The Harvest Man

by Alex Grecian

  “Bugs?”

  “That’s what I call ’em. Bad people, they’re nothing but little bugs trying to crawl out of the woodwork, but I squash ’em.”

  Simon continued to look worried, but he nodded. Thinking of the Harvest Man as a bug seemed to put the murderer in a new perspective that he liked. McKraken straightened up, one hand on the small of his back to ease the strain. He patted the boys on their heads and held the blue door open. He closed it after them the instant they’d crossed the threshold.

  Inside, the house was quiet and dim. Leland Carlyle had apparently gone to bed or had returned to his own place across the park. Both boys craned their necks and looked all round the entryway. Simon yawned, then scooted ahead of them to peer into the front room.

  “I would like to look in the attic, please,” Robert said.

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but we have no attic here,” Day said.

  Robert’s eyes widened and he ran a hand through his unruly dark hair. “No attic at all? Not even a little space?”

  “There is nothing at the top of this house except a roof.”

  “I’m hungry,” Simon said.

  “Oh, well, of course you are,” Day said. “I’m sorry. Come with me. Let’s see what we can scrounge back in the kitchen.”

  He was struck by how peaceful the house could still seem when there weren’t so many people underfoot. It made him think of the early days of his marriage, when he and Claire had been alone together.

  Someone had left a cold pork pie under a cloth on the butcher block. Day set the boys down and found two plates, two forks, and two squat cut-crystal glasses in the cabinet. The rough stick he had acquired from the forest thumped against the kitchen floor and echoed back from the walls. He poured water for the boys from the pitcher on the kitchen table and sliced the pie into four segments, gave them each a quarter of it. The meat was encased in a thick layer of gelatinous fat under the pastry shell, salty and delicious. He ate his quarter of the pie directly from the tin and it was gone in seconds. He looked up, surprised to see that Robert had finished his piece as well. He lifted the last quarter of the pie out onto Robert’s plate and watched the boys eat. Simon chewed every mouthful methodically, but Robert practically swallowed his food whole.

  “Cook said that pie was meant for the morning.”

  Day looked up at Claire, who stood in the kitchen doorway wearing a housedress, her hair up and her feet bare. He smiled at her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been some time since our guests enjoyed a meal.”

  “Then I think you’ll have to settle for eggs at breakfast,” Claire said.

  “I like eggs.”

  “I like eggs, too,” Simon said. “May I please have one now?”

  “My, you must be hungry,” Claire said. She went to the pantry and emerged with a discolored iron skillet and a bowl of brown eggs. “How do you like them cooked? I warn you, I can only make scrambled.”

  “I like scrambled,” Robert said.

  “You’re in luck. Except we’ve no milk for them, so they’ll be sort of mixed rather than strictly scrambled. I hope you won’t mind.” She cracked an egg and fished a piece of shell out of the skillet.

  “I like poached,” Simon said.

  “Then you, I’m afraid, are bound for disappointment, young man.” She frowned at the remaining eggs, then shrugged and began cracking them all, piling the pieces of brown shell beside the stove.

  “This is Simon,” Day said. “And this is his brother, Robert.”

  “Hello, Simon,” Claire said. “Hello, Robert.”

  “They’re going to stay the night with us.”

  “How lovely.” Claire rummaged about in a drawer and found a wooden spoon.

  “How are Winnie and . . .”

  “Henrietta?”

  “Yes,” Day said. “Henrietta. How are they?”

  “They’re sound asleep without a worry in the world.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Should I ask where your cane’s got to?”

  “A story for another time perhaps?”

  “Just so. Walter, would you step outside and ask Mr McKraken if he would also like an egg, since we seem to be having an early breakfast?”

  “Be but a moment.”

  McKraken claimed to be no fan of eggs, and Day stopped in the study to refill his flask. When he returned to the kitchen, Claire was sitting at the table with the boys, a plate in front of her. Robert had finished his second piece of pork pie and he and Simon were both tucking into huge portions of eggs and cold sausages and bread. Robert in particular seemed to be a bottomless hole. Claire was talking and Day stood listening.

  “. . . because it reminds me of something bad that happened.”

  “I hope nothing too terribly bad,” Simon said.

  “Our entire house will be like that,” Robert said. “The whole entire place will remind us of what’s happened.”

  “I suppose that’s why Mr Day didn’t take us there.”

  “I suppose it is,” Claire said. “But now that I’m in here with you, this kitchen doesn’t seem so bad after all. After tonight, maybe I’ll think about how I made eggs for you instead of the bad things that happened here.”

  “What were the bad things?”

  “You know, you’ve managed to pop it all straight out of my head. I don’t even remember anymore.” Claire looked up and saw Day standing at the threshold and smiled at him. He smiled back. He went to the stove and checked the pan, but the eggs had all been eaten. He shrugged and joined the others at the table.

  “If you like, I can find something else for you,” Claire said. “If you’re still hungry.”

  “No, not really. Mostly tired, I think.”

  “Cook’s going to be terribly angry with us. We’ve eaten everything.”

  Simon yawned again and this time it was contagious. Each of the others yawned in turn and Day stood back up, stretched, and picked up his stick.

  “I think that’s enough eggs,” he said. “Let’s find a place for you two to sleep tonight.”

  “I’ll make up the daybed,” Claire said. She rose and took her plate to the counter. “They should both fit if they don’t mind sharing.”

  “We need a bigger house, don’t we?”

  She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. Day cocked his head to the side and gave her his most disarming smile in lieu of an apology. She put her hand on his arm. “Someday soon, but there’s no hurry,” she said. “We’ll do just fine here for a little longer.”

  “We share all the time,” Simon said.

  “Then it’s settled,” Claire said. “Come with me and we’ll get you settled in here.” The boys stood and followed her out of the kitchen. As she passed Day, Claire winked at him and he knew he was forgiven.

  DAY TWO

  The rain is falling all around,

  It falls on field and tree,

  It rains on the umbrellas here,

  And on the ships at sea.

  —ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, “RAIN,” A Child’s Garden of Verses (1885)

  MORNING

  Nevil Hammersmith trudged up the stairs next to the confectionery shop. The scent of chocolate already suffused the entire building as the early-rising bakers and candy makers hurried to fill the front window with sweets, but Hammersmith barely noticed the smell anymore. He unlocked his door on the landing and went inside, closed the door after himself, and locked it. He found his way to the fireplace in the dark and lit the lamp on the mantel.

  The flat seemed dimmer and smaller than usual and he suspected that was because he would be spending more time there in the future. He was suddenly paying attention to his surroundings. There would be no more Scotland Yard to retreat to, no work to bury himself in. He would eventually have to find new employment and he wasn’t
qualified to do anything else that might bring him a sense of fulfillment or usefulness. Grim days ahead. Still, he had enough money saved to allow him to pursue Jack the Ripper for another week or two. Surely that would be enough, especially with Blackleg’s help. No madman, no matter how clever, could evade pursuit much longer than that.

  There was no kitchen in the flat, but there was a low table under the window that overlooked the street. Half a loaf of stale bread gathered dust there, along with a hard wedge of cheese. Hammersmith filled the pot from a basin on the windowsill and put it on the hotplate to warm. He tore a piece of bread from the loaf and ignored the crumbs that showered the floor at his feet. He would have liked a spot of cream and perhaps a sausage, but the bread and cheese and strong tea would be enough.

  After an hour or two of sleep, he would start again. He and Day would find the missing boys in the wood. And Hammersmith might even find Jack, too. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would begin the inevitable search for some new purpose in his life. He stared out the window as he waited for the water to get hot, and he watched over his city as lights began to come on in the dark buildings across the street.

  • • •

  ALAN RIDGWAY SQUATTED in the shade of the tall tree across the street from 184 Regent’s Park Road. His eyes hurt, but he was afraid to close them. He was afraid to fail the man Jack. Alan had been stationed beneath the tree watching the blue door when a cab had pulled up and a tall man who walked with a stick had helped two little boys down and escorted them inside the house. Alan felt certain the tall man was Walter Day, but he was confused. Who were the boys? And why had they been kept out so late at night? Alan had expected his first sighting of Walter Day to come in the morning, when the man left his home. Alan knew there were two babies inside the house, and the man Jack had told him all about Mr and Mrs Day, but now there were extra people and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do about them.

  Alan was not disturbed to find that there was a guard on the door, an older man with impressive whiskers. He’d been expecting that. The old man was much larger than Alan was, and Alan could see that he wore a revolver in a holster under his arm. The guard looked as if he could handle himself in a fair fight, which was not the sort of adversary Alan preferred, but he had his orders and he knew better than to cross Jack.

  He stretched and yawned and settled back against the tree. Alan would wait until Walter Day came out of his home again and he could deliver both his messages at once.

  • • •

  DR BERNARD KINGSLEY SAT in his office at University College Hospital and frowned at his desk. He chewed his lower lip while he thought. He leaned forward and picked up an empty water glass, set it in the center of the desktop, and frowned at it some more. He rose and went to a cabinet against the wall, rummaged inside, and came out with a handful of small items: a letter opener, a bottle of ink, a pen nib, a ball of string. He set them on the desk next to the water glass and stepped back. Then he reached out and rearranged them, picked up the ball of string and tossed it half a foot in the air, caught it absently in his right hand. He looked at the string and smiled. He turned his head, looking for someone he could talk to, but he was alone. He nodded to himself and began to unwind the ball, quicker and quicker.

  • • •

  THERE WAS A SINGLE constable guarding the murder scene when Inspector Jimmy Tiffany arrived. Nothing had changed overnight. He paused in the doorway and crossed his arms over his chest, scowled at the broken fireplace on the wall across from him. Muddy footprints were tracked everywhere through the parlor and down the hallway next to it. He stepped inside and looked up at the ceiling, stalling before taking the trek up the stairs, where he knew the bits of gore would have hardened overnight and the pools of blood turned to tar. There was nothing left here. He would search the house one more time, but it seemed impossible that there could be a clue left undiscovered. He decided to vacate the place by afternoon and let the landlord clean it all out.

  “Sir?”

  Tiffany jumped and turned around. A young boy stood on the porch, just outside the open door.

  “Is your name Tiffany, sir?”

  “It is. You have a message?”

  “From Inspector Day. He says to tell you that the boys is found safe and whole. He’s got ’em now and they’s asleep. He’ll bring ’em round the Yard later today if you wanna ask ’em questions.”

  The boy held out his hand, but Tiffany ignored him. He’d been paid already and didn’t need to collect twice for delivering a simple message. He turned back to the fireplace, took a deep breath of the rank air inside the house, and let it out.

  And he smiled.

  22

  Hammersmith was mildly annoyed with himself. He’d managed a full three hours of sleep, but still felt exhausted. He hoped his lack of stamina was a result of the chest injury and that he’d eventually be back in fighting form, but he was afraid he might finally be falling apart, an old man at twenty-three. He trudged along the hallways of University College Hospital, trying to look like he belonged, like he knew where he was going, but he got turned around three or four times and ended up backtracking before he found Dr Kingsley’s laboratory in the basement. It was empty, except for three bodies laid out on wooden tables at one side of the big room. Two of the bodies were missing their faces, skulls devoid of expression, staring up at the ceiling with empty sockets. Lamplight glanced across their cheekbones and scurried away into the empty sockets where Hammersmith imagined he could still see their eyes, somewhere deep in the shadows, watching him. He shuddered and left that room, went upstairs and, after getting lost again, finally found the doctor’s office. The door was open, but it was dark inside and Henry Mayhew sat on the floor in the hallway. The magpie Oliver hopped and strutted about in front of the giant, occasionally pecking at the clean floor, as if encountering invisible crumbs. At Hammersmith’s approach, the bird fluttered up onto Henry’s lap and cocked its head at him.

  “I was hoping the doctor might be in early today,” Hammersmith said.

  “Hullo, Mr Hammersmith.”

  “Good morning, Henry.”

  “I don’t know where the doctor is,” Henry said. “He’s usually here by now.”

  “So on any other day he’d be here.”

  “Usually.”

  “Just my luck. The one day I need him.”

  “Did something bad happen?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “The police never want to ask the doctor questions unless something bad’s happened. Did somebody get killed?”

  “I’m afraid so. Three ladies are dead and I’m on my way to see where their bodies were found. I’d hoped Dr Kingsley might go along with me. He’s more likely to find a clue than I am.”

  “He likes clues,” Henry said. “He finds them everywhere.”

  “That he does. Well, I suppose I’ll be off, then. Would you tell him . . . On second thought, never mind. No point telling him anything, is there? I’ll have seen what there is to see by the time he gets the message.”

  “You said you’re going to where the ladies was killed?”

  “I’m on my way there now.”

  Henry hoisted himself to his feet, towering above Hammersmith. The displaced magpie squawked and flew up to perch on Henry’s shoulder.

  “I’ll go with you, then,” Henry said.

  “Oh, well, thank you, but there’s no need.”

  “No, I think I’d better go. The doctor would want you to be safe. He went to a lot of trouble sewing you up when you was dead and he wouldn’t want you to die again. If them ladies was killed, the bad person might still be there.”

  “I assure you, whoever killed them is long gone,” Hammersmith said.

  “Have you been there before? To the place they was killed?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know who’s there?”

 
; “I suppose I don’t.”

  “Then it’s settled.”

  “Ah.”

  Henry stood perfectly still, like a statue of some Oscar Wilde fairy-tale character, staring down at him. Hammersmith blinked at him and decided there was no point in trying to argue. Besides, the giant might come in handy after all. He turned and walked away and heard Henry fall into step behind him. He led him down two wrong passages before finding the exit.

  23

  The sun had risen, but it didn’t reach far into the narrow alley, and it never would. The alley floor shifted under Hammersmith’s feet as he walked. Over time, the stones had been covered by a fine layer of silt, and stray seeds had taken root in the gloom. Tiny green shoots stretched upward with misplaced optimism. Hammersmith stepped carefully as he followed the glow of Blackleg’s lantern deeper into the dark. He trusted Blackleg well enough—after all, if the criminal wanted him dead, he could have killed him the night before and nobody would ever have found Hammersmith’s body—but even Blackleg might be unaware of the dangers at the other end of the alley. Hammersmith wished he had kept the extra lantern from the warehouse basement. He reached for his truncheon and was momentarily surprised that it was missing. He was unarmed and without authority. But still, as always, in over his head. He was glad of Henry’s comforting presence at his back. At last Blackleg stopped moving and stood in place over a spot in the haphazard shadow garden.

  “Here it was,” he said. “This is where we found her.”

  Hammersmith glanced back at the shard of pale light at the mouth of the alley, then joined Blackleg and squatted on his heels to examine the ground.

  “Hold that lower here, would you?”

  Blackleg obliged, bringing the lantern down close to a patch where the silt and stifled greenery had been worn away.

  “Your people trampled all over this,” Hammersmith said. He could hear Dr Kingsley’s influence in his voice and almost smiled.

  “Told you there wouldn’t be much to see,” Blackleg said.