by Alex Grecian
She had begun to drift back to sleep when she heard a commotion and Eugenia Merrilow bustled into the room past the protesting guard, who followed her in.
“Hatty,” Eugenia said. “Oh, Hatty.”
Eugenia came to the side of her bed and sat there. She leaned in over Hatty’s stiff and unresponsive body and she hugged her. Eugenia’s shiny aquamarine dress crinkled against Hatty’s face. She smelled of orange blossoms and frankincense.
Eugenia did not let go of her. She sat there, bent awkwardly across the bed, and whispered in Hatty’s ear. “You poor dear. You shan’t stay here another minute. You’ll come home with me today and you’ll stay there as long as you need to. As long as you want to. I’ll take care of you. John Charles would have wanted me to.”
Hatty thought of John Charles at the kitchen table and she thought of the strange singing man who had eaten her biscuits. She suddenly remembered the name of the song. It was called “The Children’s Home.” Without understanding why, Hatty burst into tears. She lifted her arms and hugged Eugenia back and the two of them stayed that way for a very long time. Eventually, the guard returned to his post by the door.
• • •
INSPECTOR WALTER DAY SAT by his daughters’ makeshift bassinet in his father-in-law’s rented cottage and watched them sleep. One of them moved in her sleep, smacking her sister in the face with one chubby little paw. He smiled and put out his hand and she grabbed his thumb instead. She opened her eyes and he thought perhaps she smiled at him, but he wasn’t sure if babies were able to smile. It might have been gas.
He sat and stared at his girls until his eyelids grew heavy. Claire entered the room and came up behind him. She rested her hands on his shoulders and he put his cheek against the back of her wrist.
Eventually he kissed each of the babies good-night, blew out his lantern, and allowed Claire to lead him out of the room.
• • •
ROBERT LAY AWAKE curled up next to Simon in an armchair before the guttering fire and listened to his brother whimper in his sleep. Mrs Carlyle and Mrs Day had piled extra blankets around the chair and Mrs Day had apologized that there was no room to put them somewhere more comfortable. The cottage was crowded and she promised that better accommodations would be found for them the next day. But Robert could see that Mrs Carlyle didn’t particularly want the brothers there. He heard her arguing with Mrs Day about them. She didn’t understand why her daughter had kept the boys for another night.
They didn’t belong.
They didn’t belong anywhere now. Their parents were dead and they didn’t know any relatives well enough to want to go to them. There was nowhere for them in the world anymore.
But Claire Day was kind to them and that was something. She had fed them and given them shelter. Robert liked her very much.
Simon cried out and Robert reached for his hand. He lay there without sleeping and watched the fire die. He prayed that Mr Day would not take them someplace where he and his brother would be separated and they would have to start all over again. The orphanage did not sound nearly so nice as an armchair in any house with Mrs Day in it.
FINAL DAY
The coach is at the door at last;
The eager children, mounting fast
And kissing hands, in chorus sing:
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!
To house and garden, field and lawn,
The meadow-gates we swang upon,
To pump and stable, tree and swing,
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!
And fare you well for evermore,
O ladder at the hayloft door,
O hayloft where the cobwebs cling,
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!
Crack goes the whip, and off we go;
The trees and houses smaller grow;
Last, round the woody turn we sing:
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!
—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, “FAREWELL TO THE FARM,” A Child’s Garden of Verses (1885)
MORNING
The rain stopped just before dawn, but the sun rose behind rolling grey clouds and a fine mist clung to the ground. Primrose Hill was hushed and empty, as if all the blood spilled the previous evening had sent every living thing there into hiding. The only sound was that of the canal, filled by the storm and rushing through its channel.
Day stood when Inspector Tiffany entered the Chalk Farm Tavern. Tiffany looked about with distaste and made his slow way to Day’s table at the back, passing those three solicitors who seemed to have made their offices at the counter. With Hammersmith the population of the tavern was now seven.
“I’m glad you made the time,” Day said. “Thank you for coming.”
“Might’ve known you’d be found here,” Tiffany said.
“My neighbors have had quite enough excitement. This is less conspicuous than meeting at the house. Would you like a drink?”
“Early for me, but you go ahead,” Tiffany said. “Mr Hammersmith, been a while since we saw you.”
Hammersmith nodded and shook Tiffany’s hand. Day got the proprietor’s attention and held up two fingers.
“So,” Tiffany said when they had sat down. “You two have been up to old tricks. Killed some people last night, did you?”
“I had to shoot one man,” Day said. “That’s the extent of it. But he killed another before we could stop him. You knew Inspector McKraken?”
“He was a good man,” Tiffany said. “Before my time, but I’ve heard he was an excellent policeman in his day. Up from the river police.”
“And he was possibly more than that,” Hammersmith said. “McKraken’s murderer was trying to draw a design in chalk when we stopped him.”
“We stopped him too late.”
“We did stop him too late,” Hammersmith said. “I blame myself. I didn’t act quickly enough.”
“You were first out the door,” Day said. “You were on Ridgway before I could even get my revolver out.”
“Whoever did whatever,” Tiffany said. “What’s this about chalk?”
“The Karstphanomen,” Day said. “We think it’s what Ridgway shouted at McKraken when he stabbed him. And the chalk is what’s been drawn near some of the bodies we’ve been finding these last few weeks.”
The proprietor of the Chalk Farm appeared at Tiffany’s back and reached across him to place two whiskey shots on the table in front of Day and Hammersmith. Hammersmith slid his over to Day without looking at it. Day picked up the first of his two drinks and drained it in a swallow, smacked his lips, and wiped them on the back of his hand. He let the second drink sit untouched for the moment.
“Your conspiracy theory,” Tiffany said.
“Well, however you’d like to explain it, there are indisputable similarities between some of the recent murders we’ve seen.”
Tiffany nodded. “Aye, I’ll concede that.”
“And McKraken’s murder fits one of those patterns. Or it was staged to remind us of that pattern. Either way, we’re meant to think that McKraken was Karstphanomen.”
“A secret society of torturers?”
“Who tortured the wrong man and are now being punished for it.”
“Whatever the reason,” Tiffany said, “this Ridgway fellow killed McKraken and you killed him. Case closed and good riddance to bad rubbish. What irks me is I sent for you, Mr Day, and you never came.”
“By the time we sorted the bodies and got things cleaned up, it was late. By then I had no way of knowing where you were. I decided this morning was soon enough.”
“And now the Harvest Man has had another night to find another victim.”
“I had two very upset little boys, two bleeding bodies, and a houseful of excited women. You had the entirety of the police force at your disposal and you’re the one who insists I’m better of
f behind a desk than out making inquiries. I’m sure my presence wouldn’t have mattered one way or another to your investigation.”
Tiffany sat silent, staring at the tabletop. Day took the opportunity to down his second shot. Finally, Tiffany looked up and sighed.
“All right, I admit it,” he said. “There are some things you do pretty good. I’ve got a witness, someone who escaped the Harvest Man.”
“So I heard,” Day said. “Congratulations.”
“Yes. It’s a good break. But she’s hysterical. Wouldn’t talk to me at all. I thought of you. Thought maybe you could draw her out, get something from her that might help us. Kingsley puts a lot of store in your abilities and I thought we could maybe put ’em to the test.”
“I’d be glad to talk to her. But of course it’s entirely possible she just needs time.”
“Time’s not something we have a lot of. The house this girl came from is empty now. And he left behind another corpse. As bad as the others, maybe worse. Like he’s getting angrier, impatient. It’s not going to go well for his next victim.”
“It hasn’t gone well for any of them,” Hammersmith said. “Has it?”
“You stay out of it,” Tiffany said. “Not even sure why you’re here. You’re not police and you can bugger off for all I care.” There was an awkward silence before Tiffany threw up his hands and slammed them back down on the table. “Damnit,” he said. “I apologize, Nevil.”
“No, you said what you meant. I respect that.”
“I bloody well did not. Just goddamnit tired of these killings. All these bloody goddamn killings. Pardon my language. I don’t mean to lash out at everyone.”
“We have something for you that might help,” Day said. “It’s why I asked you round here.”
“What’s that?”
Day reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and produced a folded piece of paper. He laid it on the table and carefully flattened it out before sliding it across to Tiffany.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s your killer,” Day said. “It’s the Harvest Man. What you wanted from your witness last night, a description of him, I was here getting from the previous witnesses. Or, rather, Fiona Kingsley was getting it from them.” He caught the proprietor’s eye again and held up a finger.
“The previous witnesses,” Tiffany said. “The children, you mean. They drew this?”
“Fiona Kingsley drew it.”
“That’s Kingsley’s little girl?”
“I wouldn’t say she’s a little girl,” Hammersmith said.
“But that’s the one, right? You’re saying the children told her what to draw?”
“Exactly right,” Day said. “They described him to her.”
“They saw him?”
“He lifted his mask, his plague mask. He thought they were sleeping. He put a cloth with something on their pillow. They say it smelled bad. I think it was probably ether. That would fit with what we know about his methods. Anyway, he apparently thought it would keep them from waking while he did his business on their parents, but it was weak and didn’t work. Maybe it was even the same cloth he’d already used on the parents.”
“And they saw him,” Tiffany said. His voice had changed from incredulity to triumph.
“And they described him,” Day said. A shot glass was set in front of him and was almost immediately emptied. Day’s cheeks had begun to tighten, as if pulled back along the contours of his skull, and he felt focused.
“How good is the doctor’s daughter? How accurate do we think this is?”
Day noted the use of the plural we. Tiffany had suddenly accepted them as his equals. Or he had joined them as one.
“She’s very good,” Hammersmith said.
“Yes,” Day said. “I’ve seen her draw from life and it’s amazing work. Of course, in this case, she couldn’t see the thing for herself, but we watched her at work and I think she got all the right answers from them. It’s the next best thing to seeing the bastard ourselves. I’d suggest showing this to your witness.”
“I will,” Tiffany said. “I may need to borrow your artist if Hatty Pitt sees anything here that ought to be changed.”
“Fiona’s had a busy night. Nevil and I asked her to relay an important message for us to her father, and it would be good if she were able to sleep as much as she needs, but she’ll no doubt return at some point to be with Claire across the park. Here . . .” Day took the illustration of the Harvest Man from Tiffany, turned it over and scribbled an address, then shoved it back across the table. “My father-in-law’s address. The children are there, too, but . . .”
“Hopefully, I won’t need to bother with the children,” Tiffany said. “Sounds like they’ve had a rough time of it lately.” He rose and pushed his chair back. “Thank you for this.” He held up the drawing and nodded as if to himself, his eyes far away. He appeared ready to say something else, but then changed his mind, turned, and stalked out of the tavern without a backward glance.
“I wish you’d kept that,” Hammersmith said. “The picture, I mean.”
“Why?”
“I’d like to help look for the Harvest Man, of course.”
“Don’t you have enough to do, Nevil?”
“I’m at an impasse. The cuff link was my only clue and it led to Alan Ridgway, not Jack. That wasn’t Jack.”
“I know it wasn’t.”
“It was a false clue.”
Day wasn’t so sure. Alan Ridgway had been sent with a message for Day. The cuff link had been left in the alley for Hammersmith to find. Day was certain of it. They were being manipulated, toyed with, and Day felt cold panic in his gut. He had no idea what Jack was playing at, or why. Or when that monster would strike next.
“There’s a hundred constables combing through every bit of shrubbery for the Harvest Man,” Day said.
“Only a hundred? Then they could use one more man, couldn’t they?”
Day smiled and reached back into his pocket. “Or perhaps two more men. What do you say to this?”
He produced another piece of paper and unfolded it. The shrewish features of the Harvest Man stared out at them.
“Fiona used carbon paper,” Day said.
41
Kingsley paused outside the Whistle and Flute and mustered his resolve. He had much to do today and there really wasn’t time for this particular errand. But if what Hammersmith had told him was true—and he didn’t doubt it; Nevil Hammersmith was among the most straightforward and guileless people Kingsley had ever known—this was important, too. He wondered where Henry was. The giant would be a comforting presence this morning, but Kingsley’s assistant had not shown up at the office. The doctor assumed he was with Day and his family or perhaps somewhere with Hammersmith. It wasn’t like him, though, to be absent without leaving some token, a message with a nurse or a student.
Kingsley focused his attention on the sign above him while he lit his pipe. The faded and peeling sign showed the two musical instruments crossed over the front of a suit of armor. An optimistic twist on the Cockney rhyming slang for the word suit. His first match sputtered out before the pipe was lit and Kingsley snuffed it between his fingers. It took two more matches to get the thing going. He deposited the spent matches in his pocket and found the letter Nevil had given him, then he stepped forward and pushed the front door open.
Although the pub was apparently open for business, it was not bustling with clientele. Kingsley was certain the door only remained unlocked so that the unsavory people who used the place as an office could have free access. There was a barmaid hard at work cleaning chairs and tables, or at least circulating the dirt on them with the use of a filthy rag. She looked up at him with a scowl. He waved her off and she went back to her ineffectual occupation with a shrug. The only other person in the room was a sinister-looking man in the far corner, readi
ng a newspaper in the shadows. It probably wasn’t good for his eyes, but Kingsley decided he’d keep that advice to himself. The man didn’t look like he much cared.
Kingsley made his way over to the man and stood at the table until he put his newspaper down and looked up.
“Yer in the wrong place, mate,” the man said. “Move along.”
“Do you, by chance, go by the name Blackleg?”
“Aye. I do.”
“Here.” Kingsley held out Hammersmith’s letter of introduction and Blackleg took it. He looked it over and tossed the letter on the table. It landed atop the abandoned newspaper. He pushed out a chair with his foot and Kingsley sat across from him.
“Your friend Hammersmith presumes an awful lot,” Blackleg said. But he was chuckling, a broad smile only partially hidden behind his bushy black beard.
“I’m offering my services,” Kingsley said. He puffed on his pipe. “Take them or don’t, I have other things I ought to be doing right now. I have the body of a murderer on my table. I have a victim, a separate victim, the subject of some other murder entirely, whose face has been peeled off. He’s on another table. I have the corpses of two retired Scotland Yard inspectors to look at. One killed himself in prison. I’m told he swallowed his tongue. The other was stabbed to death on the front steps of my good friend’s home. For his sake, I’d like to get to that one first. Besides all that, I have three bodies dredged up by the river police in the night, a child strangled in Coventry, and a woman who was crushed and then ripped in two when she fell off the dock in the path of an arriving skiff that scraped her along the pilings. I have a very busy morning ahead of me. So make no mistake, this is a favor I’m doing for Mr Hammersmith, not for you.”
Blackleg sat back and regarded Kingsley for a long moment while smoke wreathed the doctor’s head, then he nodded and leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table.
