Gideon Smith and the Mask of the Ripper Read Online Free PDF

keeper wringing his leather-gloved hands behind him as the thin, wiry figure seemed to be performing some kind of dance, just inside the cordon. Lestrade glared at Watson until the doctor felt the weight of his stare and glanced over guiltily. Get him out of here, Lestrade mouthed. His head was pounding fit to burst, as though Jack the bloody Ripper had done a number on him, too.
    Three—and, Lestrade fervently hoped, finally—Aloysius Bent was standing at the front of the crowd at the top of the alley, stuffing a steaming pasty into his mouth and waving cheerfully at Lestrade.
    The inspector pinched his nose and closed his eyes tightly, imagining he was still in his bed and today had just been a nightmare from which he was about to wake. When he opened them again, it was all just the same, save for a young constable who had appeared by his side and was staring expectantly at him.
    “Sir? I thought you might—”
    “First things first, Constable,” said Lestrade. “One, get that bloody idiot detective away from here. Two, increase the cordon and do not say a word to that fat man over there, Aloysius Bent. Not even ‘good morning,’ do you understand?”
    Constable Ayres was a bright young chap, if a little too taken with rules and regulations in Lestrade’s opinion, and he nodded. “Thirdly, if there is any chance of a pot of coffee, it would benefit your promotion prospects greatly.”
    Ayres smiled enthusiastically. “I shall get right on it, sir.”
    Lestrade held up his hand. “Before you go … you had something to tell me? Do we know who this doxy is?”
    The young constable produced his notebook with a flourish. “That’s just it, sir. She isn’t a prostitute at all. We’ve hardly had any on the streets this last evening, what with all the malarkey in the papers, Lizzie Strutter—”
    “I am aware of that, Constable. Not a prostitute, you say? Then we have a positive identification?”
    “Yes, sir. Party of the name of Emily Dawson. She is housekeeper to Professor Stanford Rubicon, the Professor of Adventure, sir. He has a laboratory and office not far from here, on Bishopsgate.”
    Lestrade closed his eyes again. Professor Rubicon had friends in high places. This was not good, at all, insofar as any young woman with her head half sliced off, slumped against a wall on his beat, could ever be described as good . But this was particularly not good. He chanced opening one beady eye and said, “And what was she doing in this insalubrious neighborhood?”
    “One possibility, sir, is that she was on her way to the Empirical Geographic Club on Threadneedle Street, where Professor Rubicon is known to be a member. He reported a burglary just this morning at his premises on Bishopsgate; he had been at his club last night and had not ventured to his laboratory until this morning. His housekeeper—Miss Dawson—was the last person there and would normally have locked up after her cleaning shift. A constable has been to the laboratory and noted that the entire premises had been cleaned apart from one room, where the burglary had taken place. Cleaning products appeared to have been dropped at the door, as though Miss Dawson had just seen the wrecked room. There was a considerable amount of dried blood there, suggesting the burglary happened yesterday evening rather than in the small hours. It’s possible that she discovered the burglary and set off on foot to Threadneedle Street to raise the alarm.…”
    “You seem to have a fondness for possibles, Constable. I prefer to deal in definites . Do you have any definites for me?”
    Ayres flicked over the pages of his notebook, which were rapidly dampening in the renewed snowfall that dusted the shoulders of his black overcoat. “Yesterday evening, sir, at around seven o’clock, Miss Dawson was seen hurrying along Commercial Street. There is a public house, sir, you will know of it—the Golden Ball. We interviewed the regular drinkers there this morning, and