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

one who was at the hostelry last night reports that a woman matching Miss Dawson’s description was the subject of some unwelcome attention from two men who were drinking outside. Not regulars, said the man; rough types. Apparently some of the lower classes are casting their nets quite wide looking for prostitutes who might not be caught up in this strike business, sir.”
    “Then perhaps this is not Jack the Ripper at all,” mused Lestrade. Both he and the constable glanced toward the body of Emily Dawson, which was finally being covered against the hungry glances of the crowd with a large white sheet. Unlikely, obviously, but as Lestrade had already pointed out, he dealt in definites . “Have someone track down these two men; as of now they are suspects in a murder inquiry.”
    “Very good, sir,” said Ayres. He closed his notepad and glanced up. “Now … get rid of the Great Detective, don’t speak to Aloysius Bent, and coffee.”
    “Just the coffee, Constable,” said Lestrade wearily. “I’ll attend to the others myself.”
    *   *   *
    “Doctor Watson,” said Lestrade. The Great Detective was hopping from foot to foot, lunging forward, pulling his thin frame back, dancing around as though taken with the mania. “Perhaps I dreamed our conversation in my office just this morning. The one in which I could have sworn I expressly forbade you from allowing your patient to have anything to do with any criminal investigations in Whitechapel or its immediate environs.”
    Watson wrung his hands again, as the hook-nosed detective glanced over sharply at Lestrade’s use of the word “patient.” “Please, Inspector,” whispered the doctor. “His continued wellbeing relies—”
    “His continued well-being relies upon you getting him the blazes out of my crime scene before he contaminates it and I roll up my sleeves and evict him myself!” roared Lestrade. There was a momentary silence as everyone glanced over at the uncharacteristic outburst, then continued with their activities. Lestrade coughed. “Just … just get him away, John. Stop him dancing like that. What is he doing, anyway?”
    “I have an insight!” announced the Great Detective imperiously. “Inspector … you see those footprints?”
    Lestrade peered at the ground before the cloth-covered body of Emily Dawson. There were indeed scuffed boot-prints, rapidly filling up with fresh snowfall. He hadn’t noticed them, as a matter of fact, but if one of his constables hadn’t already gotten drawings of them there’d be the devil to pay.
    “Watch,” instructed the detective, and began to dance and prance again.
    Lestrade glared at Watson. “Away. Now.”
    “Come along, old chap,” said Watson gently, leading his charge by the bony elbow back toward the bunting cordon. As a constable lifted it for them to pass, another figure bustled through, a large man with a bushy beard and a thick fur coat that gave him the appearance of a bear. A particularly angry bear, at that.
    “Who is in charge here?” bellowed the bear, casting around. Several fingers pointed in Lestrade’s direction and the man stalked down the alley toward him, glancing at the sheet covering the body and faltering. “Oh! Oh, tell me that is not—?”
    Lestrade rapidly went to meet trouble halfway, glancing at Aloysius Bent at the top of the alley. The journalist seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, availing himself of what appeared to be another pasty and a small bottle of what looked like gin.
    “I am Inspector Lestrade of the Commercial Road police station. I am in charge of this investigation. And you are…?”
    “Professor Stanford Rubicon,” rumbled the man, taking Lestrade’s proffered hand and squeezing the life out of it. “Is that … is that Emily, my housekeeper?”
    Lestrade took the professor’s elbow and steered him away from the cordon. “I’d be grateful if you could give us a positive identification, Professor Rubicon, but I am sorry to