“Mr. Catchpole,” he upped his voice to compete with the bonging of St. Andrew’s bells, “I really must insist—”
“Dear me! Pardon the interruption, but I must dash. I have completely lost track of the hour. Until next time, Mr. Forge.”
“There will not be a next time,” he muttered after the fleeing legs of the red-coated scarecrow, then gritted his teeth as the bells finished tolling—all nine of them. Blast. He should have been in his office by now.
He set off at a fast pace, weaving through street hawkers and pedestrians, and finally arrived at the station winded and sweaty. He barely tipped his hat at Smitty, the front desk clerk, as he hastened to the stairs.
“Hold on there, Chief.” Smitty’s raspy voice lassoed him from behind. “I’ve a note for you.”
Jackson circled back, hand extended to simply grab the message and continue on his way. A good plan…but one that hitched as Smitty ducked behind the counter and began rummaging while mumbling, “I know the little badger is here somewhere. Kipes! What a snarl.”
Jackson gritted his teeth. He knew exactly how the man felt. His own rat’s nest of paperwork awaited him upstairs.
“Aha! Here’s the rotter.” Rising, the beefy constable held out an envelope.
With a seal.
Heart sinking, Jackson handed Smitty the bag of pastries then snatched the envelope. “For your trouble,” he said as he turned away and slid his finger to break the wax insignia.
Forge,
I need the complete tally of cases, including names, dates, and sentences within a fortnight to hand in to the commissioner. Failure to supply such information by then will result in your termination.
I am,
Superintendent Aloysius Hammerhead
Bah. Jackson crushed the paper into a ball as he mounted the steps, wishing beyond reason the former chief were still around so he could interrogate the man as to his filing system. The information required by the super was waiting in the many file drawers, but not in any sort of order that a normal human being would have catalogued. It had taken him the past two days just to figure out how to gather the names of all the offenders—let alone copy them down on one document—and he had yet to match the dates and sentences to those names. For some reason known only to God and the dead Chief Inspector Theodore Ridley, the man had encrypted all his files not only in code words but in separate folders.
Two steps from reaching the landing, movement from below snagged his attention. He leaned over the railing. A round ball of a man bounced to a stop. Jackson narrowed his eyes. What on God’s green earth was Inspector Harvey doing there, squatting in the corridor like a fat frog, when he’d assigned the man to investigate the suspected arson at the fishmonger on Charles Street?
Hefting a huge sigh, Jackson trotted back down the stairs, shoving the super’s balled-up note into his pocket. “What, may I ask, are you doing, Inspector?”
Light glinted off the man’s spectacles as he glanced up, a momentary blinding flash. “I can hardly be expected to walk another step without first fixing my stocking. It twisted just so, you see. Never could stand things out of order, not even a stocking.”
“You and your stocking are not supposed to be here at the station.”
After a final yank to his infernal stocking, Harvey resettled his trouser hem then rose. “But I work here, sir. Where did you expect me to be?”
“Your work is at the fishmonger on Charles Street.” Surely the man hadn’t hauled in the firebug this early in the investigation.
“About that.” He smoothed each side of his moustache with his podgy fingers. “I did as you asked, sir, and tried to examine the arson matter, but the smoke damage lingering on the walls proved too much for my lungs. I am of a rather delicate constitution.”
Delicate!Jackson clenched his hands lest he throttle Harvey’s neck—if he could even find it, so thick was the rookie inspector. “Are you telling me the case remains unsolved?”
Harvey bobbed his head as if they discussed nothing more pressing than an undisputed score in a cricket game. “Naturally.”
“And how do you intend to resolve it?” The words barely made it past the tightness of his jaw.
“Why, by returning the case to you, of course.”
Jackson planted his feet. It was either that or lunge at the worthless excuse of an inspector. “Consider yourself dismissed, Mr. Harvey. Effective immediately.”
“I am afraid that will not do, sir.” He shook his head, his jowls swaying against his collar. “That will not do at all.”
Anger flooded Jackson’s veins, hot enough that he might blow at any moment. “Are you presuming to stand there and tell me I cannot dismiss you?”
“I am, without a doubt, sir.”
