The Harvest Man

by Alex Grecian

  She left her door wide open, ran and kept running, blind in the rain and the haze and the pounding of her heart, beating so fast, until she slammed pell-mell into the side of a horse and heard a man’s voice yell, “Whoa!” And Hatty fell unconscious beside a skidding carriage in the middle of the road.

  36

  The Harvest Man watched the Woman Who Was Not His Mother leave the house. Some part of him noted that she had forgotten to close the front door behind her. But he couldn’t focus on her or the door because he was choking. He knew he ought not to have run from the kitchen with his mouth still full of biscuits. He should have sat and waited until he could swallow, perhaps taken a sip of water, before following the woman. She was small. He could have easily caught her before she went too far from the house. But he’d rushed things and now he would die here in the hallway. He supposed he deserved it because he’d been rude and left the table. Children mustn’t forget their manners.

  All of this flitted through his mind in the first seconds after the woman left him, and then blind panic took over as he tried to breathe. He dropped to his knees, his vision fuzzing out at the edges, darkness moving in. His chest convulsed and he crawled into the kitchen, moving on instinct, unable to think clearly. There was the Man Who Was Not His Father sitting at the little table. The man had not eaten his own biscuit yet, but he smiled at the Harvest Man. There was kindness in his face that was not a face. The Harvest Man raised his hands to the man, imploring him silently to help. The moment he moved his hands from the floor, he fell forward and slammed into the hardwood beneath him. The whole kitchen shook. The force of the impact expelled all the air in his lungs and a great gob of mushy biscuit dough flew from his mouth and skidded across the kitchen floor.

  Exhausted, the Harvest Man rolled over and lay there on his back, panting, watching the Man Who Was Not His Father and who had not helped him. The man began slowly to move, leaning forward as if trying to get a better look at the Harvest Man, then, more quickly, the man toppled forward so that his head hit the plate. It looked like he was finally sampling his biscuit.

  The Harvest Man sat up and rubbed his chest. He closed his eyes and got his breathing under control. After a few moments, he got his feet under him and stood. The front door was still open and he could see that it was raining quite hard now. Everything beyond the threshold was lost in a wet grey fog.

  The woman had left him and now more people would come. She would bring them. They would take him away, back to the Bridewell place, where his parents never visited, and he would not be allowed to look for them anymore.

  He went to the window he had used to get into the house and opened it. Rain bounced off the windowsill and sprayed his face with a fine cool mist. He hoisted himself up and clambered through the opening, dropped to the ground outside, and walked away.

  37

  Day had just started up the steps to his home, trying to move between raindrops, when he spotted two faraway grey figures approaching from around the curve out by the park. One was tall and painfully thin with a lot of wild dark hair. The other was petite with straight pale tresses. The shorter of the two had a parcel under her arm and neither of them was holding an umbrella. Fortunately, Inspector McKraken did have an umbrella and he shared it with Day, who waited impatiently on the steps for the other two to catch up, the file he’d taken from the Yard safe and dry under his jacket, keeping company with his revolver and flask.

  McKraken cleared his throat. “I don’t want to alarm you,” he said, “but there’s someone been following you, lad.”

  “Following me?”

  “Seen him a time or two slinking round under that tree across from here.”

  Day squinted into the rain. “I don’t see anyone there now.”

  “Could be the rain’s kept him away.”

  “Well, we’re right near the park,” Day said. “Perhaps it was just someone relaxing in the shade.”

  “Could be.”

  “But do keep an eye out, will you?”

  “It’s what I’m here for,” McKraken said. And he winked at Day.

  When Hammersmith and Fiona Kingsley mounted the steps, Day was already swinging the door open and they all hustled inside, leaving McKraken out on the porch under his umbrella. Day also left his makeshift walking stick outside, propped against the side of the house. Claire hadn’t complained about it, but Day had noticed that the thing left big brown splotches wherever he walked. He must be making a mess for the new staff to deal with.

  Before he could tell Hammersmith what he’d discovered in the Murder Squad archives, the housekeeper appeared with freshly laundered towels for everybody and Day was struck for the first time by her efficiency and usefulness.

  When they were all reasonably dry and Hammersmith’s hair was standing on end in a ruinous tangle that they all pretended to ignore, they left their wet boots by the door and adjourned to the sitting room, where Robert and Simon were playing with Henry, having only recently woken up and eaten a late breakfast. Oliver, the magpie, flew over and perched on Day’s shoulder for a moment before returning to the mantel. The boys immediately stopped what they were doing and picked up all the cushions and pillows from the floor—where Day could see they had been building another fortress—putting them all back where they belonged on the furniture. The housekeeper bustled Henry and the children out of the room and returned with an armful of throws, which she draped over the sofa, daybed, and chairs to protect them from wet clothing. When she had gone again, Day, Hammersmith, and Fiona sat down.

  “Nevil, I think I may have found something to help you,” Day said.

  “Fiona and I have discovered something ourselves,” Hammersmith said.

  “Your killer’s name is—”

  “It’s Alan Ridgway.”

  “It is,” Day said. “That’s just what I was going to tell you.”

  “But how did you . . .”

  “Here.” Day pulled out the slim file folder and passed it over.

  Hammersmith opened the folder (Day noticed with regret that he’d accidentally bent a corner of the folder when he jammed it under his jacket) and began reading.

  Fiona stood up and took a step toward the sitting room door. “We found his name by the letters on the cuff link,” she said.

  “So it was a clue, after all,” Day said.

  Hammersmith looked up, smiling. “It would seem so.”

  “While you two sort things, I’m going to check on Claire,” Fiona said. “If that’s all right.”

  “Of course,” Day said. “She’ll be glad to see you. I wonder why she hasn’t come down. Surely she heard us arrive.”

  “I’ll find out and be right back. Promise you won’t say anything too awfully interesting while I’m gone?”

  Hammersmith looked up again from the report on his lap. “We won’t,” he said. “This Ridgway bugger is just as much your discovery as mine, you know. Maybe more so.”

  She blushed and fled from the room.

  Day pointed at the long parcel she’d been carrying, left on the floor beside the daybed. “What have you two brought?”

  “Nothing to do with me,” Hammersmith said. “Something Fiona decided on.” And with that, he went back to reading the file. Day had already looked it over. There wasn’t a great deal of information about Alan Ridgway, but what was there was damning. After the standard physical description of Ridgway, there followed three items: Ridgway had been caught exposing himself to a prostitute in the East End in February. He’d been arrested and sentenced to two months hard labor on the docks. The week after he’d returned home, another prostitute had been stabbed near where Ridgway had originally been arrested. She had survived the ordeal and had described Ridgway in exacting detail. He had consequently been arrested once more, but his mother had given him an alibi for the evening in question and she could not be shaken on it. The arresting officer, Inspector Gerar
d, had decided that the word of a working girl could hardly be considered unassailable, particularly when weighed against that of the widowed Mrs Ridgway.

  Day grew impatient watching Hammersmith read. He stood quietly and went out to his study, where he refilled his flask from the decanter there. He hadn’t mentioned McKraken’s warning to Hammersmith, but he was mildly concerned. He could think of only one person who might want to follow him. But that made little sense. Jack knew where Day lived already, knew where he worked. If he wanted to harm him, Jack could do it at any time; he didn’t need to run around in the rain keeping tabs on him. Day hoped the person under the tree was nothing more than McKraken’s overactive imagination, but he was troubled just the same.

  When he returned to the study, Hammersmith was still reading. After the second incident, the case had been left open and Ridgway had been set free. But days later, Mrs Ridgway had been found floating in the Thames. Again, Alan had been brought in for questioning—this time by Inspector Michael Blacker of the Murder Squad—but there had been no compelling reason to level charges. There was no physical evidence found on his mother’s body and, after all, she was his alibi. Why would he have killed her?

  Still, Inspector Blacker had made a note in the margin of his report, a note that made it quite clear he didn’t like Ridgway and he didn’t believe in his alibi. Blacker simply hadn’t been able to find a reason to arrest him. He was certain Ridgway had, in fact, murdered his mother and he intended to keep an eye on the suspect.

  Hammersmith closed the file and looked up. Day held out his flask.

  “You’re still wet, Nevil. Take the chill off.”

  Hammersmith shook his head. “No, thank you. There’s no address in here for him.”

  “I saw that. I checked and it seems Ridgway moved out of their home as soon as his mother was buried. It’ll be a bit of work running him down now.”

  “But we’ll find him.”

  “He’s not Jack.”

  “No.”

  “But you like him for these new murders?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s the one.”

  “I think so, too. Let’s find him.”

  “Find who, dear?”

  Day turned to see Claire, Fiona, and Mrs Carlyle entering the room with Robert, Simon, and Henry. Claire came to Day and kissed his cheek. Hammersmith stood and nodded his head politely at Mrs Carlyle, but she didn’t see him. She was busy watching the bird on Henry’s shoulder. She appeared ready to cook it and serve it up. Day was certain that poor Claire had already received a lecture about letting animals in the house. With his wife in his arms and the sitting room full to bursting with people, Day felt a sense of comfort come over him that he hadn’t felt in months. Perhaps a full staff of servants would mean more company in the house. And perhaps more company was exactly what he and his wife needed.

  “Nevil and I were just discussing business,” he said. “Mum, have you met Nevil?”

  “No,” Mrs Carlyle said. She tore her eyes off Oliver and took a step back when she saw Hammersmith. “What’s happened to you, young man? Did you fall into a rubbish cart? You’re a mess.”

  Hammersmith smiled weakly. “It’s raining?”

  “It is raining,” Henry said. “We can’t go outside anymore today or we’ll get messy, too.”

  “Claire, run and fetch this boy a clean shirt,” Mrs Carlyle said. “One of Walter’s. I’m sure there’s nothing we can do about his hair.”

  “Oh, no, thank you,” Hammersmith said. “I don’t need a shirt. This one’ll be fine. It’ll dry.”

  “There’s a soup stain on your sleeve. That’s already dried, unless I’m mistaken.”

  “I’ve only recently had that stain pointed out to me.”

  Day sighed and moved to change the subject. His mother-in-law was merciless. “What have you been doing today?”

  “Your wife has been staring out the window and writing doggerel,” Mrs Carlyle said. “Time well spent.” By the expression on Claire’s face, Mrs Carlyle’s sarcasm was not lost on her daughter.

  “The boys have had a nice morning,” Claire said. “Haven’t you?”

  Robert and Simon nodded in unison. They were standing side by side just inside the door, staring down at their shoes, suddenly shy in the presence of so many people. Simon perked up, though, and pointed at the parcel on the floor.

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, no,” Fiona said. “I should have thought to bring the two of you something.”

  “But you didn’t even meet us until just now,” Robert said. “How would you think to bring us gifts?”

  “Just the same. I knew I was going to meet you today. I promise I’ll make it up to you both.”

  “But what is it?”

  “Simon,” Robert said. “It’s not our business what it is.”

  “It’s all right,” Fiona said. “That’s a gift for Mr Day.”

  “For me?”

  “You can open it now, if you’d like.”

  Day shot an inquiring look at Hammersmith, who shrugged. “As I said, it’s all her doing,” Hammersmith said.

  He bent and picked up the parcel, handed it over to Day. It was cylindrical, four feet long, and Day already had a feeling he knew what it might be.

  “You shouldn’t have,” he said.

  “You’ve been very kind to me,” Fiona said. “I only wanted to do something nice to pay you back. After all, I spent months under your roof.”

  “The whole time helping Claire.”

  “Still, you were patient about the disruption.”

  At the word disruption, Day’s gaze went unconsciously to Claire’s mother, who was standing back, still eyeing Hammersmith with poorly concealed distaste. Still, she had put her hand on little Simon’s shoulder, giving the anxious boy a half hug.

  “Open it,” Robert said. He seemed excited, though the gift was not for him, and Day realized that this was a welcome good surprise, a balance, in some small way, against the horrific events of the past couple of days.

  He smiled at the boys and tore the wrapping from the tube. He upended the parcel and a dark polished walking stick slid out into his hand. He tossed the empty tube on the sofa and held the cane up, admiring the way the light picked up deep red highlights in the wood. The end of it was capped with a simple silver knob.

  “That’s very . . .” he said. He had to stop and collect himself. “You’re too kind, Fiona. Really, I can’t accept it. It’s too much.”

  “It was far less than you might think. The man who sold it to me got it for a song, he said, and he let me have it for almost nothing. Please, do take it. You need a new one.”

  “You do need it,” Claire said.

  “What, you don’t like the tree branch I’m using now?”

  “Open it,” Fiona said.

  “But I did open it.”

  “No, twist the handle and pull.”

  Perplexed, Day did as he was told. There was the sound of ringing metal and the sharp scent of sparks and he pulled out a rapier from the inside of the cane.

  “It’s a sword stick!”

  “I want one,” Robert said.

  “I want one, too,” Simon said.

  “You’re always in danger, it seems,” Fiona said, “and perhaps this might come in handy. It was the only one of its kind that the man had.”

  “Walter’s liable to stab himself in the foot with that,” Claire said. But she was smiling.

  “Thank you very much, Fiona,” Day said. “You’re terribly thoughtful.”

  “I have something for you, too,” Fiona said to Hammersmith. “It’s not quite complete yet.”

  “Oh, I don’t need anything.”

  “You need a clean shirt,” Mrs Carlyle said.

  Claire raised her eyebrows at Day and he took the hint. “If you’ll excuse me for
a moment,” he said to the room. He limped over to his wife, testing the new cane. He grinned at Fiona as he passed her and she smiled back, clearly pleased that he was using the thing. Claire took him by the arm and led him from the room.

  Out in the hallway, she leaned in close to him and whispered, “She got something for Nevil, too, did you hear?”

  “Yes. You know, I can’t possibly keep this. It must have cost her everything she had.”

  “You will keep it, Walter. She had to get you something, don’t you see?”

  “Had to?”

  “Yes. Because she’d already got a gift for Nevil and she can’t very well just give it to him. She’s got to give something to someone else as well, and she chose you.”

  “Why can’t she give Nevil something?”

  “Oh, you’re hopeless. As bad as Nevil. Completely oblivious.”

  “Oblivious to what?”

  “Just keep the cane, will you? You’d be doing Fiona a favor.”

  “If you say so. I do like it.”

  “Then it’s settled.”

  “How have you been getting on with your mum? She seems ferocious today.”

  “She hates everything. I think she hates me.”

  “She loves you. She’s just not comfortable with the sentiment and expresses herself poorly.”

  “She’s beastly about my rhymes.”