Convicted Innocent(21)

Innocent gave a vigorous nod.

Though another thousand questions flooded his brain, David instead asked, “What happened when you realized why my friend arrested you? When you learned you were being charged with murder?”

The young man cocked his head to one side. “Frank t-t-tol’ me wh-what ‘appen. S-S-So I writes S-S-Sergean’ Todd a let-t-t-ter. S-S-Says I didn’ d-d-die ‘nyone. Tha’ my ‘ncle knowed, t-t-to ask ‘im.”

David wanted to question him further but the door to their cell opened then. The priest hadn’t heard anyone approach, engrossed as he’d been in Innocent’s tale.

“You.” It was the blond fellow. He pointed at the young man. “Come.”

His eyes skimmed over the supine policeman and the priest. “Still alive, is ‘e?”

The man’s face was stony under the leavings of last night’s fight, his question equally expressionless. After hesitating briefly, David nodded.

“Keep ‘im tha’ way.”

Not certain if that were a threat, David stilled. He’d thought to stand, but stopped in a crouch, not willing to risk his friend’s life further.

As Innocent willingly, docilely, left with the blonde and the door closed behind them, the priest sank back down, his thoughts whirling. Still whirling.

* * * * *

“Albatross.”

“Alba- what?”

“Albatross.” Police Sergeant Simon Bartholomew repeated, his mouth quirked in a half-smile. “Her hat, or wimple, or what have you, looks like a ruddy, flying albatross.”

He nodded toward a thin, gray-clad woman who was speaking with another policeman on the opposite end of the room. Her brilliant white head covering was gaze-capturingly tremendous.

“An’ what’s an halbatross look like?” Constable Little asked, scratching his head.

“Um…like that hat.”

Little gave Simon a blank look. “No’ too ‘elpful were tha’?”

The sergeant was still snickering when a touch to his elbow distracted him.

“Sergeant Bartholomew, a word if you might.”

“Sir.”

The sergeant turned to follow Inspector Tipple up the stairs to the latter’s office.

“Have you had an opportunity to look into what we discussed earlier?” Tipple said as he sat down at his desk, gesturing for Simon to take the chair opposite.

“I did, sir.”

“And—?” Tipple prodded when Simon’s pause became lengthy.

“And there’s nothing, sir. No reports of a half-dozen bobbies making such an arrest yesterday morning, or of any policeman landing in hospital on account of an assault or some such.”

“I see.”

“What’s this about, sir, if I may ask?”

The inspector fished something out of his pocket and passed it across the desk to the sergeant. “What do you make of that?”

“Sir.” Simon took the item, considered it for a moment, and then looked up at his boss quizzically. “37H. This is Sergeant Todd’s collar number.”

“It is.”

“What does it mean?”

“Before I hazard an answer, it may interest you to know where I found that.”

“Somehow I doubt Sergeant Todd just packed it in.”

“Unlikely.” Tipple chewed the corner of his lip a moment. “I found that bit of metal smashed into the cobbles where our mysterious squad supposedly appeared and then disappeared.”