by Alex Grecian
After a pregnant moment, Day heard shuffling footsteps behind the door and the metal-on-metal rasp of a chain being drawn. The door opened a crack and dull brown eyes peered out at them from a woman’s heavy grey face. Day thought of raisins pressed into a lump of clay. From somewhere in the flat behind her, a strange wailing sound drifted out to them, rising and falling, like an animal crying out in pain. It was accompanied by the more familiar din of a baby crying. The wailing noise would occasionally stop on an up note and then begin again.
“What is it?” the woman said. “Got some more dead you wanna tell me ’bout?”
Her lips barely parted when she spoke, her mouth an unmoving slit.
“Mrs Little?” Day said.
The woman nodded. “Yeah.”
“We’re sorry for your loss, Mrs Little,” Blacker said.
“Yeah? Well, you lot done your duty by me. That one-arm bloke come an’ tole me last night, so I got nothin’ I need from you an’ yours.”
Day held his hands up in a gesture of peace and calm.
“We’d like to ask you some questions if we may, ma’am.”
The Widow Little turned from the door and it opened wider, but she held on to the edge of it, not letting them in yet. Ropes of loose skin and fat swung from the underside of her arm and slapped against the jamb.
“Gregory, I tole you already you better see to yer brother. That singin’s just made the baby worser. You see to him right now, you unnerstan’ me?”
“Yes, Mama.”
It was a boy’s voice, followed by the patter of small feet on wood. Mrs Little turned her attention back to the two detectives in the hall and pursed her lips as if trying to remember who they were.
“What’s in it for me I answer these questions you got?”
“Could we come in, ma’am?” Day said.
Blacker widened his eyes and shook his head at Day. He was on the other side of the doorway, his shoulder pressed against the outside wall of the flat, and thus was out of Mrs Little’s line of sight. Day had no way to respond to him without Mrs Little’s seeing. He had no more desire to enter the flat than Blacker did, but he smiled at her and nodded as if she’d already agreed to let them come in.
She shrugged and turned and they followed her inside. Her grubby housecoat ended well above her thick ankles. Day looked up at the water-stained ceiling.
The stench of old food and human waste hit them like a physical force as soon as they entered the dingy flat. The floorboards were worn so smooth and colorless that the men could have skated across them but for a faded threadbare rug in the center of the front room. A battered, dun-colored sofa, buttons dangling like fruit from its back, hunched against the wall under a curtainless window where a single ray of sunlight fought its way through the smeared glass. Three chairs stood upright, grouped around a barrel. A large pearl-colored doily was draped over the barrel in a vain attempt to disguise it as a table, and peanut shells and dust were scattered across it. Day recognized a cigar box in the center of the table as the same one Sir Edward had brought to the squad room. A fourth chair was tipped over on the floor, its upholstery unraveled from the top, cotton batting spilling out. A baby lay on the chair back, its arms and legs stretched out toward the ceiling. It hiccuped and coughed when it heard their footsteps, then began to cry again.
A naked moon-faced boy was strapped to a wooden chair in the corner of the room. Drool ran in rivulets over the boy’s chin and down his chest. He rocked back and forth, the leather straps digging into his flesh, his eyes rolling wildly in their sockets as he gibbered and howled at the baby. A smaller child, wearing nothing but a filthy pair of knickers, was attempting to silence the monster boy, patting his arm and clucking at him. Day realized that the boy in the chair was singing to the baby in some strange, unrecognizable language.
Day drew back. “Good Lord,” he said.
The woman chuckled and her black eyes sparkled. “Hard to look at, ain’t he?”
“Let that child free from there right now.”
“I undo ’im and he’ll fall straight onto his face, see if he don’t.”
“But this is barbarous.”
“Only looks to be. He’s a happy boy, ain’t you, Anthony?”
At the sound of his name, Anthony let out a fresh wail and bounced up and down in his seat. The other boy, Gregory, whooped and danced around his brother’s chair, which excited Anthony even more. The baby fell suddenly silent. Day and Blacker stared, entranced and disgusted, as the two boys worked themselves into a contained frenzy, colonial natives dancing for rain.
“’At’s enough,” the woman said. “Enough, I say. Gregory, you settle ’im down now.”
The smaller boy stopped hopping about and laid a hand on Anthony’s head, which seemed to calm him. In the fresh silence, Day could hear the baby wheezing.
“Gregory, see to that baby.”
Gregory scampered over to the infant and stuck a dirty finger into its mouth. He fished out half of a peanut shell, dripping with spit. The baby let out a long wail and immediately began to snore, which excited the boy in the corner. Anthony began rocking his chair once more, beating his head against the wall behind him.
Gregory threw the shell on the ground, where the baby could presumably pick it back up when it awoke, and ran back across the room. While the others watched Gregory stroke his older brother’s head, Day reached down and picked up the wet peanut shell. He slipped it into his pocket and wiped his fingers on the leg of his trousers.
When Anthony had calmed down again, Mrs Little turned her attention back to the detectives. Day nodded toward the boy in the corner.
“What’s-?”
“What’s wrong wiff ’im? Hell if I know. Come outta me that way and been that way ever since. But he’s a good boy.”
“Has he seen a doctor?”
“’Course he seen a doctor. Ain’t savages, is we? Too much fluids, says they, too much blood. They bled ’im near dry, cupped ’im and leeched ’im and leff ’im so’s he couldn’t hardly move no more. Ain’t takin’ ’im to no more doctors. He’s happy here, and anyway, he ain’t likely to live too much longer. Money’s better spent than on doctors.”
Day was filled with a mad passion to run from the room.
“Gregory, you seem like a responsible young man,” Blacker said.
The boy blushed and looked down at his feet.
“But I don’t see how you can hear anything with that growth in your ear.”
Gregory looked up, wide-eyed. His hands flew to his ears.
“I don’t feel nuffink there,” he said.
“Come here, lad.”
Blacker dropped to one knee and reached out to the boy. Gregory went to him, his expression frightened.
“Nothing to fear,” Blacker said. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”
He looked at the boy’s left ear.
“Well, that’s odd,” he said. “I was mistaken. That’s not a growth. Now why would you keep money in your ear?”
Gregory gasped. Blacker grinned at him and his fingers flitted through the air next to the boy’s head, barely grazing his ear. He brought his hand up to show Gregory a shiny penny.
“I think you’ll be able to hear much better now.”
Gregory gulped and stared at the penny in Blacker’s hand.
“Well, go on and take it,” Blacker said. “It was in your ear, so it must be yours.”
“Cor, that’s magic, that is,” Gregory said.
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Blacker winked at the boy and Gregory finally smiled back at him. The boy took the penny from Blacker’s hand and goggled at it.
The Widow Little took two steps toward them and snatched the penny from her son’s hand. She made it disappear somewhere within the folds of her housecoat.
“Any money comes into this flat is mine,” she said.
She glared at the detectives, daring them to contradict her. Gregory shrugged a
nd smiled at them. Blacker patted him on the head and stood back up. He frowned and cleared his throat.
“When’s the last you saw your husband, Mrs Little?” Blacker said.
“Can’t recall. Maybe a week, maybe more.”
“Is that unusual, not to see him for a week?”
“He hardly never come home no more. The sight of Anthony made him sick to his stomach.”
Anthony wailed again and Day noticed that the tonal shift he’d heard before was present again in the boy’s voice.
“He asked you where our daddy’s at,” Gregory said.
“You understand him?”
“Sure. He ain’t dumb. Just different’s all.”
“Don’t matter where yer daddy’s at. Hush now and let these gennemen talk. They’s friends of yer daddy.”
“He was a fine man, your father,” Blacker said. “One of the best the Yard ever saw.”
Gregory switched his gaze from Blacker to Day and stared unblinking at him.
“He only come home most times when he got his pay,” Mrs Little said. “Leff enough with me for the groceries and such. He dint spend much time ’ere, though.”
Hardly a surprise, Day thought.
“Did you talk to him? Did he discuss any cases with you or anything that might have been bothering him? Anyone who may have threatened him?”
“You lot’d know better’n me. He was up there alla time. Never tole me nothin’. One of them killers he was after most likely done ’im.”
“I see. Well, thank you for your time, ma’am.”
“Where I’m gonna get paid from now?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Without Mr Little’s pay, how I’m gonna take care of these young’uns? You think on that. Without food money, I’m gonna have to take young Anthony and drownd ’im in the river.”
“I don’t-”
The Widow Little suddenly smiled and her face rearranged itself. She looked almost pleasant. Day realized that she was much younger than he’d first supposed. It was unlikely that she’d ever been a great beauty, but Day could see the ghost of the spirited bride she once was.
“I’m havin’ a laugh on you boys, is all. I know you don’t have nuffink to do wiff it. The money, I mean. I done talked it over wiff your man there, the one’s got no arm. He’ll see to it, see I get Mr Little’s pinchins.”
“His pension? How wonderful.”
“He’s a good man, that one. He brung that box, too,” she said. “More’n five pounds there. Thanks to you an’ yours. Gonna do a bit o’ shoppin’ later in the day.”
“Yes, of course,” Day said. “Well, we should-”
“Was Inspector Little planning to grow a beard, by chance?” Blacker said.
Day scowled at him and Blacker shrugged.
“Don’t think so. Beards is filthy, all full-up with food and dust and such. Won’t have no beard near these lips, I tell you. Mr Little was allus considerable about such things. Knew how them whiskers scratched and kep hisself tidy for me. Allus kep hisself tidy, he did.”
Without warning, the widow burst into tears. Her lips opened wide, trailing stringers of grief, a cobweb of spit connecting the two halves of her face. She seemed suddenly vulnerable in her ugliness and Day wanted to put an arm around her, but Gregory reached her first, patted her jiggling arm.
“There, there, Mama. Don’t cry.”
Across the room, Anthony began to bounce in his chair again, howling, and Day could almost make out words. The back of the wooden chair beat against the plaster wall as the hideous woman and her strange children celebrated their grief. The baby woke then with a start, its tiny arms windmilling against the floor, and joined its voice to the Little family’s horrible wailing.
Day took a pound note from his vest pocket and slid it under the top of the cigar box. He laid a calling card atop the barrel and grabbed Blacker by the arm. The two of them left, pulling the door closed behind them.
“I need a drink,” Blacker said.
“So do I. How could-?”
“I don’t know. But if I were married to that, I’d spend all my time at work, too. Sir Edward’s admonition to the men to spend more time with family must have gone hard with poor Little.”
“Well, I don’t only feel sorry for him. Look at them. What kind of life is that?”
“That’s why I’m not married,” Blacker said. “I’m sure she wasn’t like that when he met her.”
Day looked back at the door. If Mrs Little had changed over the years, how had her husband fared? Had he once been an idealistic young detective? Or had he always avoided his work and his family, just waiting for the inevitable end?
“The magic trick,” Day said. “That was kind of you.”
“He seems like a good boy,” Blacker said.
“You know you can’t have children if you don’t first find a wife.”
“Who said I want children?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll find the right woman.”
“Who said I was looking?”
Halfway down the stairs, they could still hear the chorus of misery behind them. The wailing and howling seemed to keep time with the regular beat of the chair banging against the wall.
“That boy should be taken away.”
“You think he’d be better cared for in an asylum?”
Blacker sighed. “No. I wouldn’t wish the asylum on anyone.”
“Thank God they’ll get Little’s pension.”
Blacker stopped as they reached the door to the street. The sorrowful music wasn’t heard down here so much as it was felt, a fog seeping through the walls and the floor.
“Little’s pension?” he said.
“What?”
“Little didn’t have a pension any more than you or I do. And it doesn’t look like he saved much over the years.”
“Then what was she talking about?”
“Sir Edward.”
“You mean…?”
Blacker nodded. “I have to think so. After witnessing all that, the man’s doing what he can.”
“Bully for him.”
“He’s a better man than I am, that’s a sure thing.”
Blacker pushed open the door and the two stepped out into bright daylight. Day breathed deep and let the sun fill his lungs. He took the peanut shell from his pocket and tossed it into the street. Blacker saw but didn’t ask.
“I say live every day as if you’re Walter Day,” Blacker said.
“And what does that mean?”
Blacker smiled. He shook his head and put an arm around Day’s shoulder.
“What say we find a murderer?” he said.
Day nodded and allowed himself to be led down the rain-damped street. The bright morning sun shone on his face and London beckoned. He listened to the birds calling to one another above, to the costermongers hawking their wares by the side of the road, to the healthy children shouting from the windows, and everything he had seen and heard and smelled in the Littles’ flat began to recede like the tide, leaving only the faintest trace of black silt behind.
30
You’re covered with blood,” Kingsley said.
Hammersmith was surprised to find Kingsley in his lab so early. He had left Blackleg after arranging a time and place to meet later in the day and had rushed to the college, stopping briefly at stalls along the way to grab a penny pie, a ginger beer, and something to read.
“I’m sorry?” he said.
He looked down at his shirt, which was permanently ruined by a wide brown swath of blood.
“Oh. Yes, you might say I had an adventuresome night.”
“Does your nose hurt badly?”
Hammersmith shrugged. He had stopped paying attention to the low throbbing pain that surged outward from the middle of his face.
“Come,” Kingsley said. “Let’s have a look at you. If it’s broken we’ll need to set it.”
Hammersmith allowed himself to be led to an empty table in the middle of the laboratory. There wer
e ten tables here, and all but two of them were currently occupied by corpses. The girl Fiona was standing near one of the tables, sketching the body that lay on it. Hammersmith didn’t see Inspector Little’s body anywhere in the room. Nor did he see the dead chimney climber.
Fiona looked up from her tablet and gasped when she saw Hammersmith.
“Is it that bad?” he said.
He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.
“You look a fright,” she said. “As bad as these’uns on the tables.”
“I’m more lively than they are. Though not by much.”
Kingsley dipped a clean rag in cold water and began dabbing at Hammersmith’s face, gently around the nose. Hammersmith could feel dried crumbs of blood falling past his lips.
“Here,” Kingsley said. “Blow your nose.”
He handed Hammersmith a second rag and stood back. Hammersmith tried to squeeze his nose with the rag, but his vision went suddenly dark and pinpricks of light danced behind his eyes. He steadied himself, then held the rag against his upper lip and blew gently out through his nose. A great clot of blood and snot slid out onto the rag.
“Oh, good Lord,” he said. “That’s horrible.”
“Not even the worst thing I’ve seen this morning,” Kingsley said. “What’s this you’ve got here?”
He took the balled-up bloody rag from Hammersmith and pointed at the magazine rolled up under his arm.
“I expected to have to wait for you,” Hammersmith said. “I came prepared.”
“You read,” Kingsley said.
Hammersmith nodded.
“May I?”
Kingsley dropped the rag into a bucket under the table and held out his hand. Hammersmith gave him the magazine. Kingsley unrolled it and frowned at the cover.
“Punch?”
“It’s quite popular and I like to keep up.”
Kingsley flipped through the magazine.
“What’s this? ‘Mr Punch’s Model Music Hall Songs’?” He smirked and handed the magazine back to Hammersmith. “Amusing, I’m sure.”
Hammersmith smiled, embarrassed. “Well, there’s a variety of subjects. That’s only one snippet. But anyway I’m sure you must read more…” He stopped, at a loss for what the doctor might read.
