His constables made him proud. There were times that Kett felt he had to stride up and down among them, barking orders and keeping everyone on task, but today, with the gravity of the case before them, every one of the men in blue was hustling, working to do his part. Constable Hammersmith in particular seemed tireless, and Kett wondered how long it had been since the young man had slept. He was aware that Hammersmith had worked at least two shifts, and he made a mental note to send the lad home for a rest before he dropped.
The new inspector, Day, appeared to be up to the job, but Kett knew little about the man. There was an innocence about him that bothered Kett. He had seen idealistic men come and go, the city leaching hope from them too quickly. Kett didn’t know whether Day would last at the Yard, but he would do what he could to help keep the inspector on the job. There was something immensely likable about the new detective, a sense of duty and of curiosity as well, that could take him a long way.
Not everyone working around the ominous trunk on the gallery floor was under Kett’s watch. Dr Kingsley was an exception, as he was not officially a member of the Metropolitan Police Force of Scotland Yard. He worked from a lab in the University College Hospital basement and had created his own position as forensic examiner simply because he felt it was necessary. Before he had taken over the police morgue, forensics work had been nearly nonexistent. Bodies had been shipped to poorly run storage facilities where they were lost or forgotten. He was a strange little man and the police gave him wide berth, but his help was invaluable and he was widely respected within the ranks of the detectives.
If Little’s killer was smart, he had hopped on the early train and was already far away.
But Kett allowed himself a hard smile. They had lost the Ripper, but lessons had been learned. If Little’s killer had been bold enough or foolish enough to remain in London, Kett had utter faith that these men would find him and bring him to justice.
The bald man stood at the edge of the crowd and watched as Sergeant Kett returned to the gallery. The gruff old policeman had glanced right at him without the slightest sign of recognition.
Dr Kingsley passed Kett on the staircase without a word and left the station through the arch at the far end. The bald man had never met Kingsley, but he’d heard some of the police talking about the aloof forensics specialist. By all accounts, Kingsley was good. Beyond good. The bald man wished he knew what Kingsley had whispered to the dark-haired young detective.
Across the platform, the detective frowned and gestured to two nearby bobbies.
“Take this trunk up to University College Hospital right away,” he said. “To Dr Kingsley’s lab. And be careful with it. The body inside is a detective.”
He spoke too loudly and the crowd gasped. The bald man composed his expression carefully, mirroring the shock he saw on the faces around him. There was a good bit of chatter, people already late returning to work, sharing the excitement of discovery and danger at a safe distance.
The two men struggled with the trunk. The bald man recognized one of the other police, a young constable named Pringle. He raised a hand and Pringle noticed him. The constable nodded and gestured toward a relatively deserted corner of the platform. The bald man moved quickly through the crowd and joined Pringle there.
“Hullo, sir,” Pringle said. “Bad bit of business this morning.”
“I overheard some of it,” the bald man said. “A detective?”
“In the trunk.” Pringle grimaced and nodded. “Least that’s what he said. Bad for us all, if you ask me. Killing detectives.”
“But I’m sure they’ll catch him, whoever did this, they’ll catch him straightaway, don’t you think?”
“I hope so, sir. I surely do.”
“Well, who’s that on the platform? Who’s in charge of it all?”
Pringle glanced over at the men shuffling across the platform, the trunk swaying between them, the detective following behind.
“That’s Day, sir. Detective Inspector Day. He’s only just joined us here last week. Come up from Devon, I think. You wouldn’t have met him yet, I’m sure.”
“Day, eh?”
“William’s his first name. William or. . No, it’s Walter. Walter Day, that’s it.”
“Good man?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, sir, but I hope he’s up to the task. Can’t have nobody running around offing detectives. Next thing, they’ll be takin’ aim at us working men. Can’t have that.”
“No, no, of course not.”
“Bad bit of business,” Pringle repeated.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Work to do, you know.”
“Of course.”
“No worries, Pringle. I’m quite sure your new inspector will do the job up right.”
Pringle nodded. “Sure an’ he will. Bad bit of business, though.”
“Yes. Good day, then.”
The bald man turned up the collar of his coat and glanced at the sky as he left the building. Grey clouds were rolling in quickly. The crowd would disperse as soon as the rain started, and the bald man didn’t want to get caught up in the rush.
He hurried across the street, avoiding a fresh pile of horse manure, and repeated the detective’s name under his breath. Detective Inspector Walter Day would bear watching.
But the more immediate problem was Dr Kingsley. Kingsley had shown something to Inspector Day, but the bald man had been too far away to see it. Had he left a clue?
The bald man regretted what had happened. He admired the Metropolitan Police, admired them and tried to help them in his own small way. But Inspector Little had stumbled onto his secret and there had been no choice.
Kingsley and Day. The bald man muttered their names again and spat at the hard-packed dirt of the street. He would have to keep an eye on Kingsley and Day. If they discovered his secret, too. . The bald man shook his head, dismissing the thought for now. He would follow the investigation, and if Inspector Day came too close to learning the truth. . well, Day might just disappear.
Constable Pringle brushed imaginary lint from his trousers and shot the cuffs of his crisp starched shirt. He realized he had a question for the man he’d been talking to and looked across the street, scanning the backs of the departing crowd. Too late. Pringle would have to drop in on him later.
He turned and hurried across the platform. Constables Hammersmith and Jones were shuffling along, the trunk swinging between them.
“Oy, Nevil,” Pringle said. “You fancy going along with me? Got some things to pick up.”
Nevil Hammersmith looked up and grunted.
“Depends on how long Dr Kingsley keeps us. If he’s got nothing for us there, I’ll be off duty, but it was a long night, Colin.”
“Won’t take long. I could use the company. Bit nervous today, you know.”
Hammersmith chuckled and switched the handle of the trunk to his other hand.
“Forgot you were taking Maggie out tonight, old man.”