We headed back to Scotland Yard after breakfast the following morning.
We turned the corner and walked right into a bunch of reporters. Lestrade had been in front, and was promptly surrounded when Gregson and Hopkins turned the corner a second later and instinctively backed up, pulling Holmes and myself with them.
What were they doing here?
There was a clamoring of voices, and Lestrade threatened for a moment to get lost in the confusion. But last night had done him good, and he raised his voice to a pitch that made Hopkins straighten up out of reflex.
"Now you all read the Strand, to keep an eye on competition, if nothing else." The small man's voice projected well. "And you help write it, for heaven's sake, Thompson. So you should know by now that I'm not the brains of the Yard. I can only understand you if you speak one at a time."
Lestrade was more eloquent, it seemed, when dealing with the papers. His statement got a few chuckles, and a few groans. It was an old joke, then.
"Any idea who's behind the kidnappings?" Someone asked. Lestrade considered for a moment before answering.
"We have a few suspects, but if you published them he might get nervous and make a run for it." The Inspector replied lightly. Another chuckle. He was on their good side today. One of the other Inspectors must have run seriously afoul of the papers lately, then.
"But you do have some definite leads." Someone else spoke up.
"Leads, yes. Definite? I'd say so." He paused. "Can we consider me properly molested yet? It really isn't fair that I get stuck in your mobs so easily."
"Is that for the record, sir?" Someone asked. This set off another bout of laughter. Gregson and Hopkins were looking relieved at the way things were going.
"His latest victim? Do you have a name?" Lestrade blanched. He was silent for a long moment, debating.
He made his decision, and drew himself up. "Elisabeth Lestrade." He said into the anticipatory silence. The reporters were floored. "As long as this maniac is still out there, every man's wife and childrenare in danger. The Yard is doing what they can to find him, but in the meantime, we advise that every possible precaution be taken. This is a very serious and very real danger, and should be treated accordingly. No further comment."
He moved forward, and the reporters scattered.
"Come on." Gregson said. Hopkins was shaking his head in shock. "Had to be done, lad. People need to know how dangerous this monster really is, and that anyone could be next."
Hopkins sighed, and nodded. The two took off after their fellow Inspector. Holmes and I followed after them.
I was surprised the reporters left us alone.
Scotland Yard was silent as we entered; by now everyone knew. They also seemed to know to leave the Inspector alone, because we made it to his office without being approached.
He stepped into his office, and Holmes nearly ran into him as he shied backwards. I caught a glimpse, before he pulled the door shut, of the board on his wall. Every inch of it seemed to be covered with scribbled notes, all in different scripts. Sympathy from his fellow Yarders, I speculated.
Gregson didn't bat an eye. "We'll use my office. My maps are better anyway." Lestrade nodded mutely, and we made our way down the hall.
We had identified our man: Charlie Hutton. He had been married and had several children, but had also been mentally unstable. One night he had simply beaten his wife and three children half to death before slitting their throats and leaving them dead in the streets. The police had never caught up with him.
Now we had only to figure out where he could be hiding. Holmes set to outlining several places on the map, and the next few hours were spent in narrowing down the search as much as we could.
Around noon there was a knock on the door, and a scowling Bradstreet poked his head in. "My wife's a wreck over this whole affair." He grumbled, apparently oblivious as Lestrade flinched. "She's packed enough lunch to feed an army. Always did overcook when she was nervous." He paused, hopefully. "Any way I can saddle some of this off on you lot?"
Hopkins was quick to agree, and a lunch break was soon in session. Bradstreet's wife had certainly packed a large lunch; it was enough to make one suspicious, especially when there just happened to be six small pastries for desert.
But it got Lestrade to eat, so nobody said a word, not even when Bradstreet left looking immensely pleased with himself.
By evening we had narrowed Hutton's hideout down to three possible places. Holmes decided to send the Irregulars to scope all three places out. Lestrade chafed at this, but didn't argue. He had seen the boys in action, and they would be able to find out, without being seen, which place held his wife.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.