Part 19 (1/2)
She was certain of something else. They would come sooner.
And be worse.
She slumped against a back corner of the bakeshop.
”Margaret, are you sick?” one of the other workers asked.
”I need to leave on an errand.”
”But you never leave. The fog will soon be here. Aren't you afraid to go out?”
”This can't wait.”
Margaret hurriedly put on her thin coat and emerged from the warm building onto the grim, cold street. Its usual bustle was absent.
”How do I get to Scotland Yard?” she asked the constable on the corner. Again, she turned her head so that the scar on the left side of her face didn't show.
”The Yard's a distance, ma'am.”
”I need to talk to whoever's in charge of investigating Sat.u.r.day night's murders.”
”That would be Inspector Ryan. What do you know about those murders?”
”Not them. The others.”
”The others, ma'am?”
”The ones that happened forty-three years ago.”
”The recent ones are what concern us.”
”But I know the truth about the ones that happened back then, and Lord help me, I'm afraid I know who killed those people on Sat.u.r.day night.”
YOU'RE MAKING A MISTAKE,” De Quincey insisted as the police wagon transported the four of them up Farringdon Road. Having returned to the north side of the Thames, they were only a mile east of the Russell Square neighborhood where the killer had arranged lodgings for De Quincey and his daughter. But the contrast in the areas was extreme. Farringdon Road was dismal, on the verge of poverty. Normally it would have been crowded with dustmen, street sweepers, and costermongers desperate to earn a living by selling fruit, vegetables, and fish from their carts, but with the fog spreading, everyone was hurrying home before an early dark threatened to bring new violence. The nervousness on the faces the wagon pa.s.sed was obvious.
”I ask you not to do this,” De Quincey protested.
The wagon wheels clattered. High, stone walls loomed as the vehicle turned left onto Mount Pleasant Street. The gray of the approaching fog made the stone wall even more somber.
”Coldbath Fields Prison,” De Quincey said. ”No.”
”I don't have a choice,” Ryan told him. ”I take Lord Palmerston more seriously than I do the prime minister. If I don't arrest you, I'll be dismissed from the force, and right now, the city needs every detective and constable it can muster to stop the killer from slaughtering more people.”
They reached an ugly, arched, barred entrance flanked by stern-looking guards. A group of men in civilian coats stood impatiently nearby. When the wagon stopped, the men rushed forward, ready with pencils and notepads.
”Is he the Opium-Eater?” one of them shouted.
”Why did you kill all those people?” another demanded.
”Newspaper reporters?” Emily exclaimed. ”How did they know we were coming?”
Becker jumped down and spread his arms. ”Stay back!”
”Did the opium make you do it?” a third reporter shouted.
The guards near the gate hurried to help Becker.
”Keep away!”
”Lord Palmerston must have spread the word,” Ryan told De Quincey in disgust. ”He thinks that by arresting you, people won't be afraid while we continue hunting for the killer.”
”But it's good for people to be afraid,” De Quincey said. ”If they're suspicious, it might save their lives.”
”The only thing Palmerston cares about is his political reputation. If you don't walk in there on your own...”
”No need to resort to the alternative.”
De Quincey stepped down from the wagon, s.h.i.+elding himself behind Becker.
”Did you kill the Marr family and the Williamsons forty-three years ago?” a reporter shouted.
Ryan looked at Emily and then at the commotion. ”I hoped you could wait here while we went inside. But now...”
”Even if the reporters were absent, I wouldn't have agreed to remain outside.”
Emily stepped down before Ryan could help, amazing him with her agility. No woman in a hooped dress could have ridden in the wagon, let alone climbed down easily, so difficult was it to keep a hooped dress from popping up and revealing undergarments.
”After you bashed in their heads, why did you slit their throats?” a reporter yelled.
”Why did you slaughter the baby?”
As Becker struggled to make a path through the reporters, more guards ran from the barred entrance.
”Don't force us to get nasty!” Becker told the reporters. ”Clear the way!”
Doing his best to s.h.i.+eld De Quincey and Emily, Ryan guided them past the guards and through the entrance.
Instantly the air became darker and colder.
COLDBATH FIELDS PRISON derived its name from a field in which a spring had once provided the opportunity for bathing on the outskirts of London. But then the metropolis had spread to the north and overtaken the field. The wet ground upon which the prison had been built made the walls feel permanently, achingly damp.
As soon as Becker joined Ryan, De Quincey, and Emily, the barred entrance clanged shut. They stood in a courtyard, the cobblestones of which were dirty and worn. A puzzling rumble vibrated from the center of the complex. On the left was a bleak structure with the sign GOVERNOR'S QUARTERS. On the right, an equally bleak structure had the sign GATEKEEPER'S QUARTERS.
From the former, an overweight man in a tight suit emerged, wiping his mouth with a food-stained cloth napkin. His cheeks were florid.
”Inspector Ryan,” he said in hurried greeting, ”Lord Palmerston sent word that you'd be arriving, but I had no idea when. I was just catching a bite. Sorry to keep you waiting. This is the prisoner, I take it.”
”His name is Thomas De Quincey.”
Prison administrators were known as governors. This one was not only taller than De Quincey but three times his girth, making De Quincey seem even smaller. The governor spoke as if De Quincey weren't present. ”The Opium-Eater. Well, when he sees what I have in store for him, he'll wish he'd kept his mallet and his razor in his pocket.”