BOOK THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

1

They took Snow to the Coldbath Fields Prison for questioning, which puzzled him even through his shock. There were plenty of closer places. Scotland Yard itself was hardly a quarter mile away from his house.

The inside of the cab was hot. Old sweat rose from the two policemen's uniforms. Snow sat as passively as if they were his private coachmen.

Soon after leaving Golden Square he looked out the dirty window and saw how close they were to the pump. He turned to the policemen.

"Would you mind if we turned here, just for a moment? There's something I need to look at."

They studied Snow briefly, as if trying to fathom some plot. "Don't see why not." One banged on the ceiling with his nightstick. "Turn down Broad Street."

Snow pressed his face to the glass. The pump looked different. It had shed all its sinister aura and seemed only a jutting bit of old brass, amputated of its handle, useless. Three women and a man, all carrying buckets or jugs, stood by, arguing. One woman was poking with a stick into the hole left by the handle.

The cab kept going and within five yards Snow lost his view. He turned to face forward again, sighing with exasperation. No handle. No water. No cholera. Damn! He'd be in no position to find out anything.

If the cases stopped, or even slowed, it would probably happen in the next forty-eight hours. Up-to-the-minute reports were crucial. A week from now it would be close to impossible to make sure the case count was correct.

Even if removing the handle caused the cholera to slow, without accurate proof he might just as well have discovered nothing. And while he should have been at the Record Office, or even doing the rounds on Broad Street, doing the case count himself to be sure it was correct, here he was bundling away to some jail.

"Who am I supposed to have murdered, anyhow?" he asked listlessly.

The men looked surprised but apparently saw no reason not to answer. "Matt Canty," said one, not looking at Snow. "Assistant foreman to the Great Western street works. Head bashed in with that pump handle." It was clear that not even he suspected Snow. Just doing as he was told.

Matt Canty. The man who had tried to warn him. And he had said there was more to tell. Snow realized without any surprise, that what happened to Matt Canty might have been intended for him, too.

2

Snow crouched on his hard chair like a schoolboy kept late for cheating on Latin. It was the third hour. He still had his watch and checked it more and more often. An hour ago his stomach had begun to grind with hunger, loudly enough to hear it. No one had come to the door since they first brought him there. There was no window.

He was just thinking of shouting, kicking at the door, throwing the chair, anything to get some attention, when there was a loud rattling of keys and a young man entered.

"Now see here," began Snow, but the other interrupted him. "I'm from Forms, sir. I'm afraid I can't answer any of your questions. That's for another department." Without looking up he pulled over a table and the other chair and laid out an inch-thick pile of papers and pen and ink.

Snow was too dazed to answer.

The young man wore glasses and a worn-out black suit, perhaps bought secondhand from a bank clerk. He had an ink blotch the size of a thumbprint on the side of his nose.

"Name of primary school?"

"What?" asked Snow. "Why in God's name do you need to know that?"

"Primary school?"

3

An hour later the man had recorded Snow's entire life on small blank spaces, including every single form of employment, the names of his tutors at university, how much he paid his housekeeper, and the exact scores in every examination he had ever taken, with a large, ominous "X" for any item Snow couldn't remember.

Halfway through it all Snow gave up asking questions about when he might be released, who he could talk to in charge, or why he was being held. He just answered the questions as they became more absurd and impossible.

Finally, the clerk asked, "Reason for committing act?"

"Act? What act?"

"Act for incarceration, sir."

"But I didn't commit anything. That's the whole point. I need to talk to someone in charge, immediately!" Snow heard a note of hysteria in his voice and took a few slow breaths.

"Yes, sir. I can't put you through the next step until we complete the forms. Reason for committing act?"

Suddenly there was a commotion in the corridor and the door burst open. A short man in a dusty black suit came in and at the sight of him the clerk jumped to his feet and stared straight ahead, his shoulders stiff. Snow recognized the man from somewhere but couldn't place him.

"Get this man released immediately." The older man's voice was full of annoyance; but it sounded as if that were his normal tone.

"Yes, Inspector."

That was it, thought Snow. Inspector McGowan, who was there when they found the murdered man in the ditch.

"I never heard of such a thing," said McGowan, half to Snow and half to the clerk. "Detained for three hours. No evidence whatsoever." He gave a short nod to Snow. "Good morning, Doctor. We never did find the man who did that shovel job last month. But one thing's certain: that's the man we want today."

Another man came in, behind the inspector. To Snow's complete surprise it was Sir Philip Constable. His cheeks were bluish-white and the purple marks under his eyes had deepened. To Snow he looked dangerously ill. Snow wondered that he had never noticed before the telltale signs of heart disease. He thought of the digitalis drops he always kept in his anesthesia case. But the case wasn't with him now.

Snow found himself wondering once again what exactly had happened between Lillian and this man. The questions, now unleashed, sprang out at him. What was she holding back? Why had she been so silent two nights ago, when the two of them were making the map? Distrust rose in him, unbidden.

Constable turned to Snow but didn't meet his eyes. "I'm terribly sorry this had to happen." He grabbed Snow's arm and almost pushed him from the cell. The three of them walked rapidly down the dank corridor, which stank of urine.

"This is Inspector McGowan," said Constable. "Such a series of mistakes, you wouldn't believe me if I told you.

"No, no, it's nothing. And I've already met the inspector." Snow wanted to scream at Constable, but years of polite routine held him tighter than chains. "I didn't mind, really. These things happen. Perhaps if I could just get a cab back to my house, or even better, to the Registrar General Office —" Even as he spoke he wondered if he really did want to be out on the street, unprotected.

They had reached the street and Constable, without answering Snow, hustled him into a waiting hansom. The inspector climbed in behind them.

"Scotland Yard," he shouted out the window. He pulled his head back into the cab and turned to Snow. "And we've got our man. Had a good lead on him this morning."

The inspector's eyes were bright, his cheeks set hard in anticipation. Constable stared out the window, silent and moody.

Snow tried to smile and found that he couldn't. "I'm happy to hear it, but I really must get back to —"

"Sir Philip and I want you to be in on the chase. We need your help."

Snow fidgeted in his seat. With this inspector around he might be safe. If there really were anything to be afraid of. He looked sideways at Constable.

"Really, I don't see how I could possibly —" he addressed this to Constable, but Sir Philip persisted in ignoring him, so Snow was forced to turn back to McGowan.

"Yes, it's a good thing you were there when I thought of it. I'm determined to grab him before the day is over," said McGowan. "We need you and your chloroform kit. He's a dangerous man.