Tuesday, December 20th, 1833
Five Days to Christmas
I SKIPPED BREAKFAST the following morning, feeling uneasy and troubled. Mrs. Doors, my landlady, stood in the doorway with a hurt expression on her face. She clutched a bowl of uneaten porridge and a pot of tea as I hailed a cab to drive me to Scotland Yard. I was dreading the interview with Constable Crabapple, fully expecting him to treat Miss Owen and me with the sensitivity and common decency of a feral pig.
The cab turned up an alley into a little paved court in which a number of greatcoated policemen ambled to and from the front doors. One tugged at his coat’s high reinforced collar, designed to help prevent garroting, a common concern. Crowds had gathered outside, picketers bundled against the Christmas chill held up signs that
