by Alex Grecian
“She? You mean there’s a policeman who’s a woman?”
“Oh, no, of course not. But she helps us sometimes. With certain things.”
“There should be, you know. There should be a policeman who’s . . . well, a policewoman.”
Day didn’t know what to say to that. The thought had never crossed his mind and he doubted the commissioner would ever consider such a thing, but he only smiled at the poor girl.
“Could I see the picture? The picture she drew,” Hatty said.
Day took out the drawing of the Harvest Man and unfolded it. He hesitated before handing it to Hatty, but she reached for it and took it from him. She sat staring at the piece of paper for a long time before handing it back to Day. She didn’t look up at him, but continued to gaze down at her hands.
“That’s him,” she said. “It looks like him. But he has a . . .” She reached up and touched her ear. “It’s bent or chewed or something. His ear is.”
“That’s interesting. Thank you, Hatty. That’s quite helpful.”
“You’re going to catch him, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know if I will, but if I don’t Inspector Tiffany will, or Inspector Blacker, or my friend Mr Hammersmith. He’s not going to get away, Hatty. He can’t anymore. He’s done too much and left too wide a trail for us to follow.”
“But he can still kill more people until you get him.”
Day looked away. She was right and he didn’t want to lie to her. But when he looked back at her, she was smiling. It was a small sad smile, but it made Day think there was hope for her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you’re doing your best.”
“We are. I promise we are.”
“Do you think he’s still somewhere nearby?”
“I have to think he is. He can’t have gone far out in the open. He’s used to hiding. Or at least going unnoticed. There are too many people out looking for him. His instinct would be to go to ground somewhere.”
“In someone’s house, you mean.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But not in this house?” She was tense again, looking around at the corners of the room.
“No,” Day said. “Not in this house, I don’t think. He likes attics and there isn’t one here.”
She visibly relaxed.
“Tell me, though, there’s a face above the door outside, on the front of this house. A sad face . . .”
“Tragedy. It’s from the theater. Eugenia puts on performances for all the neighbors. Though I don’t know why she hung those ghastly faces, since she so rarely actually does a story. There’s no comedy or drama, only still-life portraits.” She waved a dismissive hand in a circle at shoulder level, indicating the many canvas likenesses of Eugenia Merrilow hung around the room.
“At least no comedy,” Day said.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s only the tragedy mask out there.”
“No. She has both.”
“Are you sure?”
Hatty nodded her head and opened her mouth to respond, but looked at him and closed it again. Finally, she spoke. “You’re telling me one of the masks is missing. The smiling mask isn’t there.”
“Yes.”
“It was there last night.”
“When did you come here?”
“Last night?”
“Today. When did you arrive today?”
“Eugenia brought me from the hospital this morning.”
“Did you notice the masks then?”
“I don’t remember. I wasn’t looking.”
“But it’s possible the smiling mask was hung in its customary spot above the door when you came home with Eugenia this morning.”
“It’s possible. I just don’t remember looking up at them. I wasn’t . . .”
“Of course, you had other things . . . Perhaps we could ask Miss Merrilow.”
“Do you think it’s important?”
“Probably not. Nothing to get excited about. But I’d still like to know.”
“Then let’s find her and ask.” Hatty rose and went to the door.
Day followed and she took his elbow. She seemed brighter at the prospect of having something to do and he hoped Eugenia Merrilow would plan activities for her in the next few days. She might never get over the murder of her husband, but she was a young girl and it was still possible for her to find happiness again if the Harvest Man was caught. Day allowed himself to be led away in search of Hammersmith and Eugenia, but his mind was elsewhere. He was certain the Harvest Man had come to this house, had taken the grinning mask from above the door. He needed something to replace the lost plague mask. But where had he gone after that? Day was confident they were close now. They were going to catch him.
49
The Harvest Man felt secure and comforted in the small space. It was even better than an attic, since it surrounded him on all sides. He was thankful he had never grown up big and strong like an adult. Only a boy could fit where he had gone. It was lucky, too, that he had lost the plague mask with its massive beak. He could never have brought it under here with him. The new mask snugged against his face, flat and close. It made him sweat, but sweat was good. He lay on his back and concentrated on breathing slowly, quietly, ignoring the heat.
A man and a woman entered the room and they stood talking perhaps two feet away from the Harvest Man. He could hear their voices almost on top of him and he wondered if he’d be able to touch their ankles if he only reached out and tried.
“Of course a larger room would suit me better,” the woman said. “But we’re still able to fit fifty people in here at a time.”
The man sounded bored. “If you took out that platform, more people could fit.”
“Silly, that’s my stage.”
“What do you do there?”
“I enact famous scenes from paintings and poems and sometimes from plays, although anyone can put on a play. I try not to be too awfully common,” the woman said.
“And people come here to watch you do that?”
“The whole street comes, the whole neighborhood, and many important people from all over London. My performances are famously well attended.”
“Like a costume ball?”
“No, nothing like a costume ball. I swear, Mr Hammersmith, you act like you’ve never seen a tableau vivant.”
“Not sure I have.” The man’s voice—the woman had called him Hammersmith—sounded disengaged. He was humoring the woman; even the Harvest Man could tell, but the woman kept talking about herself as if Hammersmith cared.
“We have fabulous sets designed by the great, and as yet undiscovered, George Bristol. Those go up behind the stage and we change them out, depending on the performance. The next one we do, and I haven’t decided what it shall be as of yet, but the next one we do we’ll take down this curtain. And the new set, whatever it is that George designs, will cover those windows instead, you see?”
“Hmm.”
“And I design my own costumes. You should see me. The last one I did there was no costume. I was completely nude.” The Harvest Man could hear a change in her voice. She was flirting with Hammersmith, trying to get a reaction from him. The Harvest Man had heard his mother do that sometimes when she spoke to his father, but he was reasonably certain these two people were not his parents. His father had cared a great deal for his mother. It was clear that Hammersmith did not particularly like this woman. “Well, I shouldn’t say completely nude,” the woman said. “I did wear a wig.” And she giggled.
“Is that so?” Hammersmith’s voice was clearer now. He had moved closer to the Harvest Man’s hiding place. “What is this, three feet high?”
“Two and a half,” the woman said.
“What’s under it?”
“We store George’s old flats and
cutouts under the stage, in case we need them again. They stack quite well, but it’s full now. We’ll have to find a new place to keep them. Would you like to see? I can have Pritchard pull some out from under. In fact, if you’d like I can throw on one of my old costumes and give you a demonstration. A sort of private performance. You should hear me sing!”
“Oh, thank you, but no. I would like to take a look under there, though, if you—”
“Pritchard!”
The Harvest Man changed his grip on the razor in his right hand. He decided to wait until the little door at the side of the stage opened and then he would reach out and slash anything nearby. With luck, he’d be able to use the ensuing chaos to crawl out and escape.
“Ma’am?” This was a new voice. An older man.
“That was quick, Pritchard,” the woman said. “You must have been right outside the room.”
“Indeed, ma’am. I was coming to inform you that we have another visitor. An Inspector Tiffany.”
“Tiffany’s here?” Hammersmith was moving away from the stage now. “What’s he want?”
“He didn’t say, sir. Shall I tell him . . .”
But now the voices trailed away as the three people left the room, their footsteps fading down the hall. The Harvest Man relaxed his grip on the razor and closed his eyes. The moment had passed. He had time now.
He would wait.
50
Hammersmith,” Inspector Tiffany said. “What are you doin’, always underfoot? This is a police matter, not for you.”
“This isn’t a crime scene,” Hammersmith said.
“Do you live here? No? Then what’re you here for?”
“This is my home,” a Rubenesque woman said. “Well, my mother’s. I’m Eugenia Merrilow.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“And this man is my guest.”
“He’s been warned about interfering,” Tiffany said. “He’s not a proper—”
“He’s with me,” Day said. He came limping into the entryway on the arm of Hatty Pitt. “What brings you here, James?”
“Where’ve you been at, Day? Don’t you know everybody’s out lookin’ for you?”
“For me? Why?”
“It’s your babies,” Tiffany said. “They’ve gone missing.”
Day came quicker across the room than Tiffany would have imagined he could. “Babies? You’re talking about the twins?”
“That’s right,” Tiffany said. “I think so, anyway. They told me it was a little girl.”
“One little girl?”
“I didn’t hear. All I know, there’s somethin’ not right with your babies. Somebody came and took ’em and they’re gone.”
“Who? Who took them?”
“That giant friend of yours. Ran out the house with ’em.”
Day turned to Hammersmith. He was pale and shaking. “Henry.”
Hammersmith shook his head. “Henry wouldn’t do that.”
“I’m sure it’s all right,” Tiffany said. “Some sorta misunderstanding.”
“The bird,” Day said. “Oliver, remember? He was trying to tell us something.”
“He wanted you to follow him.”
“I should have.”
“No way of knowing,” Hammersmith said.
“I have to go,” Day said.
“I’m going with you.”
“No, someone has to stay here.”
“Tiffany can stay,” Hammersmith said. “It’s his job, after all.”
“It’s why I’m here,” Tiffany said.
“Listen,” Day said. “The Harvest Man is somewhere nearby. Very close by.”
“I know it. Jones and I almost caught him, too.”
“He’s taken the smiling mask from the front of this house.”
“There isn’t an attic, is there?” Tiffany looked up at the chandelier.
“No. But we’re missing something, something about this one. I just can’t figure out what. Regardless, I don’t think Hatty’s in any danger. He’s never stalked anyone.”
“That we know of,” Tiffany said.
“I don’t think that’s how he works, how his mind works.”
“You go,” Tiffany said. “Take care of your family. And if you see Jones out there, take his horse. It’ll get you there faster than a carriage will. I’ll coordinate the search from here.”
Eugenia stepped in front of Tiffany. “My house is not a police station,” she said.
Hammersmith leaned in and whispered something to her and Eugenia’s eyes widened. “I suppose,” she said, “it might make a good story. But I’ve never done an original production before.”
Before Tiffany could figure out what she was talking about, the front door banged shut and he realized he was alone with the two women. Day and Hammersmith had both gone.
“Good luck,” Tiffany muttered under his breath. “And Godspeed.”
51
The sitting room of the rented cottage was crowded with people when Day and Hammersmith burst through the door. Claire stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by other people and holding one of the babies. Her mother was there, along with Dr Kingsley and his daughter, the boys Robert and Simon, and the twins’ governess, who was sobbing uncontrollably while Eleanor Carlyle patted her on the back. When she saw her husband, Claire gave the baby to Fiona and rushed to him, throwing her arms around him.
“He took Winnie,” she said.
“Are you sure it was Winnie?” As the words left his mouth, Day realized how daft he sounded. Of course Claire was sure. And if she wasn’t? What did it matter which of the twins was missing?
“He took her!”
Kingsley went to the decanter on the sideboard and poured Day a drink. “Henry came here earlier in the day, a couple of hours ago, I think. He was wet and may have fallen in the canal. He went upstairs and took one of your daughters from her cradle, then left with her. My daughter was here and she and Claire chased Henry into the park. They lost sight of him there.” Day took the glass of brandy and swallowed its contents. He handed the glass back to Kingsley, who raised his eyebrows. “Another?”
“Thank you, but not just now. Is anyone—”
“There’s a search party being led by Mr Carlyle. I planned to join them myself, but wanted to wait until you got here. I’m going to give Mrs Day a sedative, but she insisted that she see you first.”
Day nodded. “Yes, thank you.” He took Claire’s arms and led her to the daybed, laid her down. He sat next to her and smoothed his hand along her forehead. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hair was damp where it lay against her cheeks. “Henry wouldn’t hurt the baby, darling,” Day said. “I can’t tell you—”
“Why? Why did he take her?”
“I don’t know why, but we’ll find him.”
“I don’t care about him. Only Winnie.”
“I understand. But don’t worry now. She’ll be just fine. I’m sure he’s taken good care of her.”
“Oh, Walter, what if—”
“Don’t let your mind travel down that path, darling. You rest. Nevil’s here with me. And your father’s out looking. Between us, and with Dr Kingsley’s help, we’ll find the baby.”
“Oh, Walter, don’t let Nevil go. He’ll be killed if he goes out there. Something awful always seems to—”
“He’ll be fine.” Day looked up at Kingsley. “Do you have that sedative?”
“Here.” Kingsley hovered next to them for a minute, blocking Day’s view of his wife, then stood back, a syringe held neatly out of sight under his arm. “That should start to work in a moment or two.”
“Walter?”
“Yes, dear. I’m here.”
“Walter, I can’t go to sleep.”
“You must try.”
“If I go to sleep, I might never see
you again. Just like Winnie.”
“That’s not . . .” He stopped talking when her eyes closed and her breathing evened out. He sighed and stood up. “Will she be all right?”
“She’s had a shock,” Kingsley said. “But the sedative will help.”
“Thank you, Doctor, but what will really help is if we find that baby while she’s asleep.”
“I thought I might check Henry’s home, that ridiculous room in the lamppost. It’s possible he went back there.”
“You said he was wet when he arrived here?”
“Yes, that’s what Fiona told me.”
“He might be hiding near the canal,” Hammersmith said.
“I have another idea where he might be,” Day said, “but it’s only the slimmest possibility.”
“One possibility is as good as another right now,” Kingsley said.
“If we split up, we’ve got a better chance of finding him quickly,” Hammersmith said. “I’ll head down to the water.”
“Take my revolver,” Day said. Claire’s concern for Nevil echoed in his mind.
“I don’t need it,” Hammersmith said.
“I’d feel better if you had it.” Day pressed his Colt on Hammersmith, who took it reluctantly, a sour look on his face.
“Now, you’ll be unarmed.”
“No, I have my new sword stick. Doctor, let’s find something for you.”
“I don’t like carrying weapons. It’s against my oath to cause harm.”
“But surely for self-defense . . .”
“I’ll be fine. Henry wouldn’t hurt me. Honestly, he wouldn’t hurt anyone. This isn’t like him at all. He must believe he’s playing some sort of game.”
“I think that’s exactly what’s going on,” Day said. He didn’t give voice to his private fear. Henry really wasn’t acting himself, which meant he might be acting on someone else’s behalf. He might not intend to harm Winnie, but if he was being used as a pawn in someone else’s game, the baby could still be in grave danger.
Kingsley turned to Fiona. “Watch Claire and take care of the remaining baby. Lock the door after us and do not let anyone in until at least one of us is back here.”
