It took another hour of questions, waiting, and more questions, before they had three names and addresses of those Irish employees. Meanwhile Fletcher found a cart and driver willing to take their precarious cargo, along with a load of straw to cradle it. The sergeant and the manager carried the crate to the cart with care as Henry's ribs wouldn’t allow it. They set it on the straw, with Fletcher remaining beside it with a careful hand on its side to ensure it wasn’t jostled overmuch as they traveled through the London streets.
“Are you sure we should haul the crate in for everyone to see?” Fletcher asked once they’d arrived at the Yard. “After all, we’re supposed to be quiet about poking around.”
Henry had given the question considerable thought during the ride there. “I don’t know where else we can take it,” hemurmured. “And the more time that passes without news of how the investigation is progressing, the less I care about what we’resupposedto do.”
Fletcher nodded. “Couldn’t agree more.” He waved a passing constable over to help carry the crate, advising him that the contents were fragile and potentially dangerous.
Henry held the door of the Yard open for them, anger taking hold. Now he better understood victims’ frustration when they weren’t kept abreast of investigations. There was a line between keeping confidences and communicating with those involved: and the Special Irish Branch had crossed it, in his opinion.
Sergeant Johnson gave them an odd look as they entered, but merely nodded in greeting.
Henry, Fletcher, and the constable headed toward the evidence room, only to be brought to a halt as Inspector Perdy stepped boldly into their path.
“What do you have there, Fletcher?” he asked, looking over the crate with a frown.
“Something heavy enough that it’s going to hurt if I drop it on your foot.Sir.” The sergeant glared at the inspector, the emphasis he placed on the title not particularly respectful.
With a scowl, Perdy moved out of the way. “Watch yourself, Fletcher.”
“I will,” Fletcher replied in a dry tone, then continued on his way with the other officer.
Perdy placed an unwanted hand on Henry’s arm. “What are you about, Field? You’ve been acting oddly of late.”
Henry stared at the other man, irritation sweeping through him. “Must’ve been that blast.” He tapped his temple. “Addled my brain.”
Perdy’s eyes widened, seeming to take the remark seriously. “To be expected, I suppose, you poor blighter. Hope they find whoever did it soon.”
“As do I.” Henry continued to the Director’s office, setting aside his emotions to focus on his job.
Yet his uneasiness about the case remained. Odd how becoming the victim of a crime changed a person’s perspective. Somehow he needed to find a way to overcome the feeling—or even better, use it to find those behind the bombings.
Twenty-Seven
Afteraratherinvolvedargument with herself, Amelia decided she simply couldn’t return to the apothecary located near the Strand which she’d intended to visit on the day of the bombing. The memory of the explosion and the aftermath was still too fresh and enough to make her shudder. She had no need to put herself through that.
With luck it would be some time before she needed to call on her editor, and perhaps she could arrange for Henry to accompany her when she did. It seemed silly, and she didn’t want to waste his time, but she couldn’t dismiss her undeniable nerves at the idea of venturing anywhere near the area.
Especially not when those involved in the bombings had yet to be arrested.
Earlier that morning Amelia had written to her parents and told them she’d been on the street of the latest explosion, but not just how close or how she’d witnessed the man who’d placed the bomb. She didn’t want them to worry, nor did she want another lecture on how dangerous London could be. Instead she asked her father, an apothecary, if he’d be willing to assist her with the research on the so-called remedies for her new article.
While writing the letter, the memory of a friend of his, who was also an apothecary with a shop in Bayswater, came to mind. She hadn’t seen Clarence Tooley for several years. Surely he carried the products she wanted to test—and might even know something about them. Though still nervous to step out, it was impossible to guess where the Fenians and their bombs might target next. She refused to be kept prisoner by fear, but she would take care and remain aware of her surroundings.
With Yvette at her side, Amelia led the way out of the house to the hansom cab Fernsby had ordered. “I don’t expect this to take long,” she advised the maid once they were settled inside. “However, it’s been quite some time since I’ve visited with Mr. Tooley.”
“I am happy to wait, madam.” Yvette glanced at her as the cab pulled forward, seemingly pleased to be taken out on another adventure. “How nice that he’s a friend of your father’s. Is there anything in particular I should be on the watch for?”
Such as a bomb?
Amelia stilled, wondering if her anxiousness was so easy to read.
The maid sent her a puzzled look when she didn’t respond. “Perhaps something on the apothecary’s shelves you’d like me to help you find?”
Amelia’s tension eased to hear Yvette wasn’t asking about staying on the lookout for potential bombs. Good. While she knew her maid remained alert whenever they ventured out, she didn’t want her frightened. Certainly not as frightened as she herself was.
“Actually, I would appreciate your help. I am in search of any tonics or remedies that make outrageous promises and seem too good to believe,” Amelia advised. “If you note any, please let me know.”
Focusing on the task at hand provided a much-needed distraction, yet she still found herself watching out the cab window for anyone who looked like the man who’d set down that innocent-looking bundle of rags. It didn’t matter that he was being held for questioning; he might have been released. He might have friends about to replicate his terrible actions. Amelia still caught herself searching for him or someone similar.
