Chapter 12 #4
Tennant exited the prison and walked into the filtered light of Old Bailey Street.
A pale, noon sun shone dimly in the ochre-gray haze, a combination of fog and coal smoke that hung in the air, acrid and sulfurous.
The inspector hitched his shoulders and brushed his sleeve as if shedding Newgate Prison’s contagion.
He hailed a hansom and gave the cabbie the address of Julia’s clinic on Fieldgate Street.
Julia set aside the autopsy report. “In position, width, and depth of penetration, I’d say Bolger’s wound is identical. The man’s a precise killer.”
“And a practiced one,” Tennant said. “May I ask a favor?”
“Of course.”
“You’ve seen the medical reports. Will you write up your assessment of all the wounds? I have a stubborn colonel on my hands who refuses to admit the connections among victims.”
“Send the other reports back to me. I’ll take a second look and have my summary to you by Monday.”
Julia stirred her tea and took a sip, studying him over the rim.
Tennant shifted in his seat, his jaw muscles clenching as he uncrossed his legs.
The strain she’d observed since his return from France hadn’t gone away.
She’d often noticed the weather-triggered stiffness in his gait.
His walk across the clinic’s foyer had seemed unusually labored.
“Tell me,” she said.
“Tell you what?”
“What’s wrong.”
“Trains and steamers and too little sleep.” He shrugged. “It’s caught up with me.”
She’d allowed him to deflect too often. Not today. “Something more, I think.” Julia waited.
He leaned forward, returning his cup to the saucer on her desk. “There are … times when I loathe my job. Probably a good thing. Days when …” He shook his head.
“What happened today?’
Haltingly, he told her about his morning at the prison. Julia listened, thinking how unpracticed he was at sharing his thoughts and fears. First the army, then Scotland Yard. No, it begins much earlier. Boys were schooled in stoicism and reserve. He’d learned those lessons too well.
“I know coppers who enjoy making men squirm,” he said. “A hazard of the job.”
Julia rounded her desk and sat on the edge. “You’ll never be that man, Richard. Never.”
“You’re surer than I am.” He looked at her. “What about you? Are there times when you question”—he spread his hands—“this path you’ve taken?”
She slid off the desk and picked up a wooden stethoscope, spinning it between her fingers. It was an antique, used by her grandfather early in his career, a souvenir. “Aunt Caroline tried her best to dissuade me. Just before I left for medical school.”
“Why?”
Julia smiled. “You haven’t the time for all her reasons. But she was wrong about one thing. It wasn’t to fill the void of my father’s death. To fulfill Grandfather’s dream of the Doctors Lewis practicing medicine together.”
“No?”
“No. I did it for me … a strange ambition for a woman, in the minds of most people.”
“Not strange to the patients in your wards … or to me.”
“Ah, but once upon a time.” She waggled the wooden horn. “Come clean, Inspector.”
Tennant stood. He took the instrument from her and returned it to its desk stand. “Strange, now, that there was ever a time when …” He held her hand for a long moment before releasing it, smiling into her eyes. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Sir Lionel arrived at the Yard ten minutes after Tennant’s return, bearing two reports.
“This one is from the authorities in Ireland.” Dermot handed the document to Tennant. “They nabbed all the gunrunners except one. A surly mountain of a man folded under questioning and gave up the name. Patrick McGrath. Sound familiar, Inspector?”
“The man the French warned us about.”
“He fled to Liverpool on his way to London.”
O’Malley smoothed his mustache, considering. “Is he coming for a purpose or to lose himself in a crowd? Why am I thinking he’s here for a reason?”
Sir Lionel Dermott nodded. “I fear your supposition is correct, Sergeant.”
“’Tis a case where I’d rather be wrong.”
Sir Lionel held up a second document and passed it to Tennant.
“The Home Office report on Patrick McGrath.” He ticked off his fingers.
“Born in Naas, Kildare, joined the British Army, served in the Crimea, won a battlefield promotion to sergeant, and lived for a time in Liverpool. Oh, and he served in the same Irish Guards’ regiment as Peter FitzGerald. ”
“I suppose you’d like me to see that as suspicious,” Tennant said.
“Not really, but I couldn’t resist. Even I can’t propose a Fenian FitzGerald with a straight face. As McGrath is a Kildare man, the major’s regiment was a logical choice.”
“Happy to hear you’re keeping an open mind.”
“More to the point, McGrath emigrated to America and fought in the Civil War. He joined the Fenian brotherhood in 1866, and he’s a crack shot, renowned for his prowess as a sniper.”
“Mother of God,” O’Malley muttered. “We recovered ninety of the last hundred guns. That leaves ten French rifles and a sniper in the wind.”
Tennant said, “Chabert, the French colonel, thought McGrath might be the ‘man in square-toed boots’ who bought the guns from Romilly.”
Sir Lionel tapped the report in Tennant’s hand. “McGrath’s description is at the bottom of the first page.”
The inspector read, “‘Average height, solidly built. In his early forties. Dark, curly hair and gray eyes.’ We’ll get this into circulation.”
O’Malley said, “Those stab wounds to the neck are making me think of bayonet jabs. McGrath’s soldier, but not tall enough to be our killer.”
“A soldier …” Tennant said. “It’s a thought, Paddy.”
Dermott said, “In addition to being too short, our report places him in France when the Dowling sisters were killed.”
“Patrick McGrath … a man on a mission?” Tennant said.
Dermott shrugged. “You don’t need an arsenal for localized bloodshed. A few guns will do the job. Well, I’ll let you gentlemen get on with it.”
Dermott stopped at the door and spun on his heels. “I’ve just remembered. Peter FitzGerald’s ancestor, Lord Edward FitzGerald, was in the thick of the Irish uprising of ’98.”
Tennant said, “We’ll bear it in mind.”
“Treason could be in the blood.” Dermott winked, gave a two-fingered salute, and strode out the door.
“Fancies himself a comedian, Sir Lionel,” O’Malley said.
“What’s not amusing is McGrath. We may have a sniper on the loose in London.”