Mrs. Doors, my landlady, stood in the doorway with a hurt expression on her face. She clutched a bowl of uneaten porridge and a pot of tea as I hailed a cab to drive me to Scotland Yard. I was dreading the interview with Constable Crabapple, fully expecting him to treat Miss Owen and me with the sensitivity and common decency of a feral pig. The cab turned up an alley into a little paved court in which a number of great-coated policemen ambled to and from the front doors. One tugged at his coat’s high reinforced collar, designed to help prevent garroting, a common concern. Crowds had gathered outside, picketers bundled against the Christmas chill held up signs that read, “HANG HUMBUG!” and “LET JUSTICE BE DONE!” Chants and shouts erupted whenever a policeman even glanced their way. Disgust threatened my composure. Even though London’s most notable businessman had met his watery demise purely of his own doing, the press knew very well that murder sells more newspapers than accidental drowning.
