what he meant. “Work helps; the busier I am, the less I…”
Paterson nodded but still stared at the fire. “People believe that time helps, too.”
“Maybe so.” That didn’t reassure Langton; he wanted the pain to lessen but he didn’t want to forget Sarah. He couldn’t imagine the day when the thought of her didn’t pierce his heart.
That reminded him of Doktor Glass. “I believe you had some luck today.”
Paterson grinned. “A year we’ve been after him. Every one of my boys put in extra hours, worked themselves dry, but we got him.”
Langton kept his voice level. “Who was it?”
“A determined, clever, devious little swindler by the name of Archibald David Healey. His specialty was separating recently widowed women from their wealth. And he was good at it, too. Séances, fake mediums, apparitions, the works. Most of his gang’s victims were too embarrassed to testify; in the end, we had to hook him with our own little game. We used an actress from the playhouse and set her up in a fine house in Toxteth. Worked a treat.”
That gave Langton a germ of an idea; he put it to one side for now.
“So what did you want to see me about?” Paterson asked.
Even now, Langton hesitated, but he had to know. “Have you ever heard of the Jar Boys?”
The smile left Paterson’s face. “I’ve heard of them.”
“Are they swindlers? Or just stories?”
Paterson cradled his pint in both hands and didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “This is between us?”
“Completely.”
Paterson nodded and gulped his drink. “They’re real. We had a handful of cases in the past six months. They used to target the poor, who were too afraid, too cowed, or simply too superstitious to speakout. Once they started on the middle classes and the supposedly educated…”
“They?”
“I’ve heard of three local gangs, although they seem to be fighting among themselves lately,” Paterson said. “There’s plenty more in London, but three’s enough for me. More than enough.”
Langton leaned forward. “What do they do?”
Paterson spoke slowly, apparently choosing his words with care. “They used to pay the poorer families for the privilege of attaching some kind of machine to their loved ones just before they passed away. Are you sure you want me to go on?”
“Please.”
“They used various stories: The machines eased the pain, or delayed the inevitable, even that they pointed the dying to heaven. This was with the poor.”
“And with the others?”
Paterson reached automatically for his glass, saw it was empty, and frowned. “The gangs told these supposedly educated families another lie: that the machines could store their loved ones’ souls until a new body was found. And these people actually believed it. They only came to us when the gangs disappeared with their money as well as the contents of the jars.”
Langton stared at him. “The families paid them?”
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
But as he thought of it, Langton could see a reason: Some families might do anything to extend the lives of their dying loved ones. They might grasp at any and every possibility. “Do you believe they trap the victims’ souls?”
Paterson hesitated. “I’ve talked with more than a few who’ve witnessed the Jar Boys at work. They’re convinced that something happens; they swear you can see a bright mist streaming toward the jar. But as for it being the soul…I don’t know, Langton. I think desperate people see, and believe, what they wish to.”
Langton believed that, too. “What do they do with these jars?”
“You’d have to ask them.”
“Have you caught any of the gangs?”
“We had our hands on a few of the smaller fishes, but the bigger ones always swim a little deeper, out of our reach.”
Langton took a chance: “Have you come across a Doktor Glass?”
Paterson turned to him. “How did you hear that name?”
“I’m investigating a body washed up in Albert Dock.”
“The faceless
Paterson nodded but still stared at the fire. “People believe that time helps, too.”
“Maybe so.” That didn’t reassure Langton; he wanted the pain to lessen but he didn’t want to forget Sarah. He couldn’t imagine the day when the thought of her didn’t pierce his heart.
That reminded him of Doktor Glass. “I believe you had some luck today.”
Paterson grinned. “A year we’ve been after him. Every one of my boys put in extra hours, worked themselves dry, but we got him.”
Langton kept his voice level. “Who was it?”
“A determined, clever, devious little swindler by the name of Archibald David Healey. His specialty was separating recently widowed women from their wealth. And he was good at it, too. Séances, fake mediums, apparitions, the works. Most of his gang’s victims were too embarrassed to testify; in the end, we had to hook him with our own little game. We used an actress from the playhouse and set her up in a fine house in Toxteth. Worked a treat.”
That gave Langton a germ of an idea; he put it to one side for now.
“So what did you want to see me about?” Paterson asked.
Even now, Langton hesitated, but he had to know. “Have you ever heard of the Jar Boys?”
The smile left Paterson’s face. “I’ve heard of them.”
“Are they swindlers? Or just stories?”
Paterson cradled his pint in both hands and didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “This is between us?”
“Completely.”
Paterson nodded and gulped his drink. “They’re real. We had a handful of cases in the past six months. They used to target the poor, who were too afraid, too cowed, or simply too superstitious to speakout. Once they started on the middle classes and the supposedly educated…”
“They?”
“I’ve heard of three local gangs, although they seem to be fighting among themselves lately,” Paterson said. “There’s plenty more in London, but three’s enough for me. More than enough.”
Langton leaned forward. “What do they do?”
Paterson spoke slowly, apparently choosing his words with care. “They used to pay the poorer families for the privilege of attaching some kind of machine to their loved ones just before they passed away. Are you sure you want me to go on?”
“Please.”
“They used various stories: The machines eased the pain, or delayed the inevitable, even that they pointed the dying to heaven. This was with the poor.”
“And with the others?”
Paterson reached automatically for his glass, saw it was empty, and frowned. “The gangs told these supposedly educated families another lie: that the machines could store their loved ones’ souls until a new body was found. And these people actually believed it. They only came to us when the gangs disappeared with their money as well as the contents of the jars.”
Langton stared at him. “The families paid them?”
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
But as he thought of it, Langton could see a reason: Some families might do anything to extend the lives of their dying loved ones. They might grasp at any and every possibility. “Do you believe they trap the victims’ souls?”
Paterson hesitated. “I’ve talked with more than a few who’ve witnessed the Jar Boys at work. They’re convinced that something happens; they swear you can see a bright mist streaming toward the jar. But as for it being the soul…I don’t know, Langton. I think desperate people see, and believe, what they wish to.”
Langton believed that, too. “What do they do with these jars?”
“You’d have to ask them.”
“Have you caught any of the gangs?”
“We had our hands on a few of the smaller fishes, but the bigger ones always swim a little deeper, out of our reach.”
Langton took a chance: “Have you come across a Doktor Glass?”
Paterson turned to him. “How did you hear that name?”
“I’m investigating a body washed up in Albert Dock.”
“The faceless
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