by Alex Grecian
Hammersmith stood and stepped over the wall. He felt a drop of water hit his arm and he looked up. Another drop hit him in the eye and he gasped. He wiped his face with his sleeve and looked out across the street where the man from the carriage had also felt the rain coming. He was hurrying his two women and the child up the steps to the house. He was carrying a black leather overnight bag, and one of the women was lugging a much larger suitcase.
Hammersmith walked briskly across the street. He felt Pringle keeping pace. More raindrops splashed on his head and shoulders as he strode, his heels clicking against the cobblestones.
The man hadn’t noticed them yet. He was busy unlocking the front door. Hammersmith put his right foot on the bottommost step and cleared his throat.
“Excuse me, sir.”
The man visibly jumped and dropped his bag. The two women turned to look at Hammersmith, but the little boy stared up at the man, perhaps surprised to see his father caught unawares. The man turned slowly toward Hammersmith, looked down the steps, and pursed his lips, but said nothing. He had an elaborate beard that had been groomed into four outward-Jutting curls beckoned the eye, drawing attention from the rest of his long, horsey face.
“Are you the homeowner here?”
The man nodded, his curls bouncing on his chin.
“May I ask your name, sir?”
“Why, I’m Dr Charles Shaw.”
He said it as if the two police should already know him, as if everyone should know him.
“My colleague and I are with the Metropolitan Police. We’d like a word with you, please.”
Charles Shaw turned back to the door and got it open. He ushered the two women and the boy inside and closed the door behind them. He looked up at the black sky.
“It’s late, Constable, and it’s beginning to rain. Perhaps you’ll come back at a proper time?”
Hammersmith ignored the irritation in the doctor’s voice.
“Beg pardon, sir, but you don’t seem to be home much of late, and I’d hate to miss this opportunity to talk to you.”
Shaw stared at Hammersmith so long that Hammersmith thought the doctor might come down off the porch and hit him. He watched Shaw’s hand curl into a fist, relax, and then curl up again. Behind Hammersmith, he could hear Pringle shift from one foot to the other. They were all getting wet.
“And what if I decline to talk to you?” Shaw said.
Hammersmith shrugged. That was certainly an option. From the tone in his voice when he gave his name, this man was apparently prominent in the community. Hammersmith and Pringle were at least several rungs below him in social status, and if Shaw chose to pursue a grievance with Sir Edward, it might cost them their jobs. The two constables were well over the line, and they all knew it.
“Then I suppose we’ll wait, sir. It’s no problem at all. We’ll still be right here outside your home in the morning.”
The implication was clear. When the neighbors awoke and looked out their windows, they would see two wet and miserable police officers sitting outside this brownstone. It wouldn’t be good for the doctor’s reputation. It would require endless visits up and down the street, by both Shaw and his wife, to smooth things over and quell the rumors.
Shaw sighed. “Very well,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to appear rude. Please come inside, but I’ll ask you to refrain from dripping on any of the rugs.”
Hammersmith and Pringle followed Shaw through the door and into a well-appointed antechamber. Shaw didn’t know it, but Hammersmith had been here before, had explored the entire house for clues when the boy’s body was found. He looked around as if it were his first time there. A bench with an embroidered cover sat under a huge gilt-framed mirror to their left as they entered. On the opposite wall was a series of brass hooks beneath a small chandelier. Hammersmith took off his overcoat and hung it on one of the hooks. He hung his hat next to the coat. Pringle hesitated, then followed Hammersmith’s lead. Shaw looked stricken, but said nothing.
It was the custom to leave one’s coat and hat on unless a visit was expected to last more than fifteen minutes. Often, neighbors would take a stroll after dinner and call on their nearby friends and acquaintances. If they left their coats on, it meant that their host shouldn’t worry about serving tea or dessert. To take one’s coat off signaled a prolonged obligation and was avoided unless there was a clear invitation to stay.
Hammersmith had not been invited to stay.
One of the women appeared at the arched doorway between the entrance hall and the rest of the house. She smelled faintly of lavender and apples, and she was the better dressed of the two women Hammersmith had seen outside. He guessed she was Shaw’s wife and the other woman was probably a governess or maid.
“Charles,” she said.
“Penelope,” Shaw said, “please have Elizabeth put on some tea for our guests.”
Shaw didn’t sound pleased about it. The woman, Penelope, looked like she wanted to say something, but then turned and walked out of sight. Hammersmith rummaged in the pocket of his hanging coat until he found his notebook. He turned to a fresh page and wrote Dr Charles and Mrs Penelope Shaw, and then below that Elizabeth-Housekeeper?
“What are you writing?”
“Nothing important, sir. Your names, that’s all. How long has Elizabeth been with you?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. My wife hired her, of course, and it’s been many years now. At any rate, it’s none of your business. What’s this all about then?”
“Have you been informed that there was a break-in at your address?”
“Here, you mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hammersmith watched Shaw’s eyes. Hammersmith had assumed that Shaw knew about the boy’s body and had a good reason to want to avoid talking to the police, but when he heard that his home had been burgled there was genuine surprise and concern in his eyes. It was gone almost immediately, but Hammersmith had seen the emotion there for one unguarded moment.
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“We had no way to reach you.”
“I was … We were in Birmingham on holiday.”
“Birmingham?”
“Family there.”
“I see. May we?”
Hammersmith gestured toward the rooms beyond the hall, and Shaw looked at the floor. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, sniffed loudly, then nodded, seemingly to himself rather than his uninvited guests. Without looking directly at the constables, he led the way into the drawing room and they followed.
Pringle grabbed Hammersmith by the arm and they let Shaw get a few steps ahead of them. He gave Hammersmith a look, and Hammersmith nodded. Mentioning the break-in to Shaw was a dangerous move. Hammersmith hadn’t even told Inspector Tiffany about Blackleg’s involvement in finding the boy’s body. There was no official record of any burglary. If Shaw went over their heads and inquired at the Yard, Hammersmith might lose his job. But he was certain Shaw wouldn’t contact the police. And scaring the doctor was the only surefire way he could see to get his attention.
Shaw’s drawing room was tastefully decorated. There was nothing gaudy about it; the stag’s head on the wall looked to Hammersmith’s untrained eye to be real, and the furniture was old but elegant. The large round table in the center of the room was scratched and scarred, but crafted of a single piece of wood and had surely cost more than Hammersmith’s entire annual salary when it was new. There was a low armchair with a high back, and Penelope Shaw was sitting in it, waiting for them. She rose and greeted them as if they hadn’t just met her at the front door.
She held out her hand and Hammersmith took it. He looked from it to her face and noted the way her dark hair framed her high cheekbones. Her eyes were wide and a blue so pale they appeared frozen. She smiled and looked away from him.
She waved them all to chairs and they sat. Hammersmith saw Charles Shaw bristle silently as he and Pringle sat down. The housekeeper, Elizabeth, entered with tea and set the table for them. The scone
s appeared to be several days old, but Hammersmith assumed it was the best she could do for unexpected strangers at three o’clock in the morning. He passed up a scone, but took a cup as Shaw explained the situation to his wife.
“They say we’ve had a break-in while on holiday.”
“Oh, my. Was anything taken?”
“You might be able to tell us that, ma’am,” Hammersmith said.
“Well, I haven’t … I mean, we’ve only just arrived home. I wouldn’t have any idea yet.”
“They’re lying,” Shaw said. His face went white and he blinked quickly. He clearly hadn’t meant to speak out loud.
“Pardon me?” Hammersmith said.
“I apologize. I’m quite tired.”
“Of course. We’re very sorry to intrude like this. It’s just that with you being such an important figure in the neighborhood, we assume that your neighbors might also face some danger of burglary. We want to nip this in the bud as quickly as possible. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” Penelope said.
Hammersmith could feel the doctor sizing him up, but he didn’t look at him. Instead, he focused his attention on the wife. Penelope was much younger than her husband. Her face reminded Hammersmith of a fox: long and lean and smart. There was something hungry about her, hidden behind a facade of perfect respectability.
“Mrs Shaw, have you noticed anyone unusual in the neighborhood of late?”
“We’ve been out of the city,” Shaw said.
Hammersmith shifted his attention to the husband. “For how long?”
Shaw hesitated and Hammersmith watched the doctor’s eyes. Shaw met his gaze and straightened his shoulders.
“Just the night. We ran into weather and had to turn around.”
“So you weren’t gone long at all.”
“I didn’t know how recently you meant.”
“Before you left, then?”
“No. I think I would have attached some importance to anyone who appeared-”
“I’m sure you would. But we mustn’t rule anyone out. What about your staff?”
“Elizabeth is beyond reproach.”
“I understand. And this is a difficult question to be faced with, but how well do you know the rest of your household? What about your laundress or your chimney sweep?”
Pringle spat his tea back into his cup. “Hot,” he said.
Shaw glared at him.
“Our chimney sweep?”
“Or anyone who might have access to this place in your absence.”
“Well, I’m sure he seemed perfectly respectable.”
“Do you have a name for him?”
“I believe his name may have been Robert,” he said.
“Excuse me, Charles,” Penelope said, “but our chimney sweep’s name is Sam. I’m sure of it.”
“Don’t interrupt. You have things you could be doing, don’t you?”
“Of course, Charles. I apologize.”
She rose from the table and walked slowly to a door that led to the kitchen. She looked back at the table before passing from the room. Hammersmith was surprised to realize that he wanted her to look his way, but she didn’t. She didn’t look at her husband, either. After she was gone, the scent of lavender lingered, and the three men were silent for a long moment.
“So,” Shaw said, “you’re of the opinion that our sweep stole something from this house?”
“Perhaps. Later in the day, would you be so good as to make up a list of anything that might be missing? If we track this man down, we may find some object, something belonging to you about his person, and that would be all we’d need to ascertain his guilt in the matter.”
“Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Of course, sir. That’s why I said it might wait until later in the day.”
Shaw stood and Pringle followed his lead, standing up, too. Hammersmith remained seated.
“I have entertained this matter as far as I am willing to,” Shaw said. “I’ll ask you to leave this house and not return.”
“You don’t want us to find the man who burgled you?”
“I don’t care. What I want is to go to bed and enjoy a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, free from thoughts of sweeps and burglars and nosy police.”
“Nosy, are we?” Pringle said. “And aren’t we trying to help you?”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re trying to do, but the hour is inappropriate and your questions seem unusual.”
Hammersmith was unperturbed. For Shaw to be so openly rude meant that he was hiding something from them. Knowing that there was something hidden was the first step toward finding it.
“Could you give us some indication, at least, of where we might find this sweep?”
“No, I could not. Leave now.”
Hammersmith concealed a smile and stood. “Of course,” he said. “We apologize for disturbing you.”
“Well, I don’t apologize,” Pringle said. “I think you’ve been bloody rude.”
“Please excuse my friend,” Hammersmith said. “We’re quite tired ourselves.”
“Just get out.”
“Would it be permissible for us to return later?”
“Not at all. I very much hope never to see you again.”
“A crime has been committed here, sir,” Pringle said, “and we are duty-bound to follow-”
“You are duty-bound to do what your betters ask of you. Now go. If there’s been a crime committed-and I’ve seen no evidence of that, only your word-then I will investigate it myself.”
“Very well,” Hammersmith said. “Have a good night, sir.”
“I shall have a very good night indeed just as soon as you’re both out of my sight.”
Shaw ushered the two police out the door. Hammersmith paused on the step and turned back toward the doctor.
“Please tell your lovely wife good night for us,” he said. “And apologize to her on our account for the beastly hour.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind.”
And with that, Shaw slammed the front door.
“Well, I never,” Pringle said.
Hammersmith rubbed his hands together and bounded down the brownstone’s steps. Pringle hurried to keep up with the longer strides of his friend.
“So that’s the end of it, right?” he said.
“Not at all,” Hammersmith said. “We know the name of our sweep.”
“He said it was Richard, didn’t he? No, Robert.”
“Yes, he said Robert. But the name of the man we’re looking for is Sam.”
“Oh, yes. That’s what the wife said, isn’t it?”
“Penelope. Yes.”
“She’s a lovely thing.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“You hadn’t? How could you not?”
“Perhaps that accounts for the good doctor keeping her out of sight.”
“I would, if I were married to her.”
“She may have more to tell us, if we could talk to her alone.”
“Well, I’m willing to make the attempt.”
“It might be better if I have a go at her myself, Colin.”
Pringle smiled and clapped Hammersmith on the back. “Oh, I quite understand.”
Hammersmith shook his head.
“We should hurry,” he said. “The sun will be up soon, and we have a long walk ahead of us.”
17
Esme whimpered in her sleep.
Liza rolled over and traced her fingers lightly down the length of Esme’s scar. The puckered red line began under Esme’s hair and ran diagonally across her forehead, jumped over her left eye and exploded in a starburst on her cheek before commencing down over her chin, her throat, and disappearing under the top of her loose-fitting nightgown. The endpoint of the scar was a crater where Esme’s left breast had once been.
Liza leaned in and brushed her lips against the coarse fabric of the nightgown, gently kissed the absent breast.
Esme stirre
d and smiled. She wrapped her arms around Liza and groaned.
“You was havin’ the dream again,” Liza said.
“Did I wake you?”
“I was awake already.”
“You ain’t slept, have you?”
“I’m fine, love.”
“You should sleep.”
“I will.”
Esme mumbled something that Liza couldn’t hear and slipped back into her dreams. Liza watched her for a long while after. Watching her beautiful girl Esme was all that Liza ever wanted to do. The one time she hadn’t watched, hadn’t been there, Esme had met Saucy Jack.
And now they both dreamed of Jack when they slept.
Liza wasn’t there when it happened. Liza never saw the Ripper. In her dream, as in reality, she was too far away to help poor Esme, Esme who went down a dark alley with the Ripper. Him with his midnight cloak and his yellow teeth.
And his wild black beard.
Esme had been working-both women had been working that night-and she had chosen the alley herself.
In hindsight, of course, taking a strange man into an alley was a foolish, even fatal, mistake. But the Ripper hadn’t arrived in the popular press as yet, and going down alleys with men was what Esme, Liza, and countless other women in Whitechapel had to do in order to put food on the table.
And so Esme got lost in the dark with the man and his knife.
Liza was with a different man, down a different alley. But Esme had told her everything, and Liza’s dreams replayed for her what had happened as if she had been in that alley on that night. And night after night ever since.
She imagined the scent of the Ripper as he pressed against her, briny and rank. The feel of his beard against her face, wires in her eyes, blotting out the gaslight from the street so far away. The sting of the knife on her face, on her throat. On her breast. The sound of her blouse ripping open and the warmth of her blood trickling down her ribs.
She screamed and he pulled her face into his chest so that she breathed in the hair of his beard. She beat against him and she pushed against him and he didn’t seem to notice. Her strength left her more quickly than she would have dreamed. She let her arms fall to her sides and she shut her eyes and she waited for the end.
