Convicted Innocent(18)

“Oh.”

“Wha’ s’it?”

David released his friend, and the sergeant curled back up reflexively with a moan.

“He’s…I’ve never….” He’d never seen anyone’s ribcage so obviously or badly broken. Lew’s right side…. “He’s in a very, very bad way.”

Innocent nodded. “I pray.”

And the young man bowed his head.

The simple declaration sent a silent but deafening roar through David’s brain – a scream that shrieked a wordless question. A question he could not answer; a demand he could not satisfy; a failing he could not overcome.

This failing was what the priest had so wanted to tell his friend about the afternoon before: it was the cause of his fear, his shame, his cowardice, and his despair. It was the reason he started so badly at every rustle their captors made. It was why the tangible shadow of death struck such terror in his soul.

The scream hadn’t begun just with yesterday’s events, but with the brutal kidnapping it had gained focus; it had gotten louder, to the point that David could ignore it no longer.

He, a priest, could not pray.

* * * * *

Inspector Tipple knocked on the door and waited patiently. The Saturday morning air was misty, and the fog hung like a held breath in the air.

Even if Sergeant Todd was sick abed (the rumored explanation for the dutiful sergeant’s mysterious absence), delirious with a fever, he wanted to pick the man’s brain about the Harkers. After all, Todd was the fellow with whom he’d worked the case so closely.

In fact, aside from himself, the sergeant was one of the few still in Whitechapel’s H Division who could offer any sort of educated opinion on the Harkers. Nearly everyone else who’d ever crossed swords with the family had long since retired or given up the chase. True, the fellow’s interest was largely the result of having spent far too much time in Horace’s company; the inspector’s obsession had certainly rubbed off on the younger man.

“Good morning. Is Sergeant Todd receiving visitors?”

“Inspector Tipple: good day to you as well,” said Mrs. Marsh, the landlady. Her tone was apologetic as she continued. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen Mr. Todd since last morning quite early. I don’t know if he’s about, though you’re welcome to go up and check.”

A few minutes later, Horace stood at the top of the steps catching his breath. (No wonder Lewis was so fit: that was a very long set of stairs.)

When no answer came to his repeated knocking, the inspector let himself in using the key Mrs. Marsh had lent him.

“Sergeant Todd?”

But the neat little garret flat was empty, and there was no indication of where the other policeman might be.

Flummoxed, the inspector retraced his steps, bade farewell to Mrs. Marsh, and stepped back out into the thinning mist. He paused on the stoop for a minute or two, chewing his lip in consternated thought.

Where the blazes was his sergeant?

To his right, he noticed a crew of workmen laying out their supplies to begin painting shutters and doors on the long row of tenements. From the state of the said shutters and doors, he thought they might’ve been at work for a few days or more.

“You there,” Horace called, addressing one of the workmen, who straightened and turned. “Were you chaps here yesterday, perchance?”

“Oh, aye, gov,” he replied, a paintbrush in hand. “You needin’ work done?”

“Thank you, no. However, did you happen to notice a rather tall policeman coming or going from this building?” the inspector asked. “He’s the sort a body can’t miss in a crowd.”