* * * * *
Horace Tipple couldn’t sleep.
He’d gotten out of bed – putting on his dressing gown and house slippers quietly so he wouldn’t wake his wife – and wandered into the sitting room. He’d paced, poured himself a dram of scotch, paced some more as he drank it, poured another, smoked a few cigarettes while he drank and paced, and thought furiously all the while.
Horace could count on the fingers of one hand the number of cases that had kept him awake at night during the course of his career. Fretting never solved anything, and he thought better with sleep. However, that logic fell flat in the face of his current investigation.
The reason why Nicholas Harker had let himself be seen so soon after his escape was beyond baffling. And there was no question in Horace’s mind that the fellow had let the police catch sight of him. Though Mr. Harker was none too bright, and most probably not the one who’d orchestrated the flight from Holloway Prison, even a complete idiot would know not to show himself in public during his own blasted manhunt without a bloody good reason.
So why had he done it? Add that to—
“—Rory.”
“Ah. Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Mathilda slid her arms around him as she joined him in front of the hearth. Horace returned the embrace with one arm, still holding his tumbler with the other hand.
“You’ll find him.” She nodded toward the family portrait, which hung above inspector’s old cavalry sword over the mantle. “And the murderer too.”
The inspector brushed his fingertips over the signature in the corner of the painting, and then drew his wife over to the sofa. They sat down together, and Hildy snugged herself into his side.
“What is it, darling?” she asked.
Horace pursed his lips. “I have an awful, terrible feeling I’m missing something. Or perhaps several things. Lewis disappeared nearly two days ago. I still haven’t any idea who started the rumor that he was home in bed with a fever, and the delay that caused in the search for him is troubling. Also, he vanished more or less the same time our murderer did, and ostensibly at the hands of the same crew. I have my boys tracking both.
“This afternoon, one of those Roman Catholic sisters with the tremendously large wimples—”
“—cornettes,” Hildy supplied.
“—Thank you. One of those. She reported the disappearance of a popish clergyman who began to be missed after he failed to turn up for some celebration or other Friday afternoon. After some additional legwork by my men, he seems to have vanished the same morning as both Lewis Todd and Nicholas Harker. This clergyman, David Powell, is Lewis’s best mate. We’ve met him before, if you recall.
“To further complicate matters, Mr. Harker stepped into view briefly this afternoon and then disappeared once more before any of my people could lay a finger on him.”
“Where did he turn up?”
“He walked into a Clerkenwell police station. Bold as brass. Came in, left an envelope at the desk, and departed as quiet as you please. Didn’t even bother with a disguise.”
“A police station.”
“Yes. And so unexpected it was that the chaps at Clerkenwell didn’t recognize him or give chase until Mr. Harker had plenty of time to vanish in the afternoon street traffic. Which he did.”
“What was in the envelope?” Hildy asked after a pause.
“A certain policeman’s warrant card and a broken string of prayer beads. The kind a popish vicar might use.”
His wife digested this for a moment.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, her brown eyes wide with alarm. “They have both Lewis and his friend… but what can they want? What could be Mr. Harker’s purpose with them?”
“That is why I’m awake at this hour. I can make wild conjectures, but I haven’t the faintest shred of proof in any direction. And since whatever plot’s afoot smacks of far more creativity than Nicholas Harker seems capable of, I begin to wonder if someone else is playing puppet master. Other Harkers are certainly devious enough, but they’ve never resorted to such measures before when one of their own is on trial. They usually worm their way out of charges in the courtroom. On being questioned, they’ve protested that they know nothing.
“To top it off, I have the most nagging suspicion we’re being toyed with, or that my boys and I are puppets as well.”
“Well, it seems obvious you’re being taunted, what with the blatant reappearance and all.”
Horace pursed his lips wryly. “Of course that is a taunt, but I don’t see the need for it. Mr. Harker has been on trial for murder. A very public trial. In that context, this public display would be counterproductive.”
His wife nodded in understanding and yawned. “Lord knows what they’re thinking, then. Fighting a murder charge, but then flaunting multiple kidnappings: quite baffling. Maybe if you stand everything on its head it’ll come out right.”
Convicted Innocent Page 14