The Nature of Truth

The Nature of TruthT.C. Blyth Copyright © 2023 M. BlythAll rights reservedThe characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.ISBN: 978-1-7772204-9-5Cover design by: SelfPubBookCovers.com/Island Contents Title PageCopyrightONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY TWENTY-ONE TWENTY-TWO TWENTY-THREE TWENTY-FOUR TWENTY-FIVE TWENTY-SIX EPILOGUE AfterwordResourcesAcknowledgementsAbout the Author “It is the nature of truth to struggle to the light.” -Wilkie Collins, Man and Wife: A Novel ONE LONDON, ENGLAND MAY 1896 A crack of thunder woke him far too early in the morning. Detective Inspector Dean Whittaker jolted upright in his creaky, uneven bed and squinted when a second bolt of lightning lit up his room. It was followed by another low rumble of thunder and he slumped back in the bed with a groan, his head pounding. His stomach rolled from all the sudden movement and he tilted his head one way to eye the mostly empty whiskey bottle on the rickety old bedside stand. Yes. I thought I’d had most of it last night. He wallowed there in his misery for a long moment before checking the time. He stretched one arm out to the waistcoat slung over the corner post of the bed and dug out his cracked and battered pocket watch. All right. Time to get up. By the time he let himself out of his small room at Hazelton House, a boardinghouse on Percival Street in a less than affluent area of London, he was mostly presentable. He checked his watch again with one hand as he planted his beat-up hat on his head. As he walked down the stairs to the main level, he heard several raised voices, most he recognized as his fellow boardinghouse residents. He stopped at the sitting room and peered in, curious. Normally mornings at Hazelton House were quiet as everyone got up for their own dreary days of work and God knew what else. “Mr. Whittaker!” He started at his name, called out as it was, and looked to the far side of the room where Jane Smith stood, clutching a newspaper in her hands. His first thought was to correct her. It was Detective Inspector Whittaker. “Good morning everyone,” he said, for everyone in the room had turned to face him. “Is something the matter?” Jane rushed forward and thrust the wrinkled newspaper into his hands. He took it, startled by her behavior. Jane was a quiet sort, a laundry maid who spent her days keeping her head down and doing her work in the hopes that no one would notice her. She spoke to Whittaker now and again, usually with a shy smile or girlish blush, though Whittaker did little more than nod or smile in greeting. Indeed, most of the residents of Hazelton House were hard workers, who minded their own business but did look after each other, in their own way. Especially their elderly landlord, Mr. Andrew Davis. While he was strict with collecting their rents and ensuring nothing untoward went on in his building, he was also fair and kind, offering to teach any residents to read or write, and always ensuring there was dinner waiting if they wanted, or needed, it. Harriet, the cook he employed, was a genius with making delicious and large meals from anything discounted at the markets. Straightening out the newspaper, Whittaker looked down and scanned the headlines. Sure enough, there at the top, in big black letters, were the words ‘JACK IS BACK’. A frisson of pure, unadulterated horror slithered up Whittaker’s spine. Schooling his features, he glanced up at the worried faces before him and back down to the newspaper. He scanned the article, taking note of the location where a body had been discovered sometime during the night before. He dragged his eyes back to the headline and realized there was a question mark at the end of the phrase, albeit much smaller than the garish letters before it. Bloody newspapers. “Is it true, Detective?” Whittaker looked up to see Mr. Davis wringing his gnarled old hands together in his lap. He was seated next to the fire, which burned low behind the filthy grate beside him. “I will find out.” He checked his watch again, though it didn’t change the fact that he was going to be late for work. He ignored the way the chipped glass face shook in his hand. Jane nodded, her eyes wide but not as panicked as he would have expected to see. She was worried, they all must be, but perhaps Jane was more practical than that. Maybe she was reassured by his own demeanor and wouldn’t jump to conclusions as the gossip rag in his hands had. “Take care today.” Whittaker glanced down at Jane’s ruddy face once more and back at the others gathered around. “All of you.” With that ominous statement, Whittaker took himself out of the room and out of the house. He had work to do. ───── By the time Whittaker made it to the scene, it had stopped raining and a fine mist hung over the area. The police had managed to push back the crowds of early morning onlookers and reporters. Several men shouted at him as he pushed through the crowd towards the nearest police officer. Luckily, the patrolman was someone who knew Whittaker and jerked his thumb over his shoulder to let him pass. “He’s over there.” Whittaker scowled as he left the crowd of lollygaggers behind and strode towards the gathered officers. They stood around a cloth-covered figure, hands at their hips, or scratching at shaggy beards. One man among the four standing around, taller by several inches than