Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Over the subsequent hour, Henry and Fletcher questioned more than a half dozen workers about the toppled barrels, but gained nothing more than angry glares and shaking heads.
No one had seen anything, heard anything, or suspected anyone, which was rather difficult to believe.
But no one had been hurt, and for that, Henry was grateful.
With no answers readily available, they returned to the machinery crates.
“Do we open a few?” Fletcher asked, doubt coloring his tone.
“Not without a better reason than the one we have.” The supposed tip from a barman at an unsavory local pub wasn’t enough. “Let’s note the name of the company they’re being shipped to and we’ll pay them a visit tomorrow. The crates should be delivered by then.”
The lead was pitiful, but more than they’d had previously.
Henry didn’t take out his notebook, not wanting to draw additional notice to what they were doing. Instead he memorized the information, then pretended to study other crates and barrels as well.
If anyone was watching, they shouldn’t know which items the police were interested in. At least, that was his hope.
Henry sighed. “I think our work here is done. Let’s venture to Whitechapel and see if there’s any sign of Marcus before we return to the Yard. We can review our plan for the visit to the sanatorium on the way.”
Once again they hailed a hansom cab, Henry preferring to save his waning energy for actual work rather than walking. His ribs ached, and a tightness across his forehead suggested his headache would soon be returning.
“Regarding the sanatorium—it’s got to be about the money, don’t you think?” Fletcher asked as the cab rolled forward. “Maybe they only select a certain type of patient to steal from.”
Henry considered the idea. “That could be the case. Perhaps those without a close family would have fewer questions asked.”
“Right. And since it requires a significant sum to stay at the place, that means any who enter would have enough funds to tempt the doctor, or whoever is behind this.”
“The key is for them not to become too greedy,” Henry mused. “After all, many of the patients are already ill and desperate when they enter, some with serious diseases who choose the sanatorium’s methods as a last resort.”
“Hmmm. Seems it would be smarter if they simply increased their fees.”
“They probably have, now that they’ve become so popular. Yet we can’t discount the fact that some patients have seen success from their treatments.” It was most irritating and made proving the scheme even harder.
“I suspect some would’ve shown improvement with or without the treatments,” Fletcher suggested.
“Yes, and the power of the mind can’t be discounted.” At his friend’s skeptical look, Henry shrugged. “If I told you something will cure you and you believed it, in many cases, it would work.”
“Humph. Hard to fathom.”
It didn’t make much sense to him either, but he’d seen it work. “At any rate, I think we follow the trail of money and see where it leads. Dr. Thorne is the most obvious suspect, but other staff members could be involved.”
Fletcher sighed as they halted a couple of streets from Whitechapel, the closest any cab driver was willing to go, given the rough neighborhood. “Why is it that naught but greed drives so many to break the law?”
Henry smiled and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “If you had the answer, we could fix many problems in this world.”
“Instead we must settle for punishing those who press too far.”
“And protect the public in the process,” Henry reminded him. “It helps to remember that.”
“It does.” Though based on the sergeant’s disgruntled expression, it didn’t satisfy him.
Henry didn’t blame him; justice was too often elusive.
It didn’t take long to make their way to the area where Marcus often seemed to be. Henry didn’t want to simply exchange messages through the Royal Arms; he wanted to see the lad for himself to ensure his well-being.
But without knowing where Marcus lived, it was impossible to know where to look.
They walked up one side of the street and down the other, watching for any sign of him—as well as for trouble.
With each minute that passed, Henry’s guilt and worry increased threefold.
Was Marcus truly well? Had he been hurt worse than they realized?
Just as he was about to give up, the boy darted toward them from across the street, expertly dodging a passing cart.
“Wotcha! Fieldy, as I live and breathe,” the boy began with his customary grin.
“Marcus.” Relief filled Henry as he looked him over from head to toe. “You’re well?”
“Well ’nough.” Concern darkened his eyes as his gaze held on Henry’s face. “You?”
“Same.” There was so much Henry wanted to say, but he didn’t think the lad would appreciate any of it. Still, an apology was in order, even if the bombing wasn’t his fault. “I’m sorry you were hurt.” And frightened.
The boy gave a one-shouldered shrug. “All in a day’s work, eh?” He wiped his nose with his sleeve.
“Not usually,” Henry countered, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m truly sorry.”
“Weren’t your fault.” Marcus shook his head, his expression set, as though he expected hardship.
“Did you crack your head like Inspector Field did?” Fletcher asked, his gaze still seeming to assess the lad’s health.
“Only a bit.” He grinned at them both. “Saw stars for a minute or two, fer certain.”
“Your parents must’ve wondered what happened, eh?” Fletcher pressed.
Henry caught his breath, hoping the boy would answer truthfully.
Marcus snorted. “Not likely.” Well, that probably wasn’t a lie. He turned his attention to Henry. “I only wanted to tell you wot I learned, though I s’pose you’ve solved the case by now.” He looked quite disgruntled by the thought.
“Actually, we haven’t.” Henry lifted a brow. “Care to share your information?” He had no intention of giving up on learning more about the lad and would continue to ask with the hope that one day, he’d tell them the truth. All of it.
Marcus’s eyes widened with excitement. “It was Samuel Cobb who did it.”
Henry shared a look with Fletcher. Cobb? He was one of the employees who worked at the jewelry shop, but they’d had no reason to suspect him. Not until now. “You’re certain?”
“He tried to sell some of the loot, but none wanted to touch it. Got it stashed somewhere. Waitin’ ’til you coppers stop lookin’ afore he sells it.”
“Thank you, Marcus.” Henry handed him a silver coin. “Your skills never fail to amaze me.”
The boy palmed it with a smooth movement and a nod. “Happy ta help. See ya.”
And before Henry could say another word, the lad had disappeared down the street and around a corner.
“Samuel Cobb,” Fletcher murmured. “Excellent. Shouldn’t be hard to wrap up that case now.”
“If only the rest were that simple.”
They returned to the Yard, where Sergeant Johnson at the front desk greeted them. “Director Reynolds is looking for you, Field.”
With a nod of thanks, Henry made his way to the Director’s office, Fletcher directly behind him. “You wanted me, sir?”
Reynolds looked up. “The magistrate denied our request for a search of the sanatorium.”
Disappointment swirled with irritation. “Unfortunate,” Henry muttered. And definitely unexpected.
“Yes, well.” Reynolds removed his spectacles to polish them on his handkerchief, his jaw tight.
“Apparently his nephew was a patient at Hollowgate Heights and has nothing but good things to say—and Dr. Thorne is a friend of the magistrate himself. He’s quite displeased with our suggestion of any wrongdoing. ”
“Of course he is.” Fletcher ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Now what do we do?”
Henry wasn’t about to give up on the case; not when his gut told him all was not as it seemed at the place, despite a few glowing reports from former patients. “We call on the doctor at the sanatorium and see what we can learn,” he advised, even if he didn’t expect her to cooperate.
“Won’t that warn her?” Fletcher asked, an eyebrow raised.
“Yes, but it won’t erase what happened to Mr. Dunn and possibly other patients who died under her care.” Henry glanced at Director Reynolds to see if he agreed.
Their superior considered for a moment, then nodded. “Let’s see what the doctor has to say, and we’ll talk again after that.”
“An informant just told us which employee at the jewelry shop is guilty,” Henry added. “We should be able to wrap that case up soon.”
The Director then glanced between them, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “Anything else to report?”
Henry had debated whether to share the events of the afternoon when they’d learned so little.
However, the Director had asked. “We spoke with a few men that our suspect worked with,” he said, keeping his tone low and the information vague.
“Found out he has a friend at a pub near the docks, who led us to the a ship that just arrived from America.”
The Director’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“And we nearly had a stack of barrels crush Inspector Field,” Fletcher said, much to Henry’s dismay.
“But they didn’t,” he quickly added with a glare at his friend.
“Sounds as if someone didn’t appreciate you asking questions,” Reynolds mused. “What’s next?”
“We found machinery crates destined for a construction company, which may or may not contain something helpful. We will visit the company tomorrow.”
“After speaking with Dr. Thorne at the sanatorium,” the Director suggested.
“Yes. After.” As always, Henry felt pulled in too many directions. He wanted to pursue all their leads now, at once—to dig until he found answers. Yet once again exhaustion pulled at him, an unwelcome reminder that he’d recently been injured, in addition to his near constant headache and sore side.
“Good work, gentlemen.” Reynolds nodded as he looked between them. “Fletcher, I believe your uncle could use your help for what’s left of the day. Field?”