The inspector remained impassive, as if he’d heard a hundred deflections from the truth before. A natural-born skeptic, judging by the pursing of his lips beneath his bushy mustache.
“Can you tell me what business you’re in? Do you work in this part of the city? Generally speaking,” he said, broadening the question as to encourage an answer. Any answer. Something to jot down in his handheld notebook.
At the mention of work in the city, a surge of unmet resolve asserted itself inside him, like horses ready to break for the open road. He had been intent on completing some task that morning. Something important. His body was yet primed for the effort. But empty of more information, the urge was left impotent, bridled by ignorance of purpose. He shook his head and felt a wave of dizziness as the surge receded. “I dinna know.”
“What can you tell me about your belongings?” The inspector leaned over the opening of the bedpan, stirring them around with the end of his lead pencil. “Is there anything missing? Could you have been robbed?”
Again, he could not know, and yet something had been taken from him. He was sure of it. Certain in the same way he’d recognized the watch as absolutely his. He concentrated, trying to chase down more than a feeling. And then he saw them. In his mind’s eye. Two figures standing over him. Two shadows. Yes, they had taken something from him. He’d come to, prying his eyes open a tiny crack until it hurt even to look at the starlight. But in that moment, he’d seen two women. In shawls. Yes, he remembered.
Spotting a change of expression, the inspector’s eyes narrowed and his mustache twitched. “You’ve remembered something.”
He ought to blurt it out. Tell the inspector about the women. About the strange blue light he’d seen rising off his body. The hollow sensation that followed in his head, arms, and chest, as if they’d taken something not from his person but from his being. But instinct held him back. Even he knew it was fantastic. Unreal. And probably a dream of the unconscious.
He shook his head. “My hat? A wallet perhaps? I have no idea if there might have been cash in it.”
It did seem odd he had only a single card with a name on it. No other papers or identification. An old pipe, a pocket watch with mysterious initials, and a worthless piece of paper. And the knife. But he’d hidden that from the inspector under his blanket. He didn’t know why, other than some instinct had urged him to do it.
The inspector dismissed the idea with a glance and a shrug, suggesting he was of the opinion the man he was looking at was nothing more than one of the common indigents who roamed the streets looking for work and lodging. Why else would a man voluntarily remain in a hospital if he was able to sit up and speak? And with no visitors come to check on him? “A robbery, most like. And yet this pocket watch was not taken off your person? Gold plate, at that.”
The man flinched when the inspector picked up the timepiece. He had the strongest desire to swipe the watch out of the man’s hands, but why would such a thing even matter? Willoughby held the gold piece in his hand and pushed the lever to open it. “Rotten luck, that. Not working. The mechanism is broken. Still, any thief would have nicked it right off, wouldn’t you think?”
“Of course.” Of course! But then what had the women taken? Something beyond this man’s understanding and jurisdiction, of that he was certain. And yet he felt compelled now to speak the odd vision into existence, if only to testify and measure his own sanity. “There were two women. In shawls.”
“Women?” Willoughby raised a curious brow. “You mean tarts?”
No, there’d been no whiff of perfume, no scent of dried sweat, no breath tainted with alcohol and sweet cachous. His brain was working fast to remember as many small details as it could before they all spilled out the wound at the back of his head with the rest of his memory. His hand reached for the reassurance of the knife beneath the blanket. “Nae,” he said. “Young women, though. In black. Long fluttering shawls and dark hair coiled at the nape of the neck held with silver combs.” His inner vision cast an image for the inspector to contemplate. “Like that one.” He pointed to the dark figure of a shawled woman standing in the corridor, but by the time Willoughby looked, the woman had gone.
But he had seen her, hadn’t he? Or had the crack on his head bruised his brain so that he could no longer tell the difference between what he saw and what he imagined? The thought sent a nauseated tremor through him.
The inspector faced him again, making a small “hmm” sound as he pursed his lips, as though already dismissing the account as frivolous. “I’ve got a man asking around the docks if they saw anything untoward this morning. Yours isn’t the only report we’ve had of robbery of late. My guess is we’ve got a gang of street thugs who’ve grown overly bold. Rest assured we’ll have them apprehended. In the meantime, if anything else occurs to you, please report it to a city station or one of our constables.” Willoughby handed him a printed card with his contact information, not unlike the bloodstained one gracing his belongings inside the bedpan; then the inspector doffed his hat and departed. Case closed. Or at least wrapped up unless or until he could recall anything else.