Fanny and Mr. Gibson felt their way downstairs, while he kept his arm protectively around her waist. They were still in total darkness, because Madame Orly’s candle had been extinguished when she fell to the ground. Fanny and Mr. Gibson, with one accord, sank to their knees and felt their way along the passageway until they found Madame Orly, lying where she had fallen. After an anxious moment, she responded faintly to Fanny’s voice.
Once Fanny and Mr. Gibson assured themselves that Madame Orly was unharmed and beginning to recover herself, she, by anxious questions and he, through reassuring explanations, re-traced the chain of events which had led to such profound, if brief, terror.
Mr. Gibson was indeed the source of the sound, the movement, the shadow which had terrified Madame Orly into insensibility, for he had tried the back door and found it carelessly unlocked.
“When I arrived, I saw no lights anywhere in the building, for the windows were shuttered,” Mr. Gibson explained, “and it looked as though you had already gone—I thought perhaps you had found some other means to get home, but just in case, I bid the driver wait until I had looked inside, to be certain of you. We came up the alley, for Mr. McIntosh told me the front door would be double-bolted and padlocked, so I thought I would try the back entrance. I was on the point of knocking, when the door yielded and, the next thing I knew, I heard Madame cry out, and she fainted, and I was left in the dark. Pray, Madame, will you ever forgive me, for having frightened you so?”
“But what of Mrs. Butters?” asked Fanny. “Why did you come to be here, and not Donald McIntosh? Has anything happened to them?”
Mr. Gibson explained that one of Mrs. Butters’ carriage horses had gone lame in London, and Mrs. Butters had sent a messenger to his lodgings to ask him to hire a hackney coach to hurry to Camden Place. “I came as soon as I could, for it was rather difficult to find a cab on Christmas Eve, and even more difficult to find a driver willing to come out to Camden Town—I thought I should have to walk here—and even now our driver is waiting impatiently without—allow me to accompany you safely home, ladies.”
There was still some delay for the driver, however, for Madame Orly needed a glass of water, and their cloaks had to be retrieved, and the spare key for the back door taken from its hiding place, none of which was easy to do in the dark. Mr. Gibson found Madame Orly’s fallen taper on the floor, and went outside to get a light from the cab-driver’s lantern. When he returned, the sight of his kind, concerned, face, illuminated by the single flame in the darkness, was irresistible to Fanny, and now the fluttering of her heart had nothing to do with deranged killers stalking in the night, but with feelings of another order altogether!
Fanny would long remember that cab ride home to Mrs. Butters’ house. The three of them were seated closely together on a seat intended for two persons, with Mr. Gibson in the middle, and his reassuring warmth, his solid presence, made her feel entirely safe, no matter how many insane murderers roamed the streets. Out of the window, she could see the homes and farmsteads they passed, all lit up and glowing warmly within. It was Christmas Eve, families were gathered together, all was right with the world.
“Oh! We are so grateful to you for saving us, M’sieur Gibson,” Madame Orly exclaimed, forgetting, in her great relief to be alive and well, that there had in fact been no murderer on the premises.
* * * * * * *
By decree of Henry Laing, the head clerk, the office Christmas party proceeded as usual, despite the strains and additional labours of the preceding fortnight, and therefore John Price set down his pen as the clock struck twelve on Christmas Day and toasted his colleagues of the Thames River Police Office with a small glass of beer. But just as Mr. Laing loosened his cravat, a sure precursor to his breaking out into song, Mr. Horton came in from the street, with some fresh intelligence which made the revellers forget about their beer and Mrs. Laing’s mince pies.
“The ownership of the bloody maul has been traced to a foreign sailor,” Mr. Horton announced.
“There—a foreigner—I knew it!” cried another officer.
“No, this sailor is not the killer. He is far out at sea. He left his tool chest with his landlord, and the landlord positively identified the weapon, and says it went missing from his yard, and another one of his lodgers, another sailor, an Irishman—”
“There—an Irishman—I knew it!”
“This Irishman was questioned yesterday evening. He had a bloody shirt, and can’t account for his whereabouts, and is being held at Coldbath prison.”
A burly hand clamped down firmly on John’s shoulder from behind, and John turned to see Mr. Harriott.
“We may congratulate ourselves, gentlemen, on our contributions toward the resolution of this terrible business. It appears we can expect little enough thanks and acknowledgement coming our way from the press or the public. However, the present mood of the nation, provides us with an opportunity for catching the ear of Parliament, to urge better funding for a professional class of police officers.”
“Hear, hear, sir!” came the response.
John expected the trial of the Irishman to follow shortly, and wondered if he would be called upon to testify about his discovery of the initials on the murder weapon. The jury—and the public—would learn how this small, over-looked clue had been of the first importance in catching a killer.
Chapter Eleven
“Ah, Mr. Gibson! You’re a grand sight for the
