The safety of Her Majesty may be at stake.”

Both the surgeon’s and Harris’s eyes widened at this announcement. The bobby sighed. “Aye, sir. I’ll tell the lads. We’ll do our best. Just let us know when you’re done with him.”

“I’ll do no such thing. But please, let me know when the funeral is. Williams was, as you say, one of ours. When you take up a collection for the widow, I’ll be sure to do my part.”

Harris touched the bill of his helmet in farewell and left, his silence expressing how he felt about inspectors who sent young constables to their deaths.