request. Come on, we’ll sign the papers and then have a celebratory luncheon. You can move in tomorrow. Henny can help you find a maid-of-all-work or a housekeeper, if you wish.”
Alastair hadn’t even considered that. A house needed someone to watch over it. The solution came instantly.
“No need,” he told him. “I know the perfect person, if she’ll accept.”
~••~••~••~
“Anderson?” Ramsey called out.
The reporter had brown hair and a crisp moustache. He looked up from the notebook he’d been studying and issued a quick nod. There was a pint in front of him, but Ramsey didn’t spy any of the telltale signs of a heavy drinker. Not all journalists would pass muster in that regard. Or coppers, either.
“I’m Inspector Ramsey.” He didn’t bother to sit. There was too much to be done for them to be chatting about the weather. “Let’s get to it.”
“As you wish, Inspector.” The man rose, tucked away the notebook and left the half-pint of ale on the table. Most of his ilk would have gulped it rather than waste the booze.
Ramsey waited until they were on the street to open his barrage. “I hear I’m stuck with you on the soles of my shoes until further orders.”
“Yes, you are.”
“How’d you manage that one?”
“I know people.”
“Warren?”
A nod. “I wrote an article about Sir Charles’ exploits in the Sinai. He thought it flattered him.”
“Did it?”
“Not really. The folks in Chicago want to know what it’s like in London, so I’ve been here since the second Ripper murder.”
“If you want to know about him , you have to talk to Inspector Abberline.”
“I already have. Now I’m interested in the Yard’s latest case.”
Ramsey groaned. “Everybody wants to know about Sergeant Keats.” He halted abruptly. “It’s like this, Anderson. We’ve got a mess here. The last thing I need is a reporter dogging my heels, but if Warren says you’re with me, that’s the way it has to be. In return, I expect only one thing.”
“Which is?”
“Honesty. Call it straight. If Keats killed that woman, he swings. If not, we’re barking up the wrong tree and it would do no good to hang an innocent man while the real murderer laughs at us.”
“Is Keats innocent?”
“That’s what I have to find out.” Ramsey hesitated for only a moment before detailing the sergeant’s alibi.
Anderson mulled on the information as they continued down the street.
“It sounds fantastical,” he noted after some time.
“I agree.”
Anderson arched an eyebrow. “I understand that you and Sergeant Keats have an adversarial relationship. That, in fact, you detest each other.”
Ramsey eyed him. The reporter seemed to be very well informed for someone hailing from Chicago. How much had Warren told him?
“We can’t stand each other. Been that way since the first time I saw the little runt.”
“What if he murdered that woman?”
“Then everything I’ve worked for over the past fifteen years goes to hell. It throws mud on all of us, don’t you see?”
They paused at an intersection, waiting for a lorry to pass.
“I’ll keep an open mind, Inspector,” Anderson replied.
“Good.” Dodging between a hansom and a brougham, Ramsey followed up with, “Do me a favor, will you?”
“Which is?” Anderson said, hurrying to catch up.
“Remind me to do the same.”
~••~••~••~
“My chest is much better,” Mrs. Butler said. She was sitting at the flimsy table in her minuscule hovel she and her son called home. “I’m coughing less and I don’t have to take that medicine you gave me.”
“Excellent,” Alastair replied, pleased his treatment had a good result. Chest infections were often fatal. “I have some news of my own,” he began.
Then he blurted it all out in a rush, though he’d not intended to. He still didn’t believe it himself. As he gave Mrs. Butler time to gather her wits, his mind flashed back to their initial
Alastair hadn’t even considered that. A house needed someone to watch over it. The solution came instantly.
“No need,” he told him. “I know the perfect person, if she’ll accept.”
~••~••~••~
“Anderson?” Ramsey called out.
The reporter had brown hair and a crisp moustache. He looked up from the notebook he’d been studying and issued a quick nod. There was a pint in front of him, but Ramsey didn’t spy any of the telltale signs of a heavy drinker. Not all journalists would pass muster in that regard. Or coppers, either.
“I’m Inspector Ramsey.” He didn’t bother to sit. There was too much to be done for them to be chatting about the weather. “Let’s get to it.”
“As you wish, Inspector.” The man rose, tucked away the notebook and left the half-pint of ale on the table. Most of his ilk would have gulped it rather than waste the booze.
Ramsey waited until they were on the street to open his barrage. “I hear I’m stuck with you on the soles of my shoes until further orders.”
“Yes, you are.”
“How’d you manage that one?”
“I know people.”
“Warren?”
A nod. “I wrote an article about Sir Charles’ exploits in the Sinai. He thought it flattered him.”
“Did it?”
“Not really. The folks in Chicago want to know what it’s like in London, so I’ve been here since the second Ripper murder.”
“If you want to know about him , you have to talk to Inspector Abberline.”
“I already have. Now I’m interested in the Yard’s latest case.”
Ramsey groaned. “Everybody wants to know about Sergeant Keats.” He halted abruptly. “It’s like this, Anderson. We’ve got a mess here. The last thing I need is a reporter dogging my heels, but if Warren says you’re with me, that’s the way it has to be. In return, I expect only one thing.”
“Which is?”
“Honesty. Call it straight. If Keats killed that woman, he swings. If not, we’re barking up the wrong tree and it would do no good to hang an innocent man while the real murderer laughs at us.”
“Is Keats innocent?”
“That’s what I have to find out.” Ramsey hesitated for only a moment before detailing the sergeant’s alibi.
Anderson mulled on the information as they continued down the street.
“It sounds fantastical,” he noted after some time.
“I agree.”
Anderson arched an eyebrow. “I understand that you and Sergeant Keats have an adversarial relationship. That, in fact, you detest each other.”
Ramsey eyed him. The reporter seemed to be very well informed for someone hailing from Chicago. How much had Warren told him?
“We can’t stand each other. Been that way since the first time I saw the little runt.”
“What if he murdered that woman?”
“Then everything I’ve worked for over the past fifteen years goes to hell. It throws mud on all of us, don’t you see?”
They paused at an intersection, waiting for a lorry to pass.
“I’ll keep an open mind, Inspector,” Anderson replied.
“Good.” Dodging between a hansom and a brougham, Ramsey followed up with, “Do me a favor, will you?”
“Which is?” Anderson said, hurrying to catch up.
“Remind me to do the same.”
~••~••~••~
“My chest is much better,” Mrs. Butler said. She was sitting at the flimsy table in her minuscule hovel she and her son called home. “I’m coughing less and I don’t have to take that medicine you gave me.”
“Excellent,” Alastair replied, pleased his treatment had a good result. Chest infections were often fatal. “I have some news of my own,” he began.
Then he blurted it all out in a rush, though he’d not intended to. He still didn’t believe it himself. As he gave Mrs. Butler time to gather her wits, his mind flashed back to their initial
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