Convicted Innocent(8)

“And the suspect?” Horace prompted when the other only stood there fidgeting.

“Ah…I thought you might have already heard, sir. Paddy wagon collected the suspect at the correct time, but it disappeared enroute. No sign of it for half an hour, sir.”

The inspector stood rooted in place for a moment, two moments, as dismay and frustration whirled helter-skelter about his thoughts. If they were unable to bring the murder case to a close with that Harker in the noose, he had no idea what would become of the proceedings altogether.

He knew, however, that his face betrayed nothing, as well it should. Once the internal riot was tamped down, Horace asked softly, “You’re quite sure?”

His calmness clearly took Simmons by surprise, but the young chap rallied.

“To the best of my knowledge, sir. My sergeant will have more information if you need it, sir.”

“Right then. We’ll treat this as an escape until we know otherwise. Take me to…Sergeant Colmes, is it? There’s not a moment to waste.”

* * * * *

At the end of the ride, David Powell was pushed, pulled, and forcefully coerced down a long flight of steps and along a seemingly endless corridor. The changing echoes of his and his captors’ footfalls told him only that they were passing several points where the path branched off, or opened into rooms of a sort, but they only took a single turn themselves before finally stopping to one side of the passage.

Metal scraping on metal signaled a heavy latch being pulled; a door grated opened.

Then David was shoved bodily forward. Blind, still, with his hands bound behind him, he stumbled, skidded on his knees, and then fell headlong, coming to rest on his side some ways from where he started. He was only just sitting up when he heard them drag his friend in and dump him nearby on the floor.

The door clanged shut, the bolt scraping to with a rude finality.

While trying to work the gag free, the priest rose unsteadily to his feet and quested about cautiously until he came in contact with the sergeant.

“Lew?” he said, finally spitting out the musty kerchief.

To his relief, the policeman sighed.

“Here, David.” He paused, sighed again, and then went on softly, “Give me a moment and I’ll help you.”

After a few rustles and what sounded like a tight-lipped exhalation or two – the kind a fellow makes when moving hurts – the bobby stood and started in on the blindfold and the knots at the priest’s wrists.

“You’ve been awake long?” David asked as his friend worked.

“A while. Not long enough to know where we are, but at least they didn’t tie me up so well. They hadn’t realized I’d wakened, and I managed to get mostly free just as they locked us in.”

He paused, sighing yet again as he finished, and gripped David’s shoulder.

“I’m very sorry,” Lewis said. “I couldn’t see a way to free you before or on the way here, and I should’ve—”

“—No.” The priest rounded on his friend. The sergeant could be as over-protective as a mother hen at times, and violently self-castigating whenever things went awry.

“No, Lew.” David repeated firmly. “Six-to-one are nearly impossible odds, even with your god-like pugilism skills.”

Lew gave him a faint smile. “Seven against two.”

“I doubt I even gave my opponent a bruise.” His brow furrowed. “You took quite a pounding, though.”

The sergeant shrugged. Blood had dried in thin streaks on the man’s aquiline face from cuts on his forehead and lips, and bruises were beginning to blossom on his cheekbones and around one of his pale gray eyes. And he was holding himself stiffly in a way that made David think of wrenched or torn muscles.