“Cooperation can shave a few years and win you better living arrangements.”
“Anything,” the valet said, gulping convulsively. “Anything you want to know.”
Tennant called over to the guard. “Bring out a chair for Mister Hackett.” The inspector pulled some coins from his pocket and handed the guard five shillings. “That will buy you clean bedding and keep you out of Newgate’s moldy basement cells for the present.”
Tennant calculated. Would telling Hackett that Bolger was dead loosen his tongue or lubricate the lying? He decided to say nothing.
“Tell me about Michael Bolger. What were you and the house steward discussing when I saw you at Osborne House in December?”
“Bolger sought me out. He wanted to know what you asked me about the girl, Lizzie Dowling.”
“What was his interest in her?”
“I’ve no idea. Still don’t. It was the first time her name came up.”
“And the stealing?” Tennant said. “How was that arranged?”
Hackett said the scheme was Michael Bolger’s brainchild. He’d recruited the valet for a plan of profitable pilfering.
“We started small, just Bolger and me. A few shirts here, a case of brandy there. I’d double-order the prince’s linen. We’ve been doing it for years. Then some army chap from Bolger’s Crimea days showed up and persuaded him that if you can steal small, you can loot big. If you’re smart about it.”
“What was his name?
“I don’t know. Bolger said I didn’t want to know.”
“Why?”
“Said the fellow was a nasty piece of work. But I saw him once, waiting on the docks in Southampton. That’s where the wine shipments came in.”
“Describe him.”
“Tall and thin. Well-dressed in a topcoat and bowler. I didn’t see him close-up.”
“You’d better not be lying to me,” Tennant said. “Where did the stolen wine end up?”
“Gentlemen’s clubs on Pall Mall and a few hotel restaurants in London,” Bolger said.
“Which ones?”
“Honest, I don’t know. If it would get me out of here one day quicker, I’d name them all.”
“And what about the rifles?”
Hackett’s eyes widened. “Rifles?” Despite the cold, sweat beaded on his brow. “What are you talking about?”
“We found nearly a hundred stolen rifles in the back of the warehouse.”
“I swear to you, I had nothing to do with any guns.”
Either Hackett was a consummate actor, or the man knew nothing about the weapons. The inspector told the guard to take the man away.
Tennant exited the prison and walked into the filtered light of Old Bailey Street. A pale, noon sun shone dimly in the ochre-gray haze, a combination of fog and coal smoke that hung in the air, acrid and sulfurous. The inspector hitched his shoulders and brushed his sleeve as if shedding Newgate Prison’s contagion. He hailed a hansom and gave the cabbie the address of Julia’s clinic on Fieldgate Street.
Julia set aside the autopsy report. “In position, width, and depth of penetration, I’d say Bolger’s wound is identical. The man’s a precise killer.”
“And a practiced one,” Tennant said. “May I ask a favor?”
“Of course.”
