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A clock ticked away in the background like a reluctant passenger in time, the only other sound the furious scribbling of a sharp nib on quality paper.
The ghosts of Whitehall were all abed apart from the two ageing mandarins about their incidious and mysterious tasks, the one scratching furiously at paper, the other measuring time by the passage of brandy through a fluted glass that left little rings of patina on his polished oak desk everytime he lifted and depressed the glass in his regimented but rythmical fashion.
'There we are, Charles!' boomed Dr Bond flinging across the paperwork he had employed a nib on for the past two hours. 'See what you make of that, old boy?'
Charles Henry Cutbush peered closely at the sheaf of papers.
'What the devil is all this dross about then, Thomas?' enquired Cutbush, placing his brandy glass reluctantly on the oak desk.
'Oh, that Jesuit Anderson asked me to write down my thoughts on the recent murders, so I've come up with what Ebbing Raft terms a 'profile',' explained Dr Bond. 'Quite good fun actually, if you have nothing better to do. I'd rather shoot pigeons as you know.'
Cutbush leafed through the papers.
'Solitary and eccentric in his habits, you don't say?' he asked.
'Indeed, Charles, indeed.'
'A man without regular occupation but with some small income, you don't say?
'Indeed, Charles, indeed.'
'Living amongst respectable people who have some knowledge of his character and habits... you don't say Thomas? Amazing thought eh?'
'Indeed, Charles, indeed.'
There came a timid knock at the door.
'Come in, damn you!' bellowed Executive Superintendent Cutbush with all the authority of his lofty position.
A slighty built boy elevated himself into the room and stood wringing his hands in abject discomfort.
'My nephew,' explained Cutbush with a sigh. 'Well boy, damn you, what do you want now?'
'Sir,' replied the trembling boy. 'I was wondering whether I might borrow your service pistol for the night... I've an urgent desire to shoot Dr Brooks.'
'Good man!' screamed Dr Bond. ' I could never stand that upstart anyway.'
'What about that nice Chinese dagger I got you for Christmas last year, surely you could employ that for such a purpose?' asked Charles.
'I left it on the Pimlico train, I'm afraid uncle Charles.'
'Look my dear nephew, take yourself off to ramble the streets of Whitechapel, covered in mud, and all that, for myself and the good doctor have important matters to discuss pertaining to the Whitechapel Murders.'
'Can I have a stamp, uncle Charles?' enquired the young man. 'I have a letter for Grimthorpe here.'
Cutbush senior passed over a penny red which the young fellow gladly took.
'You and your letters, young Thomas, what shall we do with you? Now off with, young Thomas, and let us not see you until the wee hours of the morning... now then Dr Bond where were we?
'Ah yes, Charles, I also speculated that the family of the suspect would be unwilling to communicate with the police for fear of notoriety...'
'Indeed, Dr Bond, indeed,' chuckled Charles. 'The brandy is almost up, so may I escort you to the door?'
'Thanks old boy, but I think I'll use the window.'
The ghosts of Whitehall were all abed apart from the two ageing mandarins about their incidious and mysterious tasks, the one scratching furiously at paper, the other measuring time by the passage of brandy through a fluted glass that left little rings of patina on his polished oak desk everytime he lifted and depressed the glass in his regimented but rythmical fashion.
'There we are, Charles!' boomed Dr Bond flinging across the paperwork he had employed a nib on for the past two hours. 'See what you make of that, old boy?'
Charles Henry Cutbush peered closely at the sheaf of papers.
'What the devil is all this dross about then, Thomas?' enquired Cutbush, placing his brandy glass reluctantly on the oak desk.
'Oh, that Jesuit Anderson asked me to write down my thoughts on the recent murders, so I've come up with what Ebbing Raft terms a 'profile',' explained Dr Bond. 'Quite good fun actually, if you have nothing better to do. I'd rather shoot pigeons as you know.'
Cutbush leafed through the papers.
'Solitary and eccentric in his habits, you don't say?' he asked.
'Indeed, Charles, indeed.'
'A man without regular occupation but with some small income, you don't say?
'Indeed, Charles, indeed.'
'Living amongst respectable people who have some knowledge of his character and habits... you don't say Thomas? Amazing thought eh?'
'Indeed, Charles, indeed.'
There came a timid knock at the door.
'Come in, damn you!' bellowed Executive Superintendent Cutbush with all the authority of his lofty position.
A slighty built boy elevated himself into the room and stood wringing his hands in abject discomfort.
'My nephew,' explained Cutbush with a sigh. 'Well boy, damn you, what do you want now?'
'Sir,' replied the trembling boy. 'I was wondering whether I might borrow your service pistol for the night... I've an urgent desire to shoot Dr Brooks.'
'Good man!' screamed Dr Bond. ' I could never stand that upstart anyway.'
'What about that nice Chinese dagger I got you for Christmas last year, surely you could employ that for such a purpose?' asked Charles.
'I left it on the Pimlico train, I'm afraid uncle Charles.'
'Look my dear nephew, take yourself off to ramble the streets of Whitechapel, covered in mud, and all that, for myself and the good doctor have important matters to discuss pertaining to the Whitechapel Murders.'
'Can I have a stamp, uncle Charles?' enquired the young man. 'I have a letter for Grimthorpe here.'
Cutbush senior passed over a penny red which the young fellow gladly took.
'You and your letters, young Thomas, what shall we do with you? Now off with, young Thomas, and let us not see you until the wee hours of the morning... now then Dr Bond where were we?
'Ah yes, Charles, I also speculated that the family of the suspect would be unwilling to communicate with the police for fear of notoriety...'
'Indeed, Dr Bond, indeed,' chuckled Charles. 'The brandy is almost up, so may I escort you to the door?'
'Thanks old boy, but I think I'll use the window.'
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