The Devil's Fever

16

It was dawn as Jeffers made his way towards The Mint.

He wasn't sleeping anyway and had hours until he had to work, so he might as well do something. In doing something he at least felt some comfort.

From what he'd pieced together he had a few things to ask the kids of the slum about, the boy in Covent Garden, a few other cases they traced back here. Mainly though, he wanted to ask them about the pattern - children going feral, kids eating other humans, the so-called Devil's Fever.

He felt more at home in his civvies than the uniform, it made him feel more like the detective he was, and it also made him less of a target. That blue coat and tall hat felt more like a signal post for abuse and distrust, in these clothes he could melt into the crowds, just be another man trying to get through the day.

His early efforts yielded little. He had wanted to do this without bribery or persuasion but the people were wary of strangers and even warier of questions. Kids had learnt to get their defences up when approached by older men and they were right to do so, Jeffers had seen the repercussions when they didn't. However that helped him none with his task to quiet the whispers disturbing him.

What happened to that kid? Why was he like that? What could have happened to a child to make them lose their humanity so? To kill with no reason or need?

But he had to block the whispers out for now, they would have plenty of his time later on in the dark. Now he had questions to ask, of people disinclined to answer.

He left around lunch time to buy some bread and boiled sweets with the hopes of opening people up to him, and, as usual, the route to an open heart was a rumbling stomach.

A few children talked to him as they munched away "never heard nothing of it", "don't know what you're talking about", "nothing like that round here", but one little child sat silent, eating his bread, listening to the others and occasionally firing glances at the older boys, as if trying to gauge the situation.

Jeffers had questioned people enough to know when someone had something to contribute, he just had to make the situation right.

He waited until later on, when other other boy's had had their fill of bread and tales of violence, and he sat and watched the boy. His eyes kept flitting back to Jeffers, as if waiting for a chance to talk. Later on, when dusk was settling in and the boy was kicking a stone up against a wall, Jeffers approached.

"Which you trying to break? The stone or the wall?"

The boy looked up at him, his eyes showing someone wary of being mocked, "What's it matter to you?"

"It don't", said Jeffers, slowly lowering himself onto the floor nearby, "you know anything 'bout what I'm after?"

The boy kicked the stone again, making a satisfying clack against the brickwork. "No. Just what the others said."

"I wasn't asking the others. I was asking you"

Clack. Clack. Clack.

"My brother went... He were... he turned like you said."

"When was this?"

"A while back."

"What happened?"

"Bit away at this man, they couldn't stop him, like a wild dog he was."

"Where is he now?"

"Dead. They beat him pretty bad to stop him and he never woke up."

They boy had stopped kicking. He stood staring at his boots, worn and battered and half open to the elements.

"How long you had those boots?"

"Long enough."

"Not many round here can afford them."

"They were me brothers before he... He bought them off a bloke. They were already old then like, but still."

"And how'd your brother get the money for them?"

"He worked, like. People don't steal 'em off me 'cos it's what I remember him by, you know?"

"That's nice", Jeffers shifted on the steps, cleared his throat. Something was flitting away at the back of his mind, some kind of link, something to follow that hadn't yet fully formed into a thought. "What he do, your brother?"

"Whatever he could. He weren't no criminal though, he din't do that. he worked proper, you know? Them factory boys loved him, always picked him, he did good work for them, you know?"

What was it? thought Jeffers. What doesn't add up here?

"All the boy's went running down to the cart but they always picked him 'cos a what a good job 'e did."

It was no good, Jeffers was nowhere.

"Anyway mister, I'm going now. Thanks for the food." And off he walked, back into the crowded courtyard, stepping past puddles of piss and arguing drunkards and still Jeffers sat.

What was it? What was he missing?

He walked away, heavy in thought, about to undertake another shift on no sleep, and with even less peace of mind.

—————

Each pamphlet through the door made Weston's heart sink further.

'Remove the slums of London' 'The savagery of poverty' 'London's poor and the violence of tenements.'

The newspapers were no better. Between the adverts for Parkeskine and phosphorous free matchsticks were editorial after editorial on how 'slum living had sent the London poor feral'.

His talk had had an impact alright but definitely not the one he intended. Seaborn had reported upon the content of Weston's presentation but not about a stunning new discovery, about the cases Weston had uncovered and the increasing barbarity of the poor. Endless social campaigns had sparked up, people wanting to destroy slum living entirely, people demanding the police clean up the streets by force, people demanding everything except looking into The Devil's Fever or whatever he called it in his pathetic fantasies.

No one thought it was a disease. No one thought it was spread by rats, and certainly no one thought Weston had done anything of any significance.

He was a fraud, a joke, and he saw that now. A rich boy playing at a game he knew nothing about. Each thought a stab to his self worth, each memory of that day another blow to his decimated pride.

His thoughts and mood grew darker and more pained with each passing day.

A week to the wedding. No longer the man he thought he would be with the future he wanted.

At times he thought of just packing it all up, running away. But he couldn't do that to Binnie. He had to follow through for her, for his family.

This may not be the life he wanted, but it was the one he had to live.

Each day he drank more, and each day he stared more intently into the fire, hoping the patterns in the flames would bring him some solace, some answers, but they never did.

When the letter had arrived he'd ignored it. He was ignoring most letters these days, running away from them as he was trying to run away from impending reality.

It sat in a pile on a tray by his armchair, as he slowly drained the Cognac drink by drink, asking Beckton for refill after refill.

It was in one of these stupors Weston eventually went through the mail at pace, another congratulatory one here, another one pertaining to the money he owed for equipment there, each one read and tossed into the flames to let them eat their fill and spit out the dust.

He tore into the final envelope with beastly speed as he was rather enjoying burning his problems away.

He unfolded the letter and sat stock still, briefly pricked out of his drunken fog.

The writing was clear and he read it once more.

'Weston, we have to meet. It's about the case. Please respond.

Jeffers.'