“It’ll pass,” Fletcher reassured him. “Don’t you worry. You’ll feel right as rain before you know it.”
Henry managed a smile, appreciating his friend’s support and rare show of optimism more than he could say. “I will take heart in that.”
“Good.”
“And I would like to see Marcus soon.” Henry shifted his gaze away from the passing scenery, realizing it didn’t help his headache. “I want to make sure he’s well.”
“I think he’d appreciate that and must feel much the same. I could leave another message with Jack at the pub to arrange a time and place?”
“Good idea.” Henry knew he wasn’t up to tramping through Whitechapel when he didn’t feel strong enough to defend himself. Then again, Whitechapel wasn’t the only place where danger awaited. It was everywhere. Silent. Invisible. Bold enough to come to the Yard.
The thought had him scanning the street again as if he could spot a waiting bomb from the cab. The rush of fear thatwashed over him at the thought had him drawing a deep, painful breath.
“Is everyone at the Yard as nervous as I am about another bomb?” The question escaped his lips before he could think to halt it.
Oh, hell. Fletcher would wonder what part of his brain had been injured.
“Perhaps not as much as you must be.” Fletcher held his gaze. “You’re the one who experienced it firsthand—but I will say seeing the pile of rubble and broken glass, and you lying on the pavement, certainly shook me. Mrs. Greystone will attest to that. That they struck the Yard…it feels like a direct attack on all of us.”
“I’m sure.” Henry knew he needed to find a way to set aside this vulnerable feeling so he could do his job. Maybe that wouldn’t happen today, but he hoped it would soon.
“Everyone is taking a closer look around them.” Fletcher released a quiet sigh. “Much as I dislike it, I tend to think those who are planning more bombs will wait until our fear eases and our guard goes down before striking again.”
Henry nodded, the thought more than unsettling. Unfortunately, Fletcher was almost certainly right. Life would return to normal eventually, and that was when they’d plan another attack. When everyone was certain it was safe. “We can only hope those behind the explosions are found before then.”
“It would be easier if we were given an update or advised that some progress, any progress is being made. Instead, there’s nothing. Some of the men at the Yard have talked about doing their own investigating.”
“I don’t think Reynolds will like that, but I can’t blame them. It is tempting.” Hadn’t he had the same thought? Perhaps Henry could have a word with the Director. After all, he was the one who’d been injured. He didn’t mention the idea to Fletcher, in case it didn’t work.
Both men were lost in their thoughts for the remainder of the short ride, and soon they were alighting two streets from his parents’ residence. It had been several years since Henry had done more than wave in passing at Mr. Olson from a distance, but he was certain the older man would remember him.
A maid answered the door, and after only waiting a minute or two, they were shown into the small library where Mr. Olson rose from a chair near the hearth.
“Henry.” The man offered a beaming smile and his hand, shaking Henry’s with a firm grip. “Good to see you, my boy.” He grimaced. “Or should I say, Inspector Field?”
“Henry will do, sir. I hope the day finds you well.” He introduced Fletcher, noting that the man looked to be in fine health. It seemed apparent his stay in the sanatorium had been helpful.
Mr. Olson was several years older than Henry’s father, with bushy white hair and matching eyebrows that framed brown eyes which looked as alert as ever. From what Henry remembered, he was a retired professor whose wife had died over a decade ago.
“The day is treating me well.” He gestured to a book on a side table. “Doing a bit of reading before I go for a walk.”
“A fine day for it,” Henry said.
The older man glanced curiously between them. “I can see this isn’t a social call. Have a seat and tell me what’s on yourmind.” Mr. Olson frowned, deepening the wrinkles around his eyes. “Your mother and father are well?”
“They are, thank you,” Henry said, as they all took a seat in the cozy room. “Mother mentioned you were recently a patient at Hollowgate Heights, and we would like to ask you a few questions about it, if possible.”
“Certainly.” He paused a moment as if to gather his thoughts. “I stayed there for about eight weeks earlier this year. I spent a miserable winter fighting gout.” He gestured toward one leg. “Blasted problem, and I’d had enough. Decided I needed to try something different, something drastic. I heard from a fellow professor about Dr. Thorne, and after speaking with her, I scheduled a stay.”
“The results were satisfactory?” Henry asked curiously.
“More than that. I feel much better. Lost a couple of stone, which probably helped.” He patted his stomach. “Haven’t had a bout since I returned home, though I have changed my diet as the doctor instructed.”
“I’m pleased to hear that. You found the treatments helpful,” Henry suggested, hoping Mr. Olson would expand on what they were.
“I did. I have nothing but respect for Dr. Thorne and her facility.”
Henry nodded, somewhat disappointed. He had felt certain something was amiss at the sanatorium and was anxious to prove it. If that were the case, Mr. Olson didn’t sound as if he’d be of much help.
