Free Norton, Andre - Novel 39 by The Jekyll Legacy (v1.0)

no question about that; Inspector
Newcomen obtained the name of the victim from one of the City detectives on the
night of the murder.
                   But little else was forthcoming and no further
information had been volunteered. It was made plain to him—not in so many
words, but rather by their absence—that the City Police were definitely in
charge of the case and wanted no interference from their Metropolitan rivals.
                   Naturally, he had no opportunity to speak with Poole 's widow at the time. She had been taken
immediately to headquarters on Old Jewry Street for further questioning, and Newcomen had
to content himself with the cursory accounts of the crime published in the
papers on the following day.
                   As determined by these reports, Poole had absented himself from home during the
afternoon before he became the object of foul play. Where he had spent his
time, and quite possibly a shilling or so, was still a matter of conjecture,
but there was no doubt regarding what he'd spent it for. When he reeled home
shortly after six o'clock in the evening, Poole immediately took to his bed, ignoring both
the reproaches and the tears of his spouse.
                   According to Mrs. Poole he had been despondent
ever since the loss of his former position and made no effort to find further
employment. It was she who had been contributing to their support by doing
piecework, “sewing hats and such," at home. Indeed, it was the necessity
of delivering the results of her day's labor to a millinery establishment in
nearby City
Road that required her to leave their lodgings while her husband, fully clothed, lay
in deep slumber on the bed.
                   "Drunken stupor, more likely,"
Newcomen had muttered to himself when he read the newspaper story. But his
uncharitable comment was the product of professional frustration rather than moral
judgment. What Poole did was his own business; what was done to
him was Newcomen's.
                   Just exactly what had been done to him during
the hour's interval between his wife's departure and her return remained
unclear. None of the other occupants of the dwelling who'd rushed outside to
view the spectacle after the police arrived had since stepped forward in the
role of an eye- or even an ear-witness to the crime.
                   "Same old story—hear no evil, see no
evil, speak no evil," Newcomen muttered to himself. "Fine lot of
monkeys they are, too."
                   As for Mrs. Poole herself, she'd come back
from her errand with some hope of a cold supper but little expectation of
sharing it with a cold-sober husband.
                   What she was not prepared for was the
discovery of his battered corpse sprawled just beyond the doorway of their
bedroom.
                   Bones had been broken and facial features
disfigured by the force of the blows inflicted upon the victim; even if he'd
made no outcry, surely the impact of his fall should have attracted some
attention from other residents. But no one admitted as much and it was only
Mrs. Poole's own screams that summoned the neighbor woman from down the hall
and sent her out into the street in search of a constable.
                   There had been no further notices in the
public press, a circumstance that did not greatly concern the inspector, for he
placed little credence upon the probity of the penny papers. His immediate
thought was to seek out another opportunity to interview Poole 's widow, but the plan was scotched; upon
presenting himself at the Aldergate address following her return there, he was
informed by a neighbor— coincidentally, the one who had first summoned the
police— that Mrs. Poole was in a state of prostration and had taken to her bed.
                   It occurred to Newcomen that the bed in
question was the one occupied by her late husband at