“Are you ready to go, boy? I should get back to the shop soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
The bald man smiled once more at the little girl. The skin around his eyes crinkled agreeably when he smiled. He gave the appearance of a nice man, and for a moment, he wondered what had become of him. It wasn’t his fault, he thought, that he had been driven to such acts. He had once been exactly what he seemed to be: a nice man. His life had been perfect. All he wanted, all he had ever wanted, was to regain that perfection. The boy would help. Oh, how he needed the boy.
He reached for the boy’s hand and had to stoop to grab it. The boy didn’t squeeze back, didn’t actually hold his hand, left it loose in the bald man’s grip, but he didn’t pull it away, either. They were making progress.
“Good day, young lady.”
“Good day, sir. Good-bye, Fenn.”
The boy raised his free hand, but didn’t look at the girl.
“Perhaps I’ll see you again soon,” the bald man said to the little girl.
“I’m often here in the early afternoon,” the girl said. “My governess brings me here before tea almost every day, unless her gentleman friend comes to call.”
“Then I will make every effort to visit you as soon as I’m able. And perhaps you can tell me your street then.”
He nodded and led the boy away. When they had passed out of the girl’s sight, he frowned and gazed down at the top of the boy’s head.
“You told her your name?”
“Yes, sir. I thought there wouldn’t be no harm in it.”
“Hmm. From now on, you’ll keep your name to yourself unless I tell you it’s all right to share it.”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
“Good lad. We’re getting along just fine, aren’t we?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said.
The bald man saw a tear fall from the boy’s downturned face and splash in the dust on his shoe. The man sighed and said nothing, looked away into the branches of the trees as they passed down the path.
He would work harder to make the boy happy. A little more work, a little more time, and eventually the boy would accept his new life as if he had always been with the bald man. The boy was young, and he would forget his old life.
But what if it never happened? The bald man tried to push the unwelcome doubt from his mind. It would happen. The boy would be happy again and smile at the man. He was sure of it.
The thought of having to find another boy was almost unbearable.
4
The detectives stopped chattering and all heads turned toward Sir Edward, who stood in his office door holding a cigar box.
“Thank you all for taking the time to meet today,” he said. “Most of you have no doubt heard that Detective Inspector Little has been found dead. He was murdered.”
Sir Edward waited for the wave of excited murmurs to subside and then set the box on an empty desk in front of him and held up his hand.
“The first question I know you all have-in fact, the question I had-is whether this is the work of the Ripper. Our own Inspector Day assures me that it is not.”
Sir Edward gestured at Day, who nodded.
“But,” Sir Edward said, “although it may not be Jack himself, it may very well be the work of that dissatisfied citizenry who routinely jeer at us in the streets. It’s true that the frightened people of London have begun to calm. After all, there has been no renewed activity from the Ripper that we’re aware of. But there is still anger directed toward you, toward us I mean, for our inability to solve that most important mystery. And I’m afraid a very great deal of anger was directed toward Mr Little’s corpse.”
“Why are we here?” Inspector Tiffany said. “All due respect, sir, why aren’t we out there hunting the blighter down?”
Sir Edward nodded. “We are, all of us, inclined toward a certain degree of disorganization. This job requires us to be out and about in the city, and it’s a rare occasion when we gather. This needed to be such an occasion. One of us lies dead.”
Inspector Tiffany looked down at the top of his desk as if in mourning, but Day suspected he was simply embarrassed by the mild rebuke.
“It would behoove us all,” Sir Edward said, “to pay respect to Mr Little. If you’ve the means to contribute a bit to Little’s family-and there’s no shame in it if you haven’t-I’m sure they would appreciate your generosity. This box on Inspector Gilchrist’s desk will be here for the rest of the day, and if you’ve something you can spare to put in it I’ll take it round to his widow.”
He drew a five-pound note from his vest pocket and placed it in the box as if it were made of porcelain.
“Meantime, Inspector Day will be heading up this investigation.”
At that, there was an angry swell of voices, and Sir Edward held his hand up again.
“I know,” he said, “that you are anxious to cooperate with him, but please save your comments until I’ve finished.”
Day felt a warm blush spread up from under his collar. He hoped it wasn’t noticeable. Of course nobody in the room was anxious to cooperate with him. Every one of them, he was sure, wanted to work the case, and every one of them was justifiably unhappy that the youngest and least experienced of them had been put in charge.
“Because you are all so busy and because we are so seldom gathered together like this,” Sir Edward said, “many of you may not have made Mr Day’s acquaintance. I’m afraid I have not taken the proper time to make formal introductions, but I would like to remedy that oversight here and now. Detective Inspector Day was a constable, and then briefly a sergeant, in Devon and was brought up by Inspector March upon his retirement. He has been with us for a week and, so far as I have observed, he is an exemplary addition to our Murder Squad.”
Day felt the blush move to his cheeks.
“He has every qualification necessary to solve Mr Little’s murder, and I have chosen him to do so. If you disagree with my decision, you may take it up with me, not with him. I will take your comments now.”
A low rumble passed through the room, but nobody spoke up.
“Good. Now, all of you knew Mr Little. Some of you may have something of value to contribute to Mr Day’s investigation and, if so, I would like you to speak with him when we’re done here. Mr Day…” Sir Edward turned to Day and held out his hand, then swept it across the room. “This is your squad. These men are at your disposal. I trust you will not take them away from their existing cases if you don’t need to, but if you do decide it’s necessary … well then, I’m sure they will cooperate without complaint. Do you hear me, Mr Tiffany?”
“Aye,” Tiffany said. “I hear you.”
“Had you met Mr Tiffany yet?” Sir Edward said.
Day nodded.
“Then you have no doubt already decided how best to put him to use.”
Sir Edward looked out over the room and drew a deep breath. He let it out slowly and his beard fluttered.
“There are eleven of you now. The loss of Inspector Little hurts us. It hurts us a great deal. You all depend on each other. You cannot function as single police anymore. Whether you’ve realized it yet or not, you are soldiers, and soldiers work as a unit. Mr Boring.”
Oliver Boring sat up straight and his ample stomach pushed his desk an inch away from him.
“Sir?”
“I just said that there are eleven of you, but I only count ten. Where is Inspector Gilchrist?”
“Patrick, sir? I don’t know, sir. He’s always busy, always hopping, you know.”