Lost in Time

Chapter 1: Coming Home, 1918

Chapter 1: Coming Home, 1918

The empty police office smelled the same. Dusty formality, sweat, exhaustion, and boredom. The sun came in through the high arched windows and turned the dust motes in the air to clouds of golden haze. The dark wooden desks shone and the chairs were in the same positions they had been in four years ago. Even the paperwork piled on the surfaces looked like it hadn’t shifted an inch.

Alec stood for a moment in the open doorway and took it all in, re-acclimatizing. He still felt odd in his civvies, even more so now he was back at work. For four years, ‘work’ had equaled a uniform, webbing, puttees, a Webley revolver on his hip, and a red cap. Now he was in one of his pre-war suits, slightly too small across the shoulders, and an overcoat that smelled of mothballs. He took it off and hung it, with his hat, on the tall umbrella stand by the door.

“Can I help you?” A pleasant, light voice came from behind him as he turned back. A chap leaned in the open doorway on the right of the room, cup and saucer of tea balanced in one hand. He was wearing an immaculately-cut pinstripe suit. Alec immediately felt shabby. He stepped forward, regardless, holding out his hand.

“Good morning. I’m Alastair Carter. The new inspector.”

The other man smiled and moved to put his tea down and clasp Alec’s hand with a warm, firm grip. “Ah, yes, the Super said you’d be starting today. Will Grant. I’m your sergeant. Very pleased to meet you.” He picked his cup up again. “Come and get a cup of tea and I’ll show you around. We’re rather short-staffed, I’m afraid. There’s just me, Laurence, and Percy. Desperately glad you’ve arrived. We’ve been puttering along, but there’s plenty to get stuck into.”

He busied himself pouring tea from a pot on the desk in the small office he’d emerged from. “I’ve been in here, but I’ll clear out into the main office. It’s the Inspector’s cubbyhole, actually. You were stationed here before?”

“Yes, for a few months. It’s not changed much.” He looked around. Vesper had been the inspector in ‘14. The old man had retired a few months ago, well past the age he should have been pensioned off. During all his time in France Alec had known he’d come back, but he hadn’t thought he’d come straight in again as an inspector. They were desperately undermanned though, Wolsey had said yesterday when he’d gone down to Scotland Yard to see him.

Poplar had always been Alec’s patch even as a uniformed constable and he was happy to be able to slide back into an area he already knew. It was a distance from his house out at Hampstead, but it was interesting, necessary work that included the docks and some poor areas he considered in more urgent need of policing than the richer areas to the west of the City of London. He’d been offered a choice between his old station at Wapping and a new start somewhere further west. Of course, he’d chosen Wapping. Being handed a promotion as well was a pleasant and unexpected surprise.

“No hurry to move out just now,” he said to Grant. “There’s plenty of space for me to settle in around you whilst you shuffle paper. Have you been here long? You weren’t here before the war, were you? I don’t remember you.”

“No, I got a Blighty in ‘15 and came back here after I got on my feet again. After a fashion. I was only just out of uniform, over in Holborn when I joined up, but they needed the men and I was it, so Detective Sergeant Grant it was.” He grimaced ruefully. “We’ve been doing a lot of learning on the job, but we’ve managed. A bigger team is a huge relief. And a boss here on site.” He coughed apologetically, hand over his mouth. “And someone who can run a hundred yards without expiring.”

Alec raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Belgian front,” Grant replied, with economy.

“Ah.” That had been bad. Alec had seen the results of several gas attacks himself and it would go with him to the grave. It was only too easy to imagine what Grant had gone through both during and after the event. That poet fellow, Owen, had had it down to a tee.

Alec had come across a pamphlet of poems one day a week or two ago, kicking round Bloomsbury waiting for the Met to get back in touch with him. Graphic stuff that had made him even more grateful it was all over. He considered mentioning it to Grant and then thought better of it. He didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the man. If he was as competent as he was pleasant, there was the makings of a good team here.