The Yard tms-1

by Alex Grecian

  The doctor stared at Hammersmith, who shifted his weight to his right foot and licked his lips. He wasn’t sure what Kingsley wanted from him.

  “The weapon?” Hammersmith said.

  Kingsley smiled and nodded. “Just so,” he said. “Of course, it’s generally impossible to determine the type of instrument used in a stabbing death. I can often tell you how long a blade was, if there happens to be a secondary wound made by a hand guard. That sort of thing can point conclusively to the length of the blade.”

  Hammersmith nodded, but he didn’t write in his notebook.

  “But this,” Kingsley said, “this is a slightly different matter. First, you’ve no doubt seen for yourself that there are no incision wounds.”

  Kingsley’s eyes gleamed in the room’s greenish glow, and Hammersmith didn’t see any point in correcting him. Hammersmith hadn’t noticed anything about the wounds because he had tried hard not to look directly at them. Kingsley went on.

  “Every wound on the inspector’s body is a stab wound. No blade was ever drawn across his flesh. When we couple that fact with my theory that this was a first-time killer, it becomes remarkable. Was there no hesitation on his part, no stuttering of the blade before it plunged in? And there is ample evidence of a struggle, so why aren’t Little’s hands cut? We know he tried to stop his attacker.”

  Kingsley indicated Little’s right hand, gesturing for Hammersmith to lean in for a better look.

  “You see? But that is only our first clue as to the murder weapon. Now here…”

  Kingsley swept his hand across the small table behind him until he found a short ruler. He measured several of the larger wounds. He set the ruler down next to the body and pried one of the wounds open with his fingers, bending over Little’s torso.

  “Rigor should leave the body within the next few hours, and then I’ll be able to get in there and tell you more, but even now…”

  He worked a finger deep inside the body and nodded to himself.

  “As I thought. Here we have our second clue. Those wounds that measure the same width across-in other words, those that were inflicted late in the attack and were the deepest, using the entirety of the blade-those wounds taper within the body. Do you see?”

  Hammersmith shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  Kingsley sighed and frowned at Hammersmith. A teacher addressing a slow student.

  “The weapon used here was shaped like a spade, sharp at its pointed end, but widening as it neared the handle. And it had no blade. Or, if it did have a blade, that sharp edge was covered or otherwise protected, which is why we find no slashes on the detective’s body, only stab wounds.”

  “So he was killed with a spade? No, he was killed with a pair of shears, wasn’t he? That’s what you’re getting at.”

  Kingsley beamed at him. “Exactly. The detective inspector was stabbed repeatedly with a pair of shears. They were closed at the time.”

  He picked up the scissors he had used to cut Little’s shirt off and turned them around to hold them under the handles, bringing his hand down above the body in a stabbing motion.

  “Like this,” he said.

  Hammersmith wrote in the little black notebook, his pencil flying across the pages.

  “So what do you think? We’re looking for a gardener perhaps?”

  The doctor smiled. “No,” he said. “Well, yes, it’s possible, but I believe that if you couple the discovery of the shears with the needle and the two colors of thread that were found with the body…”

  “Yes?”

  “The killer was not gardening, but was sewing something right before the attack.”

  “Of course. Sewing. Could it have been a woman, do you think?”

  “It’s possible. A great deal of force was used, but a woman’s fury may sometimes increase her strength to an amazing degree.”

  “So Little might have surprised his killer while she was darning something, or otherwise going about her household chores?”

  “I’ve only just started examining the body, but I wouldn’t discount the notion. Though we musn’t forget that button you found. It would seem to point to someone who was making or repairing a piece of furniture.”

  “A furniture maker?”

  “Or an upholsterer, perhaps. It’s not definitive by any means. The button may have been in the bottom of the trunk before Mr Little was placed there. Or he might have grabbed at an upholstered chair as he fell, pulling the button off. There’s really no way to say.”

  “It’s a clue, nonetheless.”

  “I will try to have more results for you as soon as I can, but at the moment, we’ve narrowed the list of suspects to furniture makers, tailors, seamstresses, nurses…”

  “Doctors.”

  “Hmm. Yes, I suppose so. And virtually every housewife in London.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I’m afraid there are too many wives in the city to question them all, but I will recommend that someone pay a visit to Detective Inspector Little’s widow right away.”

  “It’s a place to start.”

  7

  The house in Kentish Town at the edge of London proper was well beyond the salary of a Scotland Yard detective. It had been a gift from Claire’s parents, a belated wedding present, bestowed upon Mr and Mrs Day upon their move to London. Day hated it. He wanted to provide for his wife, not take handouts from his in-laws.

  Day often wished, for his wife’s sake, that she had married a man who might provide for her in ways Day knew he never could. A man of wealth and taste and social standing. He knew that she had been wooed by better suitors than himself.

  There had, as usual, been no available police wagons when Day had left the Yard, and so he had stood on the footboard of an omnibus for more than an hour. His legs hurt and the muscles in his left arm were sore from clenching and unclenching against the railing as the horses had clomped their way across ruts in the dirt and cobblestones.

  When he arrived home, his forehead immediately beaded with sweat and he removed his hat and his jacket. The weather was unseasonably warm, but Claire had recently learned to light a fire and practiced the new skill every day. The parlor was stifling. Claire sat in a high-backed chair facing the hearth. When she heard the door, she dropped her sewing and ran to him.

  “I’ve missed you today.”

  “I’m afraid I’m only home for a meal and a quick wash-up. I’ll have to go back out. There’s a new case-”

  He sensed a shift in her attitude. The small vertical worry line between her eyebrows deepened, and her chin dipped just enough that her starched collar dug into the flesh under her jaw. Day drew a breath and braced himself for unpleasantness, but Claire surprised him with a quick hug.

  “There’s always a new case, Walter.”

  She stepped away from him, keeping her hands on his elbows. She frowned, but he knew that she wasn’t angry. She looked perfectly composed from the top of her sculpted blond hair to the tip of her high-buttoned boots, and he wondered at her ability to withstand the parlor’s suffocating heat all day.

  “Is there anything on the fire yet?”

  “Mrs Dick was here. She made mock turtle soup and I watched, but I’m not sure I can make it myself yet. I’ll learn.”

  Day made a face. “There was no real turtle available?” he said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t afford turtle. But mock turtle tastes almost the same, doesn’t it?”

  Day winced. The price of live turtle was two shillings a pound, and even the prepackaged variety of the fatty green meat was two pounds a tin. Turtle was for special occasions. Day would have preferred to leave mock turtle out entirely. It was made from gelatinous veal and didn’t truly resemble the taste and texture of the meat it mimicked, but he kept his dislike of it to himself since Claire seemed to find the stuff agreeable. He hoped the calf’s head had already been removed from the soup. He’d seen enough gore for the day.

  “So Mrs Dick has left already?”


  It was Claire’s turn to make a face. “I don’t like her.”

  “Why?”

  “She does the bare minimum to keep the place up, and she laughs at me when I ask her to show me things. It’s not my fault I don’t know how to properly mend a shirt.”

  Claire had grown up in a wealthy household with a phalanx of servants ready to cater to her every whim. Marrying Walter Day had plunged her into a world where she was expected to take care of her husband and household without the aid of much staff. Day made barely three hundred pounds a year. They could afford Mrs Dick, but there were no servants’ quarters in the little house at Kentish Town. Mrs Dick came once a day to help cook and clean and Claire trailed along after her, hoping to absorb some of the knowledge dribbled out by the older woman.

  “Did she sew it, then? The shirt?”

  “No, I did it myself, but she peered over my shoulder every so often to spy on my progress.”

  Claire smiled and went to the chair where the shirt in question was draped, perilously near the fire.

  “I’ve only just finished. Try it on.”

  Day removed his shirt and collar and let Claire help him on with the shirt she’d mended. She had a handful of buttons and poked them through, but the holes didn’t line up on both sides of the shirt. It bunched and puckered along his chest and felt tight across the shoulders. He hunched himself forward to avoid letting Claire see how short the sleeves were now.

  He smiled at her, but she scowled back.

  “Don’t you pretend to me. Look at this. It’s awful.”

  “Well, it fit better yesterday, but it didn’t button at all. So we’ve made some progress, haven’t we?”

  Claire kept the scowl for a few seconds and then relaxed, smiling back at him.

  “Progress, indeed. Just don’t tell Mrs Dick. I’ll hide this in the bottom of your bureau and we’ll never speak of it again.”

  “Agreed.”

  He reached for her and held her for a long moment. He knew she was unhappy, knew she was bored. The only way he could think to make her happy was to become a success. It was what she wanted for him. Then he could expand their household staff and she could return to the life of privilege she’d grown up with. Not completely, not on a detective’s wages, but things would improve. Day knew he could never return to his life in Devon. He needed his wife to be proud of him.

  “Why did you marry me, Mrs Day?” he said.

  “As I recall, you’d taken a blow to the head. I considered it my duty to keep an eye on you so you wouldn’t get into too much trouble.”

  “Good of you.”

  He winked at her and she smiled.

  He let go of her and turned away to put his old shirt back on. Claire took the “mended” shirt from him and folded it carefully. He was sure it would disappear into the rubbish pile before the week was out.

  “Lead me to the dinner table,” he said. “I’m famished and I have a long night ahead of me.”

  8

  Constable Pringle was waiting outside when Hammersmith left University College Hospital. Hammersmith’s stomach growled and he realized that he hadn’t eaten since early that morning. He’d missed both lunch and tea.

  “A quick stop at the tailor’s and we’ll grab a bite,” Pringle said.

  “You spend more time at the tailor’s than you do on the job.”

  “It’s been two or three days. Stopping there isn’t a daily occurrence.”

  “Close enough.”

  “Yeah? When’s the last time you were there?”

  Hammersmith looked down at himself. His blue uniform was dingy and greying. Blood was smeared across the front of his right trouser leg. He reached for his handkerchief, thinking he might at least wipe some of the blood away, but his pocket was empty. His handkerchief had been used to wrap evidence at the scene of the crime.

  “I don’t remember the last time I was there.”

  “Well, it’s high time. You have a single uniform, and it’s seldom cleaned or pressed or cared for in any way. You pay absolutely no attention to your general appearance, and it won’t do. No woman will want a scarecrow for a husband. You’ll grow old in that flat, long after I’ve moved out.”

  “I’m not worried about it, Colin. I suspect I’d be a bad husband, anyway.”

  “Well, it’s true that you’d have to spend more time at home than you do now. A wife will want attention paid to her.”

  “Exactly right,” Hammersmith said. “And who has time for it when there’s so much work to be done?”

  Colin Pringle opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, a cry came from behind them.

  “Hoy! Coppers! Over this way!”

  A huge bearded man who looked as if he’d been left out in the sun too long strode across the road toward them. Up close, the man’s green eyes shone brilliantly through the surrounding dark hair. They twinkled with intelligence, belying the man’s thuggish appearance.

  “You bluebottles is hard to come on, ain’t you?”

  “Is there something we can do for you, sir?” Hammersmith asked.

  As the man drew closer, Pringle took a step back, no doubt concerned about his spotless uniform.

  “Can I show you a thing?” the man said.

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Blackleg.”

  Hammersmith smiled. The name was more likely the man’s job description. It meant that he was willing to cross picket lines for work during a union strike. Hammersmith suspected Blackleg had long since forgotten the name he was born with.

  “What have you got for us, Mr Blackleg?”

  “It’s this way. C’mon with me, then.”

  They waited for an omnibus to roll past, the horses chuffing and foaming at the mouth, then crossed the road and followed Blackleg to an alley halfway down the other side of the street. Pringle leaned close to Hammersmith and whispered.

  “Nevil, my shift’s long since over. And so’s yours. I’ve got an appointment. Where’s the man on the beat?”

  It was a good question. London was divided into fifteen-minute segments, meaning that every beat cop was within fifteen minutes’ run from every possible spot in the territory he patrolled. Hammersmith had found and kept one of the big wooden wheels that had once been used to measure distance and to determine the size of each beat within the sprawling city.

  “Did you encounter any constables before us, sir?” he said.

  “No, sir, an’ I looked, you believe me. You’re the first I seen.”

  “I can’t ignore him, Colin.”

  “Let him keep looking. He’ll find someone else.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Don’t change the fact we’re off duty.”

  Hammersmith grimaced. He was never off duty.

  “Tell you what, you go on and I’ll see what’s what. I’ll catch up to you soon enough.”

  “I wouldn’t feel right leaving you. What if this bloke decides to take you on?”

  They both looked at Blackleg, who stood patiently at the alley’s mouth, waiting for their conference to end. At rest, he still seemed coiled and ready to spring. Blackleg looked like he was no stranger to violence. And Hammersmith wondered what other shadowy work the man was involved in, besides crossing picket lines.

  “I believe I’d be up to the challenge,” he said.

  Pringle raised his eyebrows. “You’re sure?”

  “Go on, Colin.”

  “You’ll be right behind me?”

  “I imagine I’ll arrive at the tailor’s at the very moment you do, if you dawdle a bit along the way.”

  “Right, then. I’ll see you.”

  And Pringle was gone, hurrying back across the street to disappear in the maze of fruit vendors and fish peddlers that lined the walkway. Hammersmith chuckled and joined Blackleg at the alley.

  “What happened with him?”

  “He had a pressing engagement. Lead on.”

  Blackleg nodded and gestured for Ham
mersmith to follow. Hammersmith hesitated before plunging into the alley after Blackleg. He could make out shapes in the dark, but no details. He drew his nightstick from the loop on his belt and stepped into the shadows.

  Blackleg was far ahead, silhouetted against the light from the other end of the alley, but Hammersmith knew better than to chase blindly after him. He walked carefully, peering into every dark corner and skirting the crannies in the buildings on either side of him. There were people in here, sleeping away the daylight hours. Perhaps they would awaken at dusk to ply whatever unsavory trade they practiced. Or perhaps they wouldn’t ever wake up again. Hammersmith left them where they lay and moved forward.

  He emerged unscathed at the other end of the alley, blinking in the sudden light. Ahead of him, Blackleg impatiently beckoned Hammersmith forward.

  The East End was a prosperous neighborhood, but had fallen on hard times over the past decade. Once-handsome architecture was no longer maintained or repaired, and the London poor-the working class, the beggars, the pickpockets, grifters, and drunkards-had all begun to claim it for themselves. There were oases of elegance to be found among the homes, and the nearby medical college still brought doctors to the area, but fewer doctors lived here now. Dignified old houses endured an uneasy proximity to some of the seediest pubs and opium dens in the city, and students who couldn’t afford homes in the suburbs were being edged out by vendors and streetwalkers.

  Blackleg led Hammersmith to a row of tall brownstones skirted by a black wrought-iron fence. The slate-grey building was dotted helter-skelter with small windows, and there was a garden area below street level, sunken behind the fence.

  Blackleg pointed down at the garden. It was accessible by a series of stone steps that were partially hidden by potted plants on the walk.

  “I was settlin’ in for a doze down there, right?”

  Hammersmith squinted at the other man and pursed his lips. It was a credible lie and Blackleg sold it well, but Hammersmith didn’t believe for a moment that he slept on the street or in sunken gardens. No, in all likelihood, Blackleg was an area diver, a criminal who broke into homes through their below-ground-level servants’ entrances and burgled the lower rooms. There was little doubt Blackleg had been casing the townhouse to make sure nobody was home.