“An illness of some sort, though the constable who took the complaint didn’t get any specifics.” The Director held out the short report to Henry. “The nephew suspects the staff at the sanatorium of fraudulent activities—possibly murder—and has asked us to look into the matter.”
Henry took the report, then glanced at Fletcher. “Let’s have a word with Mr. Dunn.”
“Good idea.” Fletcher straightened. A former Navy man with years of experience in the Metropolitan, he had a tendency toward bluntness but was always ready for action, something Henry appreciated.
“Let me know what you find out,” Reynolds said, the dismissal inherent in his tone.
With a nod at the Director, Henry followed his sergeant out the door while quickly reading the brief report. He wasn’t sure what to think. Why was it that just as he was prepared to set aside a potential investigation into Hollowgate Heights, additional information surfaced? He couldn’t help but think of Amelia’s aunt’s friend with concern. Hopefully she was doing well.
As always, time was of the essence, and lives were potentially at stake. The stolen jewelry would have to wait, for now.
Three officers crowded around Duncan’s desk, the intensity of their conversation catching Henry’s attention when he started past. “All well?” he paused to ask the fellow inspector he’d come to respect.
Duncan scowled. “The Fenians are at it again. Rumor has it they’re planning something.”
The other men, including Constable Dannon, Inspector Perdy, and Inspector Clarke, who happened to be Fletcher’s uncle, wore similar concerned expressions.
“Working with the Irish Republican Brotherhood?” Henry asked quietly, glancing about at who else was in the office. “With the Fenians in America, fundraising and buying weapons, all to use with violence and anger and force us out of Ireland. It wasthem behind the last round in February, including the one at Victoria station.”
Duncan nodded. “That damned bomb went off before we could defuse it, though we managed to stop all the others we found at other stations. The question is, where might they strike next?”
Henry shook his head. The Special Irish Branch, a division of the Criminal Investigation Department, had been created the previous year with the sole purpose of investigating the Fenians, but in his opinion, the entire police department needed to keep their eyes and ears open to combat the potential danger. He knew the Fenians were determined to cause significant damage, and it was impossible to guess what they might do next.
“I understand they want to make their opinion known,” Duncan added, his brow wrinkled with obvious worry. “I just wish they weren’t willing to harm innocent civilians in the process.”
“I suppose many feel that was exactly what happened to the Irish at the hands of the English.” Clarke shook his head. “But that doesn’t make it right.”
The Irish question was a complicated matter with no easy answers, as far as Henry was concerned. Thank goodness he’d never gone into politics.
“All we can do is remain alert and hope to stay one step ahead of them,” Henry advised. “Be careful out there.”
“You do the same.” Duncan dipped his head.
Henry headed out the door with Fletcher at his side. “I don’t think the Special Branch has been as effective as they hoped at stopping the Fenians.”
“Especially if the rumors prove true.” Fletcher grimaced. “The whole situation is a mess, if you ask me.”
Henry nodded. His sympathies on the subject were for both sides, but his duty was to the law and the protection of all citizens. “As I said, the best we can do is remain on guard and do what we can to protect the public.”
“Right.” Fletcher slowed his pace to walk single file, allowing others to pass them along the pavement before catching up with Henry again. “Back to this possible case about the sanatorium. It will be interesting to hear what Mr. Dunn has to tell us. He’s apparently unhappy about the place.”
“Yes, it will.” Henry pondered the limited information the Director had shared. Little else had been included in the scribbled report. “Doesn’t sound as if the deceased had family other than the nephew. Might be nothing more than resentment that his uncle chose to spend his money on the sanatorium’s services instead of leaving it for the nephew to inherit.”
His friend grinned. “The uncle must’ve had a fair amount to afford the sanatorium. Money—or not inheriting it—often causes people to act in unexpected ways.”
They’d seen that more times than Henry could count. “I confess I’m finding it difficult to remain objective in this situation. Something is strange about the place.”
Fletcher caught his gaze. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
Henry smiled. “True. But we must hope that doesn’t prove true with Mr. Dunn. Or the Fenians.”
“Humph.” Fletcher shook his head. “That’s a bit too optimistic a view for me, but I’ll do my best to keep my opinions to myself.”
Henry chuckled. He and Fletcher tended to take turns with their positive outlooks, or lack thereof. Then again, few police officers could claim to have a cheerful disposition, given the crimes they investigated daily.
They were soon walking up the steps of Mr. Dunn’s house on Gerard Street, a lower-middle-class area. A maid answered their polite knock to reveal worn carpets, faded wallpaper, and simple furnishings that suggested money was tight—or at least, closely guarded.
Charles Dunn welcomed them into his study, a small space where he kept a desk and a few books on a shelf. He was of medium build with a receding hairline and a bushy moustache, though the latter didn’t come close to riveling Fletcher’s.
