Blood Rites by Sharon K. Gilbert

Author:Sharon K. Gilbert [Gilbert, Sharon K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780998096728
Publisher: Rose Avenue Fiction
Published: 2017-09-14T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

6:56 am - The Lyceum Theatre

Charles Sinclair had never been particularly fond of Detective Superintendent Joseph Dunlap. Perhaps, it was the age difference of twenty years, or the man’s insufferable tendency to self-aggrandise, or more to the point his outright inclination towards self-promotion and bearing petty grievances against his own officers. But more than likely it was the man’s sloppy police work. Dawn was beginning to break over the Thames, and Sinclair desperately wanted to throttle the A-Division CID head, but as the Lyceum Theatre fell within Joe Dunlap’s jurisdiction, the newly titled marquess had little choice but to take a backseat, albeit a grudgingly, unhappy one.

“You can take her now,” the rotund man told his second in command, a thin as a rail forty-year-old named Fraser. “See to it that Thomas Bond gets a good look at her, and I want photographs taken at the dead room as well—before, during, and after autopsy. Got that?”

Superintendent Algernon Fraser sighed. “Very good, sir,” the recently promoted detective replied. “Mr. Sinclair—I mean, Lord Haimsbury, sir—did you wish for H-Division’s surgeon to attend?”

Dunlap interrupted. “This is our case, Fraser, as you well know.”

“But it’s probably Ripper, sir,” the younger man argued, “which makes it their case as well.”

“That cuts no mustard with me, Fraser. We’ve no need for the interference of Reid and Abberline...”

“Nor a need for me, either, apparently,” Sinclair observed drily. “Superintendent, I appreciate your desire to solve this crime with your own manpower and expertise, but at least allow the H-Division team to assist. They have experience with this man, if indeed this woman is a Ripper victim, and...”

“What makes you think she is not?” Dunlap bit back.

Sighing, the marquess continued as if explaining a complex mathematical problem to a toddler. “It is counterproductive to make assumptions regarding the murderer’s identity at this point, Joseph. If you blinker yourself to possibilities, then you will inevitably miss valuable information. For instance, did you interview the young man found within the storage area?”

“That mute? He’s mad as a hatter, and you know it, Charles. Or Lord Haimsbury, or whatever fancy title I’m to use now, and I do not appreciate being told how to police in my own backyard!”

A hand tapped the detective’s shoulder, and Sinclair turned about to find himself looking at a familiar and most welcome face. “Martin! What on earth are you doing here? More to the point, how did you get in? This entire block is cordoned off by uniforms.”

Kepelheim wiped his brow in the heat of the cramped space. “I have my ways,” he whispered mysteriously. “And I believe I know how you might continue this investigation on other soil. Ground unmarked by A-Division foot traffic.”

Sinclair’s dark brows rose high in puzzlement. “How so?”

The tailor put a finger alongside his bulbous nose and winked. “Not here. Ah, yes, good evening to you, Superintendent Dunlap,” he added loudly. “I just dropped by to remind our marquess that he has a photography session in a few short hours, so he’ll need to call it a night.

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