About an hour later Jackson returned, disgruntled and with few leads. It seemed he was no longer able to blend in and strike up conversations with the common man any more – too many recognised him and his affiliation with the police.
He did, however, have a theory on the apparent death of Miss Mountford, having stopped by Tenter street to retrieve one of his few medical books brought over from the new world. He found Reid and Drake in a back room, and opened the book over their various bits of paperwork.
"The Mountford girl didn't die, and she didn't fall into a normal coma."
"Then what-" Reid began before the American held up a hand.
"Catalepsy." He said as if that was supposed to mean anything to the others, pointing to a section in the medical textbook. "Muscular rigidity, waxy flexibility, little reaction to pain and a slowing of bodily functions. There's stories – probably not all true – of people being mistaken for dead when they have these fits. There's apparently a trend between it and epilepsy or severe stress."
"So the stress of the attack could have sent her into one of these fits?" Reid perked up a little at the notion of diagnosing this problem.
"Absolutely. The girl seems pretty sheltered, having a gun pointed at her would be shocking enough. If she has epilepsy it's all the more likely that stress triggered her."
"And would it be possible for someone to have known of her health and deliberately tried to cause her a fit?"
"Perhaps, if they thought it'd make the robbery easier. Or they may have just thought her health meant she'd give up easily. Hell, they may not have known at all."
"Sergeant Drake," Reid turned to the other man, his face a little flushed with newfound energy. "Roll up your sleeves. I intend to get as many names and pieces of information out of our men in the cells as possible. I want to know who paid them and what they knew of the shop and the girl, if anything."
"Right you are sir." Drake rose, shrugging off his jacket.
"I'll come help; there's nothing out on the streets that I can get from people. They all know me as the Inspector's American now." Jackson swanned after them, hands in his pockets to fish out a cigarette. God, that was not a title he wanted to have to say out loud himself. But it was unfortunately becoming true, and he wasn't much use on the streets. At least here he could decipher any information given, and maybe even throw a punch or two himself if he fancied it.