“Afternoon, Inspector. Sergeant left a note for you.” Smitty waved a paper over the counter. Behind him, inside a glassed-in anteroom filled with shelves of ledgers, hunched the round lump of Mr. Harvey, engrossed in rearranging portfolios on a lower shelf.
Jackson retrieved the folded slip and shook it out. Sergeant Doyle’s sweeping strokes requested an inquest into a Mr. Bigham Willowbee for possible insurance fraud. Wonderful. Such scams were notorious for the killer amount of paperwork it took to prove wrongdoing in a court of law…paperwork he didn’t have time to fuss with. He tucked the note into his pocket. “How long do you intend to keep Harvey tied up back there?”
“He ought to finish by the end of the shift, sir.” The hefty clerk leaned over the counter, the edge cutting into his big belly. “The man’s a miracle worker, I tell ya,” he whispered.
Jackson’s gaze roved past Smitty’s shoulder to the rookie inspector. Harvey looked like an oversized turtle the way he crouched, all round backed, no neck, great sweat stains darkening the deep green of his coat to black circles beneath his arms. Apparently miracle working induced quite the perspiration.
“Whether the shift is over or not, Smitty, send him up as soon as he’s done.”
Smitty nodded sharply. “Aye, sir.”
Jackson trotted up the stairs. No doubt Harvey would have some sort of excuse as to why he couldn’t manage the Willowbee case. A strain on the eyes, perhaps. Or maybe the ink used on insurance documents gave him hives. Either way, the man would see to this inquest or Jackson would have to let him go, commissioner’s nephew or not. This was a police station, not a nursery to care for childish whiners.
As soon as he shut his office door, the great load of unfinished paperwork taunted him from his desk. Stacks of folders towered on one side; hastily created piles of paper filled the rest. He’d made a minuscule amount of headway this morning, finally matching several criminals to their subsequent offenses and then to a date and outcome of their respective court case. But there were hundreds to go. The former chief ought to be flogged for such an unnecessarily complicated system.
Jackson dropped into his chair and once again pounded his chest, the burn working its way up to his throat. With any luck he’d succumb to the pain and keel over dead, effectively escaping the nightmare on his desktop.
A knock rapped on the door. Before he could open his mouth to tell whoever it was to go away, in strolled Ezra Catchpole, a huge fish draped over his outstretched arms. It was a wonder the skinny man remained upright with such a fat load.
“A very wonderful afternoon to you, Chief Inspector Forge, for yes, I now know that you are not a mere inspector but the very tip-top of this station. How grand! Such a stupendous achievement.” A crooked-toothed grin flashed beneath the absurd mask.
Jackson clenched his hands to keep from burying his face in them. “What are you doing here at the station, Mr. Catchpole?”
“Why, I have brought you your supper.” He flopped the flounder onto the desk. Papers flew, some drifting to the floor, others merely scattering. Most were dampened with a healthy dose of fish slime.
“This has to stop, Mr. Catchpole.” Jackson groaned. “There is no need for you to continue bringing me gifts.”
“There is every need, my good man. You saved my life!” Pulling an enormous handkerchief from his pocket, Catchpole rubbed furiously at the gooey remnants on his coat sleeves—the same garish red coat he’d been wearing since that fateful day on Blackfriars Bridge.
Jackson hefted a sigh. Patience was a virtue in which he’d grown considerably since being married to Kit…yet apparently not enough, judging by the urge to shoo the man out of here. “At what point will you consider that debt paid?”
Catchpole tucked away his cloth, flipped out his coattails, then sat on the chair directly in front of Jackson’s desk. “When I can help you in a life-or-death situation, then the universe will right itself. Until such, I shall do everything in my power to enrich and enhance the drudgery of your day-to-day existence.”
Unbidden, Jackson’s gaze drifted to the disaster on his desk. Drudgery was right…but the only enhancement he needed was a burst of brilliance to crack the former chief’s absurd filing code or a raging fire to burn down the whole building. He scrubbed a hand over his face, shaking off the wild thought. Even though he hadn’t voiced it, he was no better than Harvey mewling about his work.
“Mr. Catchpole”—he faced the man—“surely you have other matters to attend. A job, family ties, maybe even a cat or a canary to see to?”
“Oh, blessed fellow!” He clapped his bony hands together, the sharp report of it loud in the small office. “How very thoughtful of you to consider that which might require my attention. Putting others first is highly commendable. But”—he lifted a finger in the air—“I assure you my commitments, while important, are few, which enables me to ponder and procure these little delights for your pleasure.”
Delight? That was a stretch for the milky fish eye staring up at him. He collected the cold flounder and rounded the desk, depositing the thing on the wooden chair next to Catchpole. Better it should decompose there than on his files.
Rubbing the stickiness from his hands, he angled his head at Catchpole. “What are your commitments exactly? Have you a home? A job? Any family to care for or care for you?”
“You…you ask this ofme?” Behind the mask, great tears shimmered in the man’s dark eyes. “Your benevolence is unequaled,” he whispered as he laid a hand on Jackson’s sleeve. “I have never met with such true compassion. May the good Lord—yes, I am now on speaking terms with the Almighty thanks to you—break open the heavens and rain down blessings upon your head, Chief Inspector Forge.”
Pity welled in Jackson’s gut, a bad combination with that pork pie. All he’d done was ask about the man’s connections. Why such an emotional response? What sort of life had Catchpole led that left him so desperate for attention?
Whatever, he surely didn’t have time to sort through the man’s past or present. Jackson reclaimed his chair. “I appreciate your kind words, Mr. Catchpole, but I am certain there are others who care for you. I don’t know what you’ve suffered in your past, but perhaps it is time to reconnect with whoever those people are. Reconciliation is always worth a try. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He swept his hand towards the piles on his desk. “As you can see I have an inordinate amount of—”
Catchpole shot to his feet. “You are right, my fine fellow. Absolutely and without any shadow of a doubt right! You have given me such inspiration.” He flew to the door, then paused, the sides of his mouth falling practically to the floorboards. His chin quivered slightly. “I might require your assistance should I get hauled out, though. I do not fancy another ride in a Black Maria.”
Jackson cocked his head. “Hauled out of where?”
“Parliament, of course,” he drawled, then winked. “So it is very fortuitous that I now know a chief inspector. Until later, my justice-seeking friend.” The door opened and closed so quickly, the accompanying gust of air fluttered several more papers off Jackson’s desk.
Oh mercy. Sweet unadulterated mercy! Jackson could only pray to God that whatever Catchpole was involved in, it wouldn’t involve Parliament.
Chapter Eleven
