Fellows had grown up with dirty fighting. He knew about the destructive power of bits of brick in his hand, the various ways small knives could be used, and how to pit an opponent’s own weight and reach against him.
Waller would know the constables waited for him above. He’d make a stand. He’d killed his own brother, for God’s sake, had killed more men in the past, and wasn’t above using a child as a shield.
Fellows was one man, alone. But he knew that if he waited for help, Waller stood a chance of getting away. Fellows wasn’t going to let him.
The passage was dark, shielded from the April sunlight by high, close-set buildings. Fellows couldn’t see much, but he could hear.
Waller tried to mask his breathing, but the heavy intake of it was too thick to hide. The scuttle of rat’s claws on the cobbles also came to Fellows, as well as the clatter of carts on the streets outside, the wind pouring between buildings. Fellows pinpointed each sound, identifying and cataloging it as he moved to the source of the breathing.
The attack came swiftly. Fellows sensed the first swing of a massive fist and ducked. He rose, bringing up his elbow to slam the man in the diaphragm.
Fellows was rewarded with a blow to the head, one that darkened his world a moment. He dragged in a breath, trying to find his equilibrium, before another punch to his skull sent him to his knees. Waller didn’t waste breath laughing or gloating. He slammed his arm around Fellows’ neck and started to choke him.
Fellows shoved himself to his feet and threw his weight forward. Waller grunted and his hold loosened. Fellows dug his hands into the man’s shoulders and continued the momentum of the throw, ending up slamming Waller against the wall of the narrow passage.
Waller grunted and stumbled but swiftly regained his feet. He came at Fellows, roaring, no longer trying to be surreptitious. The constables poured down the stairs from the other end, against orders, their clubs ready.
Fellows and Waller fought, close and desperate, in the confined space. Boulder-like fists slammed at Fellows’ face. Fellows ducked under the man’s reach, came up abruptly, and smashed his fist into Waller’s jaw. The jaw broke, and Waller fell, screaming.
He grabbed Fellows on the way down, and Fellows felt the prick of a knife under his arm. He jerked away and punched Waller full in the face.
And kept on punching. Fellows’ rage was high, with a white-hot fury that blotted out all reason. He couldn’t see or hear—he only knew that this man had caused terror and death, and hadn’t held back from hurting harmless children.
“Sir,” one of the constables said. “He’s down.”
Fellows kept on punching. Waller was mewling, broken hands curled around himself. Blood poured from his nose and mouth to stain the already-grimy cobbles.
“Sir?” One of the younger constables dared seize Fellows’ arm. The touch dragged Fellows back from the dark place he’d gone, and his awareness slowly returned.
Waller lay still, hoarse sounds coming from his mouth. The young constable was eyeing Fellows nervously, hand still on his arm. The boy barely had whiskers to shave, and yet they’d sent him out to chase a madman. The constable at the moment looked as though he wasn’t certain who was more dangerous—the killer or Fellows. Fellows felt a surge of feral delight.
He drew back his square-toed boot and kicked Waller squarely in the ribs. “That’s for the little lad,” he said. He straightened up, wiping his mouth. “Arrest this filth and get him away from me,” he told the constables. “We’re finished here.”
Fellows turned away from a killer who’d slain at least five people and regularly beat his wife and children, found his hat, put it on, and walked back onto his streets.
***
Before Fellows returned to the Yard, he went back to Waller’s flat to tell his wife Waller had been caught and arrested. He’d waited to see the man securely locked into the police van and trundled away to face a magistrate before he’d gone.
Mrs. Waller, Fellows knew, had nothing to do with the murders; she was a victim as much as any of the people her husband had killed. She’d been the one who’d saved the children, not Waller. Fellows went to tell her she was now safe from her husband.
The residents of the area did not like policemen. They hadn’t much liked Waller, the Marylebone Killer, but even so, they’d been closemouthed when Fellows had questioned them. Now the men and women on these streets stopped what they were doing to watch Fellows pass. Fellows knew his face was bruised and bloody, but his walk and his grim look would tell the others who’d won the fight.
Mrs. Waller was upset, confused, grieved, and relieved at the same time. She promised she’d look after the children and keep them well, and Fellows believed her.
The rooms she lived in weren’t a hovel, but they weren’t a palace either. Fellows handed her a few coins before he left. He also stopped and had a word with her landlord, saying he’d be back if the landlord turfed out Mrs. Waller because her husband had been a murdering bastard. She needed help, not blame.
Fellows left, hearing muttered words behind him. But he hadn’t come here to make friends. He’d come to stop a killer and save a family, and that he’d done.
Now he needed a bath, a thick pint of beer, and a good night’s sleep.
But it wasn’t meant to be. First he’d have to report to his superiors then spend the rest of the day and into the night writing up a concise documentation of the investigation and arrest. The reward for his valor would be paperwork.
Fellows walked into his office to cheers. Word had already gotten around how he’d landed the Marylebone Killer, embellished, no doubt, by the constables who’d been on the scene.
“Well done, sir!” Detective Sergeant Pierce sang out as Fellows entered his inner office. “Fought your way through three men, single-handed, did you, sir? And then dragged out our killer by the hair, him begging for mercy?”
“Exactly,” Fellows said, and Pierce laughed.
Fellows collapsed to the chair behind his desk, drew out a clean handkerchief, and dabbed at the wounds on his face.
“Don’t get too comfortable, sir,” Sergeant Pierce said, annoyingly cheerful. “One’s come over the wire from Richmond. Asking for you specifically, Chief.”
Bloody hell, what now? “I’m on leave, Sergeant. Starting immediately. That is, after I spend all night writing a boring report.”
“Sorry, sir.” Pierce didn’t look one bit sorry, the sod. “Detective Chief Super wants you to take this. Police in Richmond telegraphed. A bishop dropped dead at a fancy garden party in the middle of a load of toffs. They think it’s foul play, and they want a detective from the Yard. They want it handled with kid gloves, and they specifically want you.”