Chapter One

February 1889

Inspector Reid looked up from the report in his hands, to the man sitting across his desk. "It says here that you were caught spotted following Frank Goodnight on his way to the theatre. A few hours later, when he left by carriage, it was unexpectedly ransacked by a gang of Rooks. Now, Mr. Frye, you have suspected ties to the Rooks, you don't happen to have anything to do with this, do you?"

"Oh, absolutely." Mr. Frye grinned.

Reid paused, looked the man over again. Mr. Jacob Frye was a man about his age, although he had the temperament of one twenty years his junior. Although well-dressed in a great black overcoat and a satin top hat, he had a day's worth of beard and the foolish smile of a young man who was both fully aware of his crimes and feeling not the least bit of guilt about it. The fact that he was in handcuffs only seemed to delight Mr. Frye, as if it were a novel act.

They sat in Reid's office, early morning — Mr. Frye had stayed the night. Drake offered to take care of it, but Reid was annoyed enough to see to it personally. So now he was here, running on a piece of toast and cup of Irish coffee, and beginning to reconsider his decision on waking up today.

Doing his best to appear unruffled, Reid tapped the report papers on his desk and said, "Well, most men would try to deny it first, but I suppose I should thank you for your honesty. So you admit to being responsible for the assault on Goodnight?"

Mr. Frye gave a short nod in appreciation. Reid noted the old scars across his jaw and browline. A man with a rough past, it seemed.

There was a fresher cut over his right eye, across the lid, still pink around the edges. Faint, but any deeper and it might have blinded the man. It didn't surprise Reid that Mr. Frye might have once been a Rook. Or still was.

"I'm never one for beating around the bush, Mister…" Jacob Frye leaned forward, squinted at the plaque on the desk in front of him. "Edmund Reid. Mind if I call you Eddie?"

Reid's nostrils flared. "It's Inspector Reid to you, Mr. Frye."

"Stickler for formalities, are you?" Jacob Frye cocked an eyebrow. "You and my sister would be bosom buddies. How's the search for your man, by the way?"

Reid frowned. "My man?"

"Yes, that American, he works here, doesn't he?" Jacob Frye leaned back in his chair, scrunched up his face in the mockery of deep thought. "Ooh, what was his name? James, Johnson…ah, Jackson! That's right, a Homer Jackson? Now he's in a spot of trouble, isn't he?"

"Jackson?" Reid repeated, his stomach dropping. He had taken Mr. Frye to be a fool, but now he saw the boyishness to be a mere facade for the intelligence twinkling in those hazel eyes. Realizing he had underestimated the man, Reid sat straighter, leaned forward, and demanded, "How do you know about that? What do you want with him?"

Jackson had made himself scarce as soon as Mr. Theodore P. Swift, a prosperous shipping magnate, had made an appearance a few days prior. Reid had no idea what the hell was going on, only that he had lost all contact with the only doctor who could help him solve the murder of an engineer, who only recently invented a new ship's engine.

Reid had no doubt in his mind that Swift might have something to do with the murder, but he had no idea what connection Swift would have with Jackson of all people. And he had no idea what part Mr. Goodnight might play in all of this.

Either way, it was concerning.

"I know you're looking for the murderer of Fanthorpe," Mr. Frye continued, blatantly ignoring Reid's questions. "Chief Engineer at the Argentine Marine Company. Good man, brilliant man. Found dead in the Thames, knife in the back. Rough way to go, if you ask me."

"How do you know all of this?" Reid demanded, launching from his seat and slamming his hands on his desk. "His manner of death was hidden from the public. As far as they're concerned, he's only a drowned man."

"I have my ways," Mr. Frye smirked, then held up a finger just as Reid opened his mouth to speak. "I know what you're going to say! That the only way I can know this is if I committed the act myself, yes? Well, that's where you're wrong, Inspector. I happen to know that Mr. Goodnight owns a very particular knife. A knife he's very fond of, and uses without discretion."

Reid studied Jacob Frye for a long moment, cottoning on immediately but almost too stunned to speak for a moment. "Are you saying Frank Goodnight is responsible for Fanthorpe's murder? Why? He's an American, a Pinkerton. What possible motive would he have to kill an engineer?"

"Hell if I know," Mr. Frye snorted, heaving his shoulders. "I believe that's your job to figure out."

"And what do you want with Mr. Goodnight, then? What's your reasoning for attacking him?"

"Oh, I just hate the blighter, that's all," Mr. Frye chuckled. "The man's a brute, and coming from me that's saying something."

"So you admit to being a member of the Rooks?"

"I never said that."

"I know of your reputation, Mr. Frye," Reid's said stonily, sitting back down. He was not in the mood for games today. "You're a legend in every pub in Whitechapel. A champion in the boxing ring of yesteryear. You've traveled to Europe and India. You're often seen in the company of the prime minister's wife. You've attended balls in the Queen's grace. A man who pulled himself up from his bootstraps, apparently. You have no job. No noble parentage to speak of. And yet, somehow, you're a wealthy gentleman. A fascinating conundrum."

Mr. Frye just laughed off Reid's overwrought suspicion, slapping the end of the desk, jostling the lamp. "You know what, I think I like you, Eddie," He said. "That's why I'm going to help you stop this dastardly Goodnight once and for all."

Reid snorted so hard his spectacles almost slipped off his nose. It sounded like Mr. Frye was affording them a rare privilege.

Readjusting the lenses, he pinned Mr. Frye with a hard look. "I'd rather dunk my head into the Thames, thank you, Mr. Frye. I don't need any help with this, certainly not from the likes of you." Then he raised his chin and called, "Drake!"

The door opened and Sergeant Bennet Drake peered in, eyebrows perked. "Yes, sir?"

Reid gestured to Mr. Frye without looking at him, going back to studying his notes. "Please take Mr. Frye here back to holding and have him processed. I have no further use of him."

"Oh, come on now —" Mr. Frye complained, as Drake hauled him out of the chair.

"That's enough fun for you, Frye," Drake grunted, dragging the bigger man out the door.

"I can help you!" Frye called.

"Not from you, I don't think so," Reid said lightly, still not looking up.

But Frye struggled, managed to slip free of Drake's grip for a moment. His top hat was knocked to the floor. Drake was knocked back against the sergeant's desk, winded. "Oi, get back here!"

Jacob Frye charged forward, grabbed by two lesser officers; he slammed against the doorframe, stuck his head back in, panting a little. "What if I told you Mr. Goodnight was acting on orders? That Jackson knows who he is!"

Reid paused.

"Wait!"

Reid snapped his head up just as Drake caught Mr. Frye in a headlock and had yanked him from the door again. At the sound of Reid's call, everyone stopped fighting, looked to him. Reid stood, eyed Jacob from his office.

"On whose orders?" Reid demanded, eyes narrowing.

Jacob, ruddy-cheeked and bright-eyed, looking up for a fight, gave his biggest grin yet. "Oh, you're gonna love this, Eddie."

A/N: And the start of a great friendship is born.