by Alex Grecian
Oliver Boring sat up straight and his ample stomach pushed his desk an inch away from him.
“Sir?”
“I just said that there are eleven of you, but I only count ten. Where is Inspector Gilchrist?”
“Patrick, sir? I don’t know, sir. He’s always busy, always hopping, you know.”
“Apparently so. I have just realized that Mr Gilchrist is the only one of my detectives I’ve yet to meet.”
Day glanced at Gilchrist’s desk. It was the cleanest of all the desks in the squad room. In fact, Day was sure nothing had been moved on that desktop in the past week.
Sir Edward’s brow creased and he sniffed. He turned his back and drew a handkerchief from his trouser pocket. The detectives looked around the room at one another, and Day recognized that there was something being silently communicated among them. After a moment, Sir Edward turned around to face them again.
“I apologize,” he said. “I’ve got a bit of a chill and thought I was going to sneeze just now. What was I saying?”
Tom Wiggins cleared his throat.
“You was sayin’ Patrick Gilchrist is the one you ain’t met yet,” he said.
“So I was. That in itself is bothersome, but it is particularly so on a day such as this. Are we sure he’s quite all right? Has anyone seen him in the past twenty-four hours?”
He held up a finger and turned away again, his handkerchief flying to his nose. Day watched the detectives. Every man in the room looked at Inspector Gilchrist’s spotless desk. Then they all looked at one another again. He had met barely half of them in the course of the week and spoken to maybe three of them. They were busy, in and out of the building at all hours, and there had been no time for niceties. But he knew them by their desks. He had memorized where each of them sat so that he would be able to talk to them in the future without confusion. He knew Oliver Boring, of course, and Jimmy Tiffany. He knew Michael Blacker and tiny Crockett O’Donnell. This was the first time he’d laid eyes on Tom Wiggins. He glanced at the other desks, doing his best to associate these faces with the names he already knew: Inspectors Alan Whiteside, Waldo George, Waverly Brown, Ellery Cox. There were so few of them. And there was so much death for them to deal with.
And he suddenly understood something about them.
If there was one thing Day felt he was good at, it was reading people. He had an honest face and most people opened up to him easily, but even when they didn’t, he was able to read their expressions, no matter how they tried to compose themselves. This ability made it easy for him to trust others and that often led to the mistaken belief that he was naive.
But he wasn’t naive.
He waited for Sir Edward to turn back around.
“That sneeze won’t leave me,” Sir Edward said. “While we wait for it to present itself, who has seen Mr Gilchrist?”
“I have, sir,” Day said. “He was by earlier this morning. Hot on the trail of a dangerous criminal. He asked me to tender his apologies.”
“A dangerous criminal, you say? I suppose there’s no better excuse. But please tell him that I’d like to see him at his earliest convenience.”
Sir Edward looked down at the cigar box on Gilchrist’s desk. He drew in a deep breath before looking up at the room again.
“You are my Murder Squad,” he said. “You were all chosen for this unit because you have demonstrated exemplary skill in solving crimes. You are among the best that Scotland Yard has to offer. Therefore you are the most qualified to solve the worst crimes in London. Many of you are still carrying cases having to do with robbery, missing persons, assault, and the like. For eleven of you to try sorting out the murders in London is a difficult task. Perhaps an impossible one. But for you to take on the burden of every crime is ridiculous. Your morale is already low, and Mr Little’s fate can do you little good in that regard. In addition to helping Mr Day with this case, if he so deems, you will also sort through your files and remove anything that doesn’t have to do with murder. You are to deal with no cases that are not to do with murder. You are experts on murder now.”
“What makes us experts on murder?” Oliver Boring said.
“I do,” Sir Edward said. “Now, when I arrived here,” he said, “I asked that you limit your duties and take on no new work that wasn’t to do with fatalities. It was my expectation that you would gradually work your way through your cases and be left with nothing but murders. That has not happened. Your workloads are simply too large. And so I now ask you to take every case that is not a murder across the hall and give it to the sergeant on duty there. He will pass those cases along to the other detectives. Or to the many constables whose job it is to deal with common crimes.”
“Sir, the other detectives’ve got their hands full with the dockworkers’ strike. They don’t got no more time than us.”
“No. You’re right, they don’t. But murder trumps all. You are my elite detectives, the select few chosen to excel at solving the most heinous of crimes. And, beginning today, you will act the part. A member of my Murder Squad has himself been murdered, and that will not do. You will find the man responsible for this crime and he will pay.”
He waited for his words to sink in, nodding almost imperceptibly to himself.
“Take care,” he said. “I cannot afford to lose another man.”
He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but then turned without another word and closed himself in his office.
A moment later, Day jumped at the sound of a hurricane-level sneeze that shook the walls of Sir Edward’s office.
5
Well done, old man. But how did you know?”
Day turned to see Inspector Michael Blacker staring up at him, a mischievous grin at play beneath the limp ginger mustache.
“How did I know what?”
“That won’t do, old boy. Nobody’s seen Gilchrist round here since he upped to Wolverhampton last year. Heard he’s a bona fide shopkeeper there now. But you knew he wasn’t here and you carried on our little joke with Sir Edward. How did you know?”
“Intuition, I suppose. The behavior of everyone since I arrived as regards Mr Gilchrist and his empty desk. You might want to make it look like it’s being used if you want to continue pretending he’s working here.”
“But that’s just it. Patrick was the most cleanly of the lot of us. That desk looks just the same as it did when he was here.”
“I think that’s why he left us,” Tom Wiggins said. He walked over to stand with Day and Blacker. Oliver Boring and Ellery Cox followed behind him. Boring reached out and clapped Day on the shoulder.
“Work here was too untidy for the likes of him.”
“A nice little shop in the Midlands is what a personality like his calls for,” Cox said. “Probably serving tea to old ladies at this very moment.”
“Discussing the weather, they is.”
Wiggins minced about the room and pitched his voice high, mimicking an old Black Country woman. “Oh, it’s quite brisk out today, don’t you think, Mr Gilchrist?”
“If it’s brisk you want,” Crockett O’Donnell said, “then you’ll want a holiday in London right about now.”
“Oh, did you know I used to be police round in London?” Boring said. Day was sure Gilchrist couldn’t possibly have sounded like Boring’s lisping impersonation. It was more likely a sign of contempt. One of their own had washed out and left, his tail between his legs. Gilchrist had failed. There was probably a certain amount of fear in Boring’s mimicry: There but for the grace of God go I, and do I have what it takes for the long haul?
“Why, let me tell you about a grisly murder I saw there, Mrs Dalrymple,” O’Donnell said. He, too, had pitched his voice high and sounded much like a teenaged girl.
“Oh my, no. That sounds dreadfully … well, dreadfully dreadful, Mr Gilchrist.”
“More tea, then?”
“Yes, please. And some for my dog as well.”
By now the other men were laughing despite them
selves at the impromptu play being enacted by their friends. They were all exhausted and worried and they had lost a colleague. The laughter eased the pressure in the room. Day was laughing along with them, despite never having met Patrick Gilchrist. A small part of him, the part that was always the outside observer, felt silently pleased to be included.
“But why you?” Wiggins said. His voice had returned to its normal pitch.
The laughter gradually died and the detectives’ eyes all turned toward Day.
“Pardon?” he said.
“Why did Sir Edward choose you for this one? You didn’t even know Little.”
“I was first at the station when the trunk was opened. I don’t think there’s more to it than that, but I have to think it’s something of a relief for you, since all of you are so overworked. I don’t have many cases yet and have more time to dedicate to this.”
“There’s time and there’s skills,” Ellery Cox said. “The one’s of no use if you haven’t the other.”
“Go to it, then,” Tiffany said. “Just don’t come to me when you get stuck. I’ve plenty enough to deal with.”
“Little was one of our own, Jimmy,” Cox said, “and he still deserves the best we’ve got. Not a fresh-faced kid. No offense intended.”
“How do we know Day’s not the best we’ve got?” Blacker said. “He could be.”
The others stopped arguing and looked at Blacker. There was a long silence. Finally, Tiffany cleared his throat.
“I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?” he said.
He walked back to his desk, sat down, and began sorting files. One by one, the others followed suit, returning to their desks, until Day and Blacker were left standing in the middle of the squad room alone.
“Thank you,” Day said.
Blacker shook his head.
“Don’t prove me wrong,” he said.
6
Nevil Hammersmith lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. He blew the smoke upward and inhaled the scent of it. Across the room, Dr Kingsley arranged a freshly laundered sheet on the bare wooden examining table. The table had been washed down countless times with lye and water, and the timber gleamed in the light of a nearby electric lamp before the white sheet settled gently down atop it.
A girl leaned against the far wall of the laboratory hugging a large tablet of paper to her chest. Hammersmith estimated her age at somewhere between twelve and fourteen. Her long hair fell straight past her shoulders and her dress was too short; she had clearly outgrown it. She kept her eyes on Kingsley. The girl had not responded to Hammersmith’s greeting, and Kingsley hadn’t made any attempt to introduce them.
The odor in Kingsley’s laboratory was almost unbearable, but neither the doctor nor the girl seemed to notice. Detective Inspector Little’s body had spent a night and the better part of the next day inside a trunk in a warm train depot, and there were no windows in the cramped lab. Hammersmith couldn’t blame Constable Jones for leaving immediately after they’d delivered the trunk. It would be up to Hammersmith to assist the doctor with his examination.
“Here now, we’re ready for him,” Kingsley said.
Hammersmith took another drag of the cigarette and ground it out against the inside of a spittoon next to the door. He positioned himself between the trunk and the girl and made a point of looking the other way as he reached into the trunk. Little’s body was solid, heavy like a river rock. The detective hadn’t been a thin man in life, and death had somehow added weight. Hammersmith struggled with the legs while Kingsley lifted the dead man from the other side, his hands hooked under Little’s armpits. The two men shuffled sideways and gave a great heave. Little flew through the air, bounced once, and settled on the table. Maggots plopped loose onto the wood and wriggled around looking for shelter while Kingsley scurried about, straightening the sheet under the body.
While Kingsley busied himself, Hammersmith stooped and peered into the empty trunk. There was a shoe, flattened and wet. Reflected light glistened on the laces. Something small and round, about the size of his thumbnail, was partially hidden beneath the toe of the shoe, and Hammersmith poked at it. The object moved. He got a fingernail under its edge and peeled it away from the bottom of the trunk. A thick dollop of congealed blood clung to his finger and a sticky black web stretched out toward him as he lifted the object. He wiped it on the leg of his trousers. Under the green light of the laboratory, the object appeared to be a smooth button, wrapped in fabric and stained with blood.
“Fascinating,” Kingsley said. “Come here, Constable.”
Hammersmith reluctantly approached the table, where Kingsley had already removed Inspector Little’s jacket. The doctor was carefully cutting the dead man’s shirt off. The shirt was rigid and stained brown, with irregular patches of its original white showing here and there. Hammersmith noticed a small mustard stain on Little’s shirtfront and focused intently on it.
“I may have found something, sir.”
“Something?”
Hammersmith held out the round object, and Kingsley peered at it. He picked up a pair of metal tongs from a nearby table and plucked the object from Hammersmith’s hand, holding it up to the light.
“It’s a button,” he said.
“It doesn’t appear to match Mr Little’s clothes,” Hammersmith said.
“Very good, Constable. No, I’d say this is a furniture button. From a sofa or a chair, perhaps, or possibly even a mattress.”
“Not from the trunk.”
“No, the trunk is riveted, not buttoned. This may be relevant, Mr Hammersmith. It’s a good find.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Kingsley plunked the button into a shallow enameled dish and turned back to the corpse on the table.
“Now, let’s see what Mr Little’s body can tell us, shall we?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re going to be looking for an amateur, I think, Hammersmith.”
“An amateur, sir?”
“Yes, look at the sheer number of wounds here.”
Kingsley paused and looked at the ceiling. He smiled.
“Sheer. Remember that, Hammersmith, sheer. I’ll want to come back to that in a moment. What was I saying?”
“Sheer?”
“No, the other thing.”
“The number of wounds.”
“Yes, the number of wounds. This wasn’t the work of someone who’s killed before. This person was desperate or very angry. I count-”
Kingsley stopped talking while he rolled the body on its side. Little’s arms and legs remained twisted and stiff. Kingsley rummaged around on a side table until he found a magnifying lens, and he stooped over the table, scrutinizing Little’s back. Hammersmith craned his neck, surprised that the rolls of fat around Little’s midsection hadn’t moved when the body did. The back of the corpse was bruised a deep purple, mottled with black around a ring of pale white where the body had rested against the bottom of the trunk. Already the sheet covering the examining table was sticky with old blood.
The girl followed Kingsley around the table and he murmured under his breath at her, pointing out areas of interest on the body, which she seemed to be sketching in her pad.
Kingsley jabbed his finger in the air repeatedly, silently counting, and turned to Hammersmith with a scowl.
“There are at least twenty-two separate puncture wounds here, most of them nonfatal.”
“Lord.”
“Indeed. Little was in the fight of his life. Many of these wounds were shallow and occurred perhaps at the beginning of the altercation, before the killer had committed to the deed. There’s a great deal of distortion in the wounds, as well, most likely from Little’s twisting and turning his body as he struggled with his assailant.”
Kingsley demonstrated by twisting and turning his own body, holding his arms up as if to ward off an unseen assailant.
“I believe this was not a premeditated attack. If I were to guess, I would say the killer made up his mind to mur
der Little on the spur of the moment and followed through with increasing determination as they fought.”
Hammersmith lit another cigarette and noticed that his hand shook as he tried to hold the match steady. He took a small black notebook from his pocket and endeavored to take down what Kingsley was saying. Detective Inspector Day would get a report from the doctor when his examination was complete, but early information might help in the investigation.
“Now, I asked you to remind me of something,” Kingsley said.
“You did?”
Hammersmith looked up from the notebook. Behind the table, with its ghastly banquet, a gasogene bubbled quietly. The green liquid inside it cast a faint sickly glow over the immediate surroundings. An enormous jar on the back counter held a pair of thick rubbery babies, joined at the skull. A man’s face floated in another jar, the skin pulled taut with nearly invisible wires. Hammersmith could see the man’s eyelashes and upper teeth, all carefully preserved.
The girl, seemingly oblivious to the horrors surrounding her, was bent over her tablet of paper, a chunk of charcoal in one hand. Her light-colored hair shimmered with green highlights. Hammersmith felt seasick.
“Yes,” Kingsley said. “I distinctly remember asking you to remind me of something.”
“What was it?”
“I put it out of my head because you were going to bring it back up.”
“Oh.”
“Well, come on, man.”
“Sheer,” the girl said. “You mentioned the word sheer as you rolled the policeman over.”
Her voice was flat and soft, and she never looked up from her tablet of paper. Hammersmith moved closer and peered over her shoulder. She had sketched the body and was carefully noting the positions and sizes of Little’s wounds on her drawing. Hammersmith thought the likeness was amazing.
“Yes. Yes, thank you, my dear. That’s what you’ll be looking for, Hammersmith. The weapon.”
