Horace Tipple settled at his desk with a grunt, his office door open to the normal early evening bustle of the Leman Street police station.
He lit a cigarette. Blowing a puff of smoke ceiling-ward, he sat back in his creaky wooden chair and began to mentally go through his notes.
First, according to the footwork his men and the Islington bobbies had done, the paddy wagon carrying Nicholas Harker to his trial had deviated from the expected route after a few blocks from Holloway, and then disappeared altogether a few blocks after that.
Since police vehicles didn’t just vanish, the inspector was certain he could locate wherever the wagon had wound up – if he and his men worked quickly enough – but his suspect was unlikely to be there.
Nevertheless, the police should be able to pick up a trail even then. Once again, however, they would have to work very, very quickly to ensure the trail didn’t go cold. They might have two days.
Next, Horace had tracked down the wagon’s point of origin and discovered that the vehicle Mr. Harker was loaded into was no police wagon at all. He’d surmised as much, but learning that a switch had indeed been made unfortunately gave him no satisfaction.
The wagon was to have come from Newgate – since Harker should have been held there – but it hadn’t. A constable had appeared that morning to change the details of the murder suspect’s conveyance. Since the man had produced the necessary documentation (forged, no doubt) and the half-dozen other bobbies in his detail seemed legitimate (costumed heavies, most likely), the Newgate warden had raised no alarms.
Next, the lawyers representing the Harker empire were having no end of fun at his expense, even though this turn of events was only hours old. Because the murder suspect had disappeared so neatly, ostensibly under the watchful eye of the Metropolitan police, the lawyers were scrambling to cast into doubt every facet of the case Horace and his men had so painstakingly put together. The reason being, if the police, led by one DI Horace Tipple, could misplace their suspect, how could they conduct an investigation without similar carelessness? No matter that the escape/disappearance made Nicholas Harker look more guilty than ever….
The detective expected such accusations from the newspapers: not from other members of the justice system. But then, he supposed the lawyers in the Harkers’ employ mightn’t be as concerned with justice or upholding the legal process as others of their profession, since they had defended such a dreadful family for so long.
With a sigh, Horace leaned forward and traced a finger down a small, framed portrait of Hildy that sat at the corner of his desk. The portrait had the precision of a photograph, but was actually a sketch made for him by one of his unexpectedly talented sergeants, the one who could draft a likeness merely at another’s verbal description. The inspector had commissioned the sketch several years ago, together with an oil painting of himself and his wife and daughter; while the former was a calming influence at work, the family portrait hung over the fireplace at home.
Which reminded him: the warden at Newgate, unlike poor Griffiths at Holloway, thought he might have looked the phony constable over well enough to recognize him again. Possibly even well enough to describe him to someone capable of sketching a likeness.
The inspector pushed to his feet and strode out into the corridor, and then down the stairs to the first floor. Most of the sergeants, no matter their duties, had or shared a desk on this level; the more public booking, receiving, and holding area was on the ground floor.
After he looked around for a bit without any luck, Horace turned to another of the bobbies under his command.
“Bartholomew.”
“Sir?”
“Have you seen Sergeant Todd?”
* * * * *