"Oh no, just some personal business I must attend to," Jamie assures him. He takes out his pocket watch and checks the time. "I should be back late this evening."
"That should be fine then." Hallingsworth smiles at him, a softer smile than Jamie is used to seeing on him. "And thank you for staying with me last night." Hallingsworth looks away and Jamie watches a blush spread across Hallingsworth's face. "I probably made something of a fool of myself."
"No." Jamie shakes his head. "You were fine. I enjoyed it, the talk I mean, you were very passionate …" Jamie swallows hard and needs to look away. Hallingsworth is far, far too tempting, especially after last night, and he's the one who is beginning to feel as if he is making a fool out of himself. "I need to go and see to getting a train ticket." He excuses himself, letting himself out.
It feels strange to be using the crutches again, he thinks. He's spent so much time over the last weeks using only the chair, he'd almost forgotten how limiting not being able to use it could be. He's also almost forgotten the looks and the stares he constantly received. Hallingsworth, Del Martin, and even Emerson treated him normally. He'd gotten used to that as well.
For the first time Jamie begins to contemplate how hard the end of this case is going to be. He hadn't realized how much he's loathing having to tell all of them, but especially Hallingsworth, how he'd been misleading them all along. He thinks of his rooms in London, thinks of going back to living there, waiting for cases that don't come, spending most of his time with Percy or alone. He doesn't want to go back there, he realizes. He wants to stay at the college and continue to be part of a world that is so exciting and filled with new experiences. Jamie watches the fog roll by the window of the train and sighs.
His final destination is a church in the East End tucked away behind several old, leaning buildings. Jamie makes his way through the small huddle of street boys before letting himself into the parsonage with the spare key he has. There is a boy in the sitting room he finds, about thirteen or fourteen years old and with only one arm and one eye. The boy is sitting on the settee reading quietly to himself, but he looks up when Jamie comes in.
"Can you find Father Hartgrove and tell him I would like to speak with him?" Jamie asks.
The boy nods, putting the book down before pushing himself off the settee. Jamie makes his way to the kitchen and puts the kettle on for tea. The water hasn't quite boiled when Father Hartgrove enters. He is an older man with sparse graying hair and glasses.
"Henry said you wanted to speak to me?" Father Hartgrove asks as Jamie turns to him.
"Yes, Father. I do."
Father Hartgrove gives him a soft smile and gets out the tea and cups while Jamie sits down at the kitchen table. "Well then?"
Jamie watches him fix the tea, frowning a little. "I thought you had a housekeeper to do those things."
"I decided I did not truly need a housekeeper," Father Hargrove tells him. "The small things that need to be done to keep up the parish and take care of myself I can easily do. Besides, the money can be better spent elsewhere." Jamie sees a flash of a sharp smile most people would miss under Father Hargrove's usual gentleness. "Not everything in life should be dictated by what the ladies in the parish think, or what kind of appearances they would like to keep up. We all answer to God, after all."
He sets a cup of tea in front of Jamie and picks up another, carrying it out of the room to give it to the boy, Henry, in the sitting room. Jamie takes a sip of his tea and waits.
When Father Hartgrove returns and settles himself on the other side of the table with his own cup of tea, he gives Jamie a long measured look over the top of his glasses. "What is it you need, James?"
Jamie can't help but squirm in his seat. He dislikes the fact that Father Hartgrove assumes he would have to need something in order to visit, but Jamie has to acknowledge to himself that the only reason he is here is because he needs something.
It isn't that he loathes spending time with Father Hartgrove, far from it. Father Hartgrove had given him everything after all, fed and clothed him, taking him in when even Jamie's own mother had turned him away. He had taught Jamie to read, write and do arithmetic. He had fostered a love of learning in Jamie, encouraged him to study anything and everything, and acquired positions as a clerk for Jamie for years so that he could work.
Father Hartgrove had insisted over and over that Jamie's impairments only affected his body, not his mind, and that he was as capable of being an upstanding member of society as any man. He truly believed that, truly believed that people who suffered from physical or mental infirmity were just as loved by God as anyone else and should be treated as such.
Jamie owed him everything.
And how do you repay that? Jamie thinks, staring morosely at his tea. By having sinful desires towards other men and insisting on a line of employment that can't sustain you. He pushes those thoughts away and clears his throat.
"I want to ask you about the Turnlow family."
Father Hartgrove blinks at him. "Well, they are a name of some note within the textile industry for owning quite a large number of cotton mills in Manchester."
Jamie nods, his mind drifting to memories of long brick buildings filled with the sound of machinery and the clack of looms. The air had always been full of fluff that stuck in his sister and mother's hair and clogged his throat until it felt as if he was drowning.
He swallows hard and shakes his head. "Anything else you can tell me about them, Father?"
"I heard a large number of them have passed on recently." Father Hartgrove shakes his head. "Such a tragedy to have that much loss in so little time. Their factories have all gone to the Kennedy family because of it, too."
Jamie looks up sharply at that. "Really?"
"Well, there is no one within the Turnlow family to look after them except some of the ladies, so the Kennedy family has been able to purchase their cotton mills quite cheaply," Father Hartgrove explains. "It's quite the news among my old acquaintances in Manchester, although I prefer to speak of things not related to the local gossip. Father Jones, however, could speak of almost nothing else in his last letter. Apparently the Kennedy family has been buying quite a number of cotton mills over the last few months; how they hope to sustain them all I don't know."
Jamie feels as if his brain is running in a hundred different directions at once and he struggles to reign it all in.
"Well, now," Father Hartgrove finishes off his tea and sets his cup aside. "Is that all you came for, James?"
Jamie forces himself to focus on the here and now and straightens himself up in his seat. "Of course, not." He smiles at Father Hartgrove. "Your health has been good, I trust?"
"As good as can be expected for a man of my age." Father Hartgove smiles gently at him from over the top of his glasses. "I have been teaching a good number of the local boys and helping Mrs. Radley with her commendable work of dispensing food and decent clothing to the unfortunate people of this area. I have also been helping Doctor Murlow with her book about the deplorable living conditions among the poor of the East End. We all hope it might encourage Parliament to take some notice of the situation."
Father Hartgrove is giving him that small smile Jamie had always despised as a boy because it indicated Father Hartgorve knew what he'd been up to. "And you, my boy? How has the Lord been at work in your life as of late?"
Jamie takes a long, fortifying draft of tea. "I have a case. It has been keeping my busy up at Cambridge in fact."
Father Hartgrove doesn't say anything, but the way his lips thin speaks clearly to Jamie of his disapproval.
Jamie sighs. "This case could very easily make my career a feasible endeavor, a way of supporting myself fully."
"And I'm glad of that." Father Hartgrove holds his hands in front of them. "I just pray it doesn't lead you astray in the process."
Jamie lets his head bow forward for a moment. "So do I."
"So," Father Hartgrove breaks the somber mood that has descended and
pours himself another cup of tea. "Have you found a suitable lady to share your life with yet?"
Jamie wonders if he can fabricate some sort of sudden ailment or emergency which would keep him from continuing with this most hated line of conversation. He shakes his head and concentrates on his tea instead.
Father Hartgrove tsks. "I cannot think why you have not found a suitable companion yet. There must be at least one good Christian young lady willing to share her future with you. You are an intelligent and capable young man after all."
It reminds him of what Hallingsworth had said the night before so strongly that Jamie has to look away. It pains him more than he could have imagined, thinking of Hallingsworth's sweet smile with Father Hartgrove's hopes for his future so evident before him.
Jamie turns their conversation to other things as they finish off their tea, politics and the charity work Father Hartgrove is involved with. When the tea is gone, Jamie pulls himself up with his crutches.
"I will come to visit again soon," he promises as Father Hartgrove sees him to the door. Father Hartgrove only smiles and embraces him.
Jamie tries to collect himself as he hails a cab, setting out to send a telegram to Mr. Burton and his mysterious employer:
Be advised: to my knowledge, Hallingsworth is innocent. I plan on proceeding with my own investigations.
Griffith.
Jamie then hails another cab to take him back to the station, where he continues on to Cambridge once more. He has a lot to think about pertaining to the case.
On the train, Jamie can indulge in a great deal of uninterrupted thinking. He has long been almost completely certain of Hallingsworth's innocence in the matter of Professor Brown's death. He had been considering the possibility that Brown had been killed for political reasons, whatever those might be; however, in light of the information Percy and Father Hartgrove had supplied him with, Jamie is beginning to wonder if Professor Brown could have been killed for something entirely different.
He turns the idea over in his mind.
What if the Professor's death had nothing to do with his work on classified government projects at the college? What if it had nothing to do with the college at all, but was instead linked to the fortune that could be made in cotton textiles?
Cotton was quickly replacing linen as the favored cloth for garments, not just in Britain, but all over the world. Those within the cotton industry were keenly aware of this. Jamie very much doubted the late Professor Brown had had any interest in cotton mills, but he had stood to inherit a large number of them, all of which would have been in the position to be bought cheaply at his death.
Jamie stares out of the window at the countryside rushing by. At the moment, the idea was a theory based on the facts available, but without hard evidence. Jamie turns over all the possibilities he can think of about ways to proceed.
By the time the train pulls into Cambridge Station, Jamie has come to the conclusion that he needs to talk to Hallingsworth and tell him the truth about why he was at the college in the first place. Jamie disembarks the train feeling very tired; he's not looking forward to Hallingsworth's reaction in the slightest.
He doesn't actually get a chance to speak with Hallingsworth privately until the following evening. The next day, Hallingsworth, despite his injuries, is up early as ever working in the laboratory. Hallingsworth had worked straight through the day with his student, Taylor, who was the mind behind envisioning the underwater ship. It isn't until after they've eaten supper and are settled in the sitting room with drinks that Jamie even has the opportunity to broach the subject.
"There is something I must discuss with you," he tells Hallingsworth, who looks up from where he's settled on the settee. Jamie grips the cut glass tumbler which holds his whiskey tightly and braces himself.
"Oh?" Hallingsworth sounds vaguely curious, and for once, he is not distracted by the never-ending engineering plans.
"I have not been completely honest with you," Jamie begins, taking a sip of whisky. He stares at the Persian carpet on the floor, tracing its intricate patterns with his eyes. "In fact, I haven't been completely honest about a great many things; for instance, why I took this position in the first place."
He chances a glance up at Hallingsworth who doesn't say anything, but watches him intently.
Jamie takes a deep breath and gets straight to the point. "I interviewed for and took this job because I was hired to. In fact, I was hired to investigate you. I'm a private investigator, you see, and my client suspected you were involved with Professor Brown's death."
Jamie looks back up at Hallingsworth again, but he can't read the expression on the other man's face. His palms have started to sweat and he grasps his glass more firmly. "I suspect they came to me because they thought I would be able to prey upon your sympathetic nature in order to secure this position." He takes another breath, surprised at the pain that lodges in his chest. "Needless to say, I do not suspect you of the crime." He falls silent and chances a glance up at Hallingsworth.
Hallingsworth closes his eyes and rubs his hands across the part of his face not covered by the bandage. "I had hoped—" he cuts himself off and looks away from Jamie, shaking his head once. "I must assure you that I did not hire you out of pity."
Jamie can hear the anger and disappointment in his voice and clutches at the glass again. "I am sorry."
Hallingsworth laughs softly. "For what? You were doing what men in your profession do, and you knew nothing about me at the beginning of this." He closes his eyes again, suddenly looking very tired.
It takes all of Jamie's restraint not to reach out to him. "I have regretted lying to you," he says softly. "I have never felt ashamed for misleading a suspect before, but with you—" He stops himself quickly, fearing he's revealed too much. "I would not blame you if you wished to have nothing more to do with me."
Hallingsworth stands suddenly and paces to the fireplace, forcing Jamie to turn his chair in a full circle to follow him.
"You said you no longer suspect me," Hallingsworth states without looking back at Jamie. "What has convinced you so completely of my innocence?"
Jamie stares at the strong lines of Hallingsworth's back and wishes he could see his face. "You have no motive to commit such a crime," he points out. "No evidence points to your involvement, and my understanding of your character leads me to believe that you did not kill Professor Brown."
"Have they found the weapon yet?" Hallingsworth asks, turning back toward him.
Jamie blinks. "Not to my knowledge." Not that he believes his client would tell him in any case.
Hallingsworth seems to slump. "That is a pity."
Jamie scrutinizes his face for a moment. "Why?"
"Because I do not believe a normal gun was used. If someone was to try to get within range of shooting Professor Brown in his office, they would have been seen. His office is quite high off the ground, so they would not have been able to access it by means of the window, and his secretary swears he was alone all evening. She has no reason to lie and in no way gained from his death, quite the contrary in fact. Furthermore, no one heard a shot, not his secretary or those students, faculty and staff working in the building surrounding it."
Jamie nods, having been told some of this information by Mr. Burton—although not all of this, he thinks sourly.
"I have theorized that whoever killed Professor Brown did so with a totally new kind of weapon: a long range rifle that can shoot in complete silence."
Jamie studies Hallingsworth for a long moment. He looks grave, but earnest, and Jamie comes to a decision. "I think I would like to see the outside of Professor Brown's office," he tells Hallingsworth, setting aside his glass.
Hallingsworth only nods and collects his hat and coat. Jamie had purposefully tried not to show too much interest in the scene of Professor Brown's death to maintain his cover, but that is no longer a concern. Hallingsworth leads the way through the halls and darkened courtyards lit by gas lamps.
&nbs
p; They end up in a square courtyard surrounded by walkways and buildings, and Hallingsworth points to one darkened window high up in one of the massive stone buildings.
Jamie circles his chair around as he studies the surrounding buildings. He tries to imagine himself as the marksman, picking a place that would give good cover, but also a good shot at the window, and all of his options seem impossibly far. Only for modern weapons, Jamie reminds himself; if Hallingsworth is right, this could be something entirely new.
"If you were to have such a weapon as the one you imagined, where would you shoot from?" Jamie asks, turning to Hallingsworth, who is also studying the surround buildings.
"That one." Hallingsworth points to a spot on the opposite rooftop partially protected by a chimney and Jamie is pleased to see it's the spot he'd also picked. "What do we do now?" Hallingsworth asks.
"Now I contact my client," Jamie tells him, turning back, "and we try to track down the weapon." He glances up at Hallingsworth in the semi-darkness. "If such a weapon has been made, how would you find out about it?"
Hallingsworth considers for a moment. "I can think of a few acquaintances I can contact about the possibility of a new rifle prototype."
"Right then." Jamie turns back and heads towards his rooms, his mind on work, with Hallingsworth following close behind him.
"Can I ask what your real name is?" Hallingsworth says after a few moments of silence.
The question brings Jamie out of his musings on the case and back to the reality of what had transpired between them that evening. He looks up at Hallingsworth, who is watching him with an unusually serious look on his face. It's strange, Jamie thinks. He would never consider Hallingsworth to be a jovial man per se, but having him this quiet and drawn feels somehow wrong.
"Griffith," he tells him at last, "James Nicholas Griffith." He hesitates, surprised at his sudden need to tell Hallingsworth more about himself, to let him in even closer than this. "I was born in Manchester, but I've lived a good deal of my life in London. I was raised by a priest, Father Hartgrove." He bites his lip and turns his chair away from Hallingsworth to stop himself from babbling further.
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