Meera’s scowling face. “Missy Grizedale not seeing anyone.”
“How is she?”
“Resting. Sir.”
Langton hesitated. “I really do need to see her, Meera. Just for a few moments.”
Meera’s eyes blazed. “You hurt her bad.”
Then, at some sound from within the house, Meera turned away and listened. She said something Langton couldn’t hear, then glared at him and opened the door as if allowing in a muddied dog. “Missy see you.”
Langton followed the maid upstairs and found Mrs. Grizedale reclining on a red chaise longue. A blanket reached up to her bosom and a shawl covered her shoulders. She looked pale, with only two spots of red high in her cheeks. “Inspector.”
“I’m sorry to waken you.”
“I wasn’t asleep. Just resting.” Mrs. Grizedale smiled at Meera and said, “It’s all right, my dear. I’ll be fine.”
The maid glared once more at Langton as she left the room.
“I hope you’ve recovered,” Langton said.
“I will. It’s not the first time that…” She forced a smile, then waved to a chair. “Won’t you sit?”
“Thank you, no. I have a cab downstairs. I just wanted to check that you had improved.”
Mrs. Grizedale nodded. “And?”
“Pardon me?”
“Much as I appreciate your concern, Inspector, I’m sure you have something else you wish to ask me.”
He hesitated, then said, “I still have difficulty believing in these…these Jar Boys.”
“They exist,” she said.
“But—”
She leaned forward, dislodging the shawl. “I am sorry to tell you this, but your wife is beyond our help.”
Langton paced back and forth. “Is there no way to find her? To release her?”
“She is one of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of captured souls secreted by collectors.”
He froze. “Collectors?”
“That is what they call themselves. And no one man knows the contents of all the jars, all the vessels.”
“What about Doktor Glass?”
Mrs. Grizedale sank back. “You know of him?”
“Only that he is feared.”
“And with good reason,” she said. “Avoid him. Even fellow collectors will not talk of him.”
“Why?” Langton knelt beside her. “What is so special about this Doktor Glass?”
Instead of answering, Mrs. Grizedale began to hyperventilate. She couldn’t catch her breath. Meera burst into the room and pushed Langton aside. “Go.”
“But—”
Meera, already opening a small phial and holding it to the medium’s mouth, spat out the words, “Go, before you kill her.”
Langton ran downstairs and pulled the door shut behind him. He climbed into the hansom and slumped beside McBride. As they rattled along Hamlet Street, McBride asked, “Is this part of our investigation, sir?”
Langton bit back the first words that came to him, and said instead, “Perhaps.”
He realized then that McBride was right: Sarah’s possible fate haddistracted him from the murder case and made him neglect his duty. How could he do otherwise? His own wife. He had to know.
Perhaps there was a connection, after all: the Jar Boys. Langton could justify that to himself.
As the hansom neared the Pier Head, the driver had to weave through dense traffic. Langton saw great carts and steam wagons carrying cargoes to and from the docks: lumber from the Americas, marble from Italy, rolls of woven fabrics fresh from Manchester’s mills and destined for the colonies.
A constant din filled the air, composed of iron wheels on cobbles, engines’ roars, pistons pounding in their greased tracks. Over all this, the yells and curses of drivers. Like a wide, turbulent tributary, the traffic flowed toward the Mersey. And on either bank, pedestrians waited to cross; some took their chances and dived through the jostling wagons to reach the other side. Others, mainly ragged children, darted between and under the wheels, snatching what meager detritus fell from the jolted cargoes.
Langton held his breath when he saw a grimy, barefoot child of no more than six years scurry
“How is she?”
“Resting. Sir.”
Langton hesitated. “I really do need to see her, Meera. Just for a few moments.”
Meera’s eyes blazed. “You hurt her bad.”
Then, at some sound from within the house, Meera turned away and listened. She said something Langton couldn’t hear, then glared at him and opened the door as if allowing in a muddied dog. “Missy see you.”
Langton followed the maid upstairs and found Mrs. Grizedale reclining on a red chaise longue. A blanket reached up to her bosom and a shawl covered her shoulders. She looked pale, with only two spots of red high in her cheeks. “Inspector.”
“I’m sorry to waken you.”
“I wasn’t asleep. Just resting.” Mrs. Grizedale smiled at Meera and said, “It’s all right, my dear. I’ll be fine.”
The maid glared once more at Langton as she left the room.
“I hope you’ve recovered,” Langton said.
“I will. It’s not the first time that…” She forced a smile, then waved to a chair. “Won’t you sit?”
“Thank you, no. I have a cab downstairs. I just wanted to check that you had improved.”
Mrs. Grizedale nodded. “And?”
“Pardon me?”
“Much as I appreciate your concern, Inspector, I’m sure you have something else you wish to ask me.”
He hesitated, then said, “I still have difficulty believing in these…these Jar Boys.”
“They exist,” she said.
“But—”
She leaned forward, dislodging the shawl. “I am sorry to tell you this, but your wife is beyond our help.”
Langton paced back and forth. “Is there no way to find her? To release her?”
“She is one of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of captured souls secreted by collectors.”
He froze. “Collectors?”
“That is what they call themselves. And no one man knows the contents of all the jars, all the vessels.”
“What about Doktor Glass?”
Mrs. Grizedale sank back. “You know of him?”
“Only that he is feared.”
“And with good reason,” she said. “Avoid him. Even fellow collectors will not talk of him.”
“Why?” Langton knelt beside her. “What is so special about this Doktor Glass?”
Instead of answering, Mrs. Grizedale began to hyperventilate. She couldn’t catch her breath. Meera burst into the room and pushed Langton aside. “Go.”
“But—”
Meera, already opening a small phial and holding it to the medium’s mouth, spat out the words, “Go, before you kill her.”
Langton ran downstairs and pulled the door shut behind him. He climbed into the hansom and slumped beside McBride. As they rattled along Hamlet Street, McBride asked, “Is this part of our investigation, sir?”
Langton bit back the first words that came to him, and said instead, “Perhaps.”
He realized then that McBride was right: Sarah’s possible fate haddistracted him from the murder case and made him neglect his duty. How could he do otherwise? His own wife. He had to know.
Perhaps there was a connection, after all: the Jar Boys. Langton could justify that to himself.
As the hansom neared the Pier Head, the driver had to weave through dense traffic. Langton saw great carts and steam wagons carrying cargoes to and from the docks: lumber from the Americas, marble from Italy, rolls of woven fabrics fresh from Manchester’s mills and destined for the colonies.
A constant din filled the air, composed of iron wheels on cobbles, engines’ roars, pistons pounding in their greased tracks. Over all this, the yells and curses of drivers. Like a wide, turbulent tributary, the traffic flowed toward the Mersey. And on either bank, pedestrians waited to cross; some took their chances and dived through the jostling wagons to reach the other side. Others, mainly ragged children, darted between and under the wheels, snatching what meager detritus fell from the jolted cargoes.
Langton held his breath when he saw a grimy, barefoot child of no more than six years scurry
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