Chapter Text
“Scotland Yard, Arthur.”
Arthur jumped at Inspector Wellington’s gruff orders and slammed shut the book he was reading. He slid it into a hidden pocket beside the seat so it wouldn’t bounce around as the carriage moved through the rough streets of London.
As the Inspector’s driver, Arthur had gotten good at sensing his mood based on the smallest of signs: a flick of the hand, the way he held his hat, the flair of his nostrils, or the arch of an eyebrow. In this case, his tone left no uncertainty. Arthur had no doubt the Inspector was in a foul mood. Arthur buttoned his coat and straightened his hat in preparation for their departure.
The Inspector stepped into the carriage and slammed the door so hard the entire vehicle shook. A foul mood indeed. Even the lowliest of lawmen could have determined that. The sound of the door was so loud that he wondered if it reached all the way to the Yard itself.
Since they were at number 43 in front of Miss Eliza Scarlet’s office, Arthur assumed the dark mood had something to do with the lady. Scowls and other expressions of annoyance were a common enough occurrence after the Inspector’s interactions with her, but this time, something was different. Worse, if that were possible.
Detective Fitzroy exited the building and followed not ten seconds later, his hat pulled so low that his face was hidden. Most days the young Detective exuded his cheery good nature with every step but on this occasion, he dragged his feet like a prisoner being taken to the gallows. He stopped to take a breath. Looking up at Arthur, he gave a brief nod. Something had happened inside Miss Scarlet’s office, to be sure. What could have evoked such reactions from the two men?
As for the Inspector, he’d been in a reflective mood for over a month, as if he were lost in some kind of thick fog and couldn’t find his way home. At least anger was better than that numb stupor, Arthur noted. The Inspector had acted similarly after his partner and friend Detective Jenkins had been found to be an accomplice in the death of Henry Scarlet. But now Frank was locked up in Newgate, and the Inspector had other urgent matters to occupy his mind.
Thinking back, the change in the Inspector had begun the day after Arthur had dropped him off at Mrs. Acaster’s home. The Inspector hadn’t been back since. Or, if he had, he hadn’t been the one to drive him.
Waiting for Fitzroy to step into the carriage, Arthur picked up the reins. The horse was ready. He was ready. If anything unexpected happened, the tools of his trade were tucked in the seat below him, including rags to clean the windows, grease for the axletree, a wrench for tightening the wheel bolts, and brushes for his horse, Brown Biscuit. A whip rested in a slot within reach. Sometimes he held it but seldom needed it to encourage the horse. He preferred to save it for other creatures, and had in fact, used the snap of leather to help subdue a suspect a time or two.
Arthur flinched when the door below him swung open so fast that the carriage groaned. It nearly hit Fitzroy in the chest.
“Get in, man,” Duke growled. The words were easily heard from Arthur’s perch.
“Duke, let me—“
“Detective Fitzroy, what you choose to do during your days off is none of my business. However, when you choose to—and whatever—during working hours, then I—“
The horse whinnied, muffling the words. Arthur had never heard the Inspector so angry with Fitzroy. Not since the Duke had taken him under his wing and become his mentor. What could have happened?
“But Miss Scarlet—“
“I came to fetch you because we have work to do. You told me that you were discussing a case with Miss Scarlet. I hear a scuffle thinking the worst—“
“About that—”
“Scotland Yard, Arthur!” The Inspector bellowed even louder, interrupting the young man. Fitzroy never had any hope of finishing his sentence. The wood thumped under Arthur’s feet as a fist hit the inside of the carriage.
“Confound it,” Arthur muttered under his breath. He still didn’t know what had happened. But they’d tarried long enough and he couldn’t wait any longer.
Arthur was a good listener. As long as the carriage wasn’t moving it was quiet enough to hear most conversations. Of course, Arthur heard much but never told anyone. The trust he’d built over time, first as the driver to Henry Scarlet, and now with Inspector Wellington, was far too valuable. Listening staved off boredom. On the worst days, the information he heard kept him—and his officers—alive. He never told anyone, beyond his wife, that is. He shared everything with his dearest Leigh.
For now, he’d have to be patient and wait, and he turned his wrist to move the reins to guide Brown Biscuit. Perhaps he’d get lucky and hear more during their ride if they stopped for someone to cross the road or for a snarl of carriages. He had a better chance of hearing their words through the intermittent shouting of other drivers than the persistent clatter of horse hooves and wheels on cobbles.
“Damn,” Arthur grumbled when they made good time. The entire drive he imagined the conversation between the two men under his feet and was sorry to miss it. His only option now was to listen for gossip around the stable from the other drivers, but they were far less reliable than his own ears. Their blather was more prodigious and outrageous than a flock of ducks on a pond.
Arthur halted Brown Biscuit near Scotland Yard and the Inspector didn’t wait for Fitzroy, or for the vehicle to come to a full stop. He removed himself from the carriage, gave Arthur a brief nod, and stomped into the building.
Fitzroy got out and slowly shut the door behind him, looking up at the driver. “I’ve done something, Arthur.” Repositioning his hat, he added, “Set something in motion.”
Arthur grunted. “It looks bad, Detective. I’ve never seen him so angry in all the years I’ve been his driver.”
“So it does. So it does. Let’s just hope it’s all for naught.” Shrugging, his frown turned into a grin. “It’s for a good cause. I can assure you.”
As was his habit, Fitzroy recited several lines of poetry,
“‘...The world’s old;
But the old world waits the hour to be renewed:
Toward which, new hearts in individual growth
Must quicken,’” Fitzroy concluded with a flourish, “‘and increase to multitude…’”
Arthur lifted a brow, waiting for the identity of the poem and poet. It wasn’t one he was familiar with.
“Lines from Aurora Leigh by Elizabeth Barrett Browning,” Fitzroy added. “She’s a genius.” Giving Arthur a jaunty wave—for the man could not stay sullen for long it was against every fiber of his nature—Fitzroy followed the Inspector into the building.
Arthur wondered about the choice of verse. He knew Fitzroy well enough by now that the lines were recited with much thought. He could identify whose ‘individual growth’ he was referring to, as well as how the Inspector would feel about Fitzroy’s interference, but beyond that—he could only guess. He had no doubt that the lad had the Inspector’s best interest in mind or Arthur would intervene himself.
Shaking his head, Arthur encouraged Biscuit forward toward the barn. She picked up her speed without his asking. The charade would become clear over time. He’d make sure of that.