“I thought you could do with a diversion,” Mr. Gibson announced cheerfully. “And your brother has never seen the north of London, so I proposed that we all go exploring together.”
William Gibson let her know, by way of a feeling glance, that the unhappy news had indeed reached him. Fanny was grateful—grateful and much struck by his prompt response, and the kindness and delicacy of his conduct. Her brother John, being himself and therefore unobservant of the emotions that roiled in the breasts of other mortals, was in his own way a good companion for a sister who wanted to put her sorrows aside.
With the highest feelings of gratitude and affection both for her brother and the man who had delivered that brother to her, Fanny joyfully acquiesced, and she joined them in the coach, pointing out spots of interest on the drive from Stoke Newington to Primrose Hill, where Fanny expressed a wish of climbing to the summit, to take in the view of all London and the surrounding countryside.
William Gibson continued to be all that was considerate and entertaining as they made the ascent. The young writer was clamouring inwardly to know whether the rumour about Fanny’s understanding with Mr. Edifice could possibly be true. Fanny being entirely in ignorance of the tale, did not know with what self-denial he awaited an opportunity to speak to her privately.
Fanny, for her part, was eager to speak with John about the progress of his career, and to reflect on the murders which had so terrified London last winter.
“I should think there must be a better way of examining for clues, when a crime has occurred. And people should not be permitted to go through the place where the murder happened, gawping at the dead bodies. Thousands of people went to the draper’s shop, Fanny, to see the Marr family laid out on their beds. There were people lined up down the street, even ladies of fashion, waiting for their turn to see a mangled corpse. What if one of those people had picked up some important clue? Mr. Horton found the maul, but the killer also used a razor to slit throats with. That has never been recovered.”
“Did the police not search the lodgings of the killer?” asked Mr. Gibson with interest.
“They did... a full week after he hung himself in prison! Why had no one thought of doing it before?”
“Indeed!” agreed Fanny. “Perhaps every police office ought to compile a list of hints for police officers, to remind them of useful actions to take.”
John sighed. “I wish I could be an investigator. I want to get out behind my desk. I want to look for the clues.”
“I am sure you will be promoted, will you not? I am certain Mr. Harriott recognizes your good qualities.”
“Oh, there. Mr. Horton is to receive ten pounds’ reward for finding the maul at the draper’s shop—as though there were any merit in spotting a three-foot long implement covered with blood, lying next to one of the victims. While I.... my name has not been put forward for a reward, although it was I who spotted the initials “JP,” which led to the identification of the owner.”
Fanny and Mr. Gibson were both warmly sympathetic on John’s behalf.
“I think it is because I embarrassed Mr. Harriott in front of the other magistrates. I did not intend to. I was just looking at the maul.”
They had nearly gained the top, and Fanny was congratulating herself on her improved strength and stamina, when she was alarmed by the sound of two pistol shots in quick succession.
“Do you hear that?” she asked.
“Primrose Hill, I have heard, is a place where gentlemen go to have duels,” said John, not recollecting that the word “duel,” merely the word, was unnerving for his sister, let alone the contemplation of being near a duel in progress.
“Unlikely on a Sunday afternoon. I fancy someone is just testing their pistol, or practising their aim,” Gibson gestured uphill, from where the sounds appeared to be coming. The trio looked around alertly, Fanny with some trepidation, and they advanced slowly toward a copse of trees until they spied a man seated on the stump of a tree, composedly cleaning a pistol.
“Miss Price, your eyesight is better than mine, I think,” said William Gibson. “Doesn’t that fellow look amazingly like...”
“Yes, it does look like Mr. Bellingham,” Fanny concurred. “But perhaps it is only because the Bellinghams have been much upon my mind of late.”
Just as they were close enough to make him out, and conclude that it was indeed John Bellingham, he was seen to replace his guns in a small wooden case, and begin his descent from the hill. He had not appeared to notice that he was being observed.
“He looks familiar to me as well,” John said. “He looks like a fellow who came around to our office a few weeks ago. I asked him if he was reporting a crime, and he said yes, a crime had been committed against him by the government. Mr. Laing told him we did not deal in cases of that sort, and sent him on his way. He left a pamphlet.”
“Do you still have it?” asked William Gibson.
“No, I looked it over, and so did Mr. Harriott and Mr. Laing, and then someone used it in the necessary.”
“We will mention no names,” said William Gibson.
“Whoever last had the petition before him, put the petition behind him,” returned John.
“Poor Mr. Bellingham! That is his fate, it seems,” Fanny sighed.
“Crimes committed in Russia are not in our jurisdiction,” John said defensively.
“No, of course not, Price, no-one is accusing you of indifference.”
“But—John—I suppose it is not out of the ordinary that a private gentleman should have a pistol. However, if you knew Mr. Bellingham, I believe you would be
