Convicted Innocent(10)

David mentioned the items he’d seen the leader take as the sergeant began to go through the pockets on what was left of his uniform tunic (it was missing half its buttons, the collar insignia, and nearly one sleeve at the shoulder, and had several rents in the fabric besides). Ceasing, Lewis leaned against the door with a thoughtful frown.

“Well, besides a smashed pair of reading glass – blast them! – I still have my watch and a few pence, so if it was a botched mugging….” His voice trailed off and his frown deepened. When he began again, he spoke slowly as if thinking aloud.

“I can think of only a few reasons why they might’ve attacked a policeman intentionally, especially given what they took. And given what you’ve said, I must presume they intended to knock me down and then clean my pockets in short order, leaving before I wakened. That I fought back and that you intervened ruined their original plan, I think. But what were they after? Why lure me away? Would any policeman have done just as well? And why at just that time and place?”

“Could it have been something in that little book?” David asked.

“Perhaps,” the sergeant replied, tugging meditatively at one of the neat sideburns that cut just past the curve of his jaw. “Though it only contains my notes from my work. I jot them down the same as most policemen and then transfer them to official reports at the station.”

“Anything relevant to ongoing investigations?”

Lewis shrugged. “Yes. Undoubtedly, yes. But nicking a bobby’s notes won’t halt the legal process. Slow it, maybe, but not stop it. Witnesses can be called upon again, statements taken again, and hard forensic evidence is something else entirely. Crucial testimonies certainly aren’t in my notebook: such witnesses come by the station for more formal reporting. Besides, most of my notes are in a scribbled sort of shorthand. Like as not, it’ll be incomprehensible to anyone else. I can’t think what advantage a criminal might gain by stealing that little book.”

“Something else they took, then?”

While his friend considered this in silence, David found himself pacing. His nerves were jittery from the brutality of the assault and kidnapping, and the abrupt cessation of the violence hadn’t curbed the feeling. If anything, the sudden stillness made it worse.

His head pounded. He wished he could smoke to relieve the tension. Unfortunately, though the kidnappers hadn’t relieved him of his pipe, matches, or tobacco, the violence of his capture had snapped the stem of his pipe into a few useless pieces.

Thinking about his broken pipe was not helping.

“Perhaps there was something in one of the letters the postman gave me this morning.” Lew mused at last with a shrug, sitting down on one of the old crates. “I ran into him when I left for the Old Bailey, but hadn’t had a chance to peruse what he gave me yet. Besides my book and the post, the only other things our kidnappers relieved me of were my warrant card – which would be less useful than their false uniforms – and my penknife, whistle, and nightstick. My police helmet, too, I suppose. All told, hardly worth accosting a policeman for. So if our present circumstances aren’t due to one or more of those letters, I haven’t the foggiest.”

* * * * *

Detective Inspector Horace Tipple waited expectantly while the chief prison warden at Holloway consulted the logbook and a sheaf of paperwork.

“Um. Yes. Here ‘tis. The prisoner was signed over ‘ccording to custom at a quarter past one this afternoon. Out of my hands, then. Sir.” The warden (his name was Bates) added the courtesy title belatedly, his face purpling and shiny with sweat.