Fatal Enquiry by Will Thomas Page A

Poole was not following us. In fact, he was moving toward Abberline, blocking his progress. I wanted to yell back at him, to call him a bloody fool for throwing away a good career, but Barker’s hands came down on my back and propelled me forward and I was forced to save my breath or tumble full length across the tombs. Abberline had not come alone, but had brought along half a dozen constables and any number of officers dressed as ordinary citizens.
    The CID had recently created a “plain clothes” squad, as skilled in makeup and costume as any actor. I realize I am Welsh, and as such am not entitled to an opinion, but I cannot help but think it decidedly un-English. Costumed spies are all well and good on the Continent, but we don’t go for that sort of thing in London Town.
    It was after one of them had seized my coattail and I was giving him a good, straight kick to the pit of his stomach that it occurred to me that I could do anything I liked to the fellow. In theory, how was I to know this was an officer in disguise? He hadn’t identified himself as such. He wasn’t like the constable on the bridge whose knee I had clouted. The fellow reluctantly let go of my boot and lay in the aisle, holding his stomach. Before the next assailant, a bobby in a regulation helmet and waxed cape had caught me up, I hared away and was soon running toward a large staircase. Truth to say, I had no knowledge of the entrances and exits there, and for once my employer was no wiser than I. Of a sudden, Barker jammed a shoulder into me, knocking me like a billiard ball toward a set of anonymous doors. It took a moment to get myself in stride again, and as I reached them, I shot a glance over my shoulder and saw blue-black oilskins and helmeted figures pouring in from the south entrance. Had we gone that way, we’d have been captured for certain.
    I hit the doors hard, conscious of the fact that they had hung there for centuries, and wincing when they banged against the wall. I was in a deserted corridor, heading toward the west entrance with Barker right behind me and the constables just behind him. The Guv stopped abruptly, bringing down the first row of men behind him, then turned in the immediate confusion of officers tumbling over one another like a football scrum and caught me up again.
    With the west door almost within reach, Barker thrust me through a doorway into a short hall and out through the far side, crossing a square of lawn. It had begun raining and there was horse traffic just a few yards away on the other side of an iron fence. Barker sprinted past me and I ran as fast as my legs could go. Before we were fully prepared, we had shot into traffic, shying horses and slowing carriages on both sides. It was a wonder we weren’t both crushed under the wheels of a passing vehicle, but before I knew it both of us stood on the other side of the street safe and sound.
    I muttered a curse, considering it miraculous to be alive.
    “Lad,” Barker warned.
    As if escaping from Westminster Abbey were something he did on a regular basis, he raised his hand and hailed an approaching cab. We clattered aboard and I looked at him curiously. The Guv was barely breathing hard.
    “Where to, gentlemen?” the bored-sounding cabman asked through the trapdoor over our heads.
    “Soho,” Barker replied.
    “Why Soho?” I asked when the cab began to move.
    “Because it is not Westminster at the moment.”
    We bowled off toward the west. Somewhere behind I heard a chorus of police whistles. When we were safely away I dared sit back in my seat and asked the question that was uppermost in my mind.
    “What do you suppose will happen to Poole?”
    I knew the atmosphere at Scotland Yard. While it had the appearance of male camaraderie, in reality, it was every man for himself. Inspectors chaff each other and engage in bluff banter, but in fact, it was a fierce competition; each man responsible for creating a list of informants and bullying