If he could start bringing in reliable information, sniffing out proof and clues, and show himself able to excel at the job he’d been hired to do, he could make strides toward having the trust and the ear of his superiors at Scotland Yard. But he’d have to do it quickly. The Tempest was already murdering people.
“I can include this in the list of matters I’m digging into.”
The sergeant shook his head. “You’re new to the department. We don’t start new fellas on matters like this. Petty crimes, small organizations, fugitives—things like that.”
Fitz hid his disappointment. He’d already pressed his luck more than he likely ought to have on his first day. “I trust you’ll not have any objections if I keep my ears perked and pass along what I learn.”
“I suppose not.” The sergeant’s attention was on his own notes on his desk. It was a dismissal, and Fitz knew it.
He nodded and walked away. He passed the tiny desk that was meant to be his in the small, shared space allotted to the department. He snatched up the packet of papers he’d been given upon his arrival that morning. He’d known he would have to prove himself, but he’d not expected to actually be bored. A quick glance at his assigned cases earlier had told him he’d likely feel precisely that way if something of more immediacy wasn’t eventually given to him.
But, with time on his hands, he could wander back down to Vandon Street, where he’d once lived with his grandfather, and look again for any clues that might remain after twenty years. He could dig into papers and information about the area, things he would’ve missed when he was nine and had found himself entirely alone in the world. He wouldn’t be doing the people of London any good while seeing to his own personal mystery, but he’d be putting to rest some of his own worries.
And he’d be sniffing out more on the Tempest, whether Sergeant Wheatley thought it worth doing or not. Fitz knew there was significance in that case, consequences that would be coming. He could feel it in his bones, and he’d learned long ago not to dismiss his intuition when it clawed at him.
The trick’d be doing it without undermining his standing in his new position.
Finesse. It was what he needed most, but it weren’t one of his strengths. He tended to toss himself into things headlong—like climbing churchyard fences to capture a criminal on the run. But this was the time for tiptoeing. He wasn’t one for breaking the rules entirely, but he did bend them now and then. It seemed he needed to do so again.
He crossed back toward the door, which took him past Sergeant Wheatley’s desk. “I’m for the Old Bailey.” Fitz tucked his envelope of cases into his coat pocket. “Testifying at a trial today.”
The sergeant nodded but offered no other acknowledgment.
Fitz snatched up his hat and made his way out into the drizzle.
He’d not ever lived anywhere but London, and he was well aware that the city was likely more dreary than many locations. He’d read enough penny dreadfuls to know there were warmer climes and more daring adventures to be had elsewhere. He also knew enough penny dreadful writers to know that at least some of that was an exaggeration.
The distance from Scotland Yard to the Old Bailey was a bit more than he cared to cover in the rain, so he hailed a hackney and, after informing the jarvey of his destination, Fitz climbed inside the dry interior.
Staying dry would also allow him to do a bit of reading. He pulled his packet of papers out once more, glancing over his assigned cases. By day’s end, he’d have them memorized, which would simplify things.
One case concerned the Phantom Fox, a sneak thief who, by all accounts, had never taken anything more valuable than a hairbrush or a porcelain figurine. The reports indicated even those who’d reported the thefts were indifferent about the item’s return, being far more annoyed at having someone in their house uninvited than in losing the little baubles. He wouldn’t exactly be a hero for solving a crime no one seemed to care about. A waste of time, really. And a frustrating one.
His other cases were equally petty crimes, including a few people the law was searching for on account of crimes committed elsewhere. He’d do what he could to solve those mysteries, all while working on the two mysteries he most wanted to sort out.
The Old Bailey was a notorious place, one that drew a crowd when a trial or execution was scheduled. And the more notorious the crime, the bigger the crowd. Claud Kincaid had attempted to murder a member of Lord Chelmsford’s staff, with ample witnesses and a brazenness that added horror to the act. The former Lord Chancellor had fled his own house afterward, fearing for his safety. All of that whipped up interest, and the Old Bailey was teeming with people when Fitz arrived.
He placed himself where the witnesses were expected to sit, awaiting their time in the witness box. Nothing in the design of the room or the benches was meant to make a person comfortable, but he did his best. It could sometimes be a long time before people were called to offer testimony. Trials could last a couple of days, with no one knowing what came next. Many witnesses wandered to nearby pubs or set themselves in corridors or amongst the press of people, waiting to be summoned. Fitz preferred being present for as much of the trial as he could. He came to know people that way, those accused of crimes, those subjected to them, those charged with dispensing justice.
What few others saw in these trials were those who often tipped Fitz to the perpetrators and victims: Fletcher Walker and his fellow penny dreadful authors. They’d recently formed an official society, calling themselves the Charitable Authors League of London, but they’d been undertaking clandestine missions far longer than that organization had existed. They played a role in these trials, but always kept their part a secret.
They’d been part of uncovering the current crime, in fact. Fletcher and Dr. Milligan had captured Claud Kincaid not long after Martin Afolo, who was both a member of Lord Chelmsford’s staff and a writer of penny dreadfuls, had been stabbed. Fletcher was playing least in sight, so no one knew where he was. Dr. Milligan was dead.
Claud was standing in the dock, the tall, barred sides caging him in but not obscuring anyone’s view of him. During the many trials Fitz had witnessed, he’d seen the accused express many emotions: worry, indignation, anger, desperation. Claud simply looked terrified. His filthy hands, fingernails gnawed to jagged stubs, grasped the bars tightly. He watched the crowd with wide, frightened eyes, muttering to himself and visibly shaking.
Watching the crowd. Not the judges. Not the barrister who would be arguing for his execution. Not any of the people who held his life in their hands. No, Claud was afraid of the people who’d come to watch. There was someone in the crowd, or someone he feared was among them, who scared him even more.
That shifted Fitz’s attention to the others in the gallery and pressed up against the windows. Who was inspiring such fear in a man who ought to’ve been far more focused on the trial that would decide his fate?