by Alex Grecian
“Any reading is good for the mind,” Kingsley said. “And I suppose even a humorous magazine may stimulate the imagination.” He smiled. “We have some of these same weeklies around the house, don’t we, Fiona? I’ve seen this before.”
The girl blushed and made a show of concentrating on her drawing. She spoke as if to the tablet of paper.
“I quite like the illustrations in it,” Fiona said. “Did you see the new one by Mr Tenniel in that one?”
Hammersmith was surprised. It was the most the girl had said in his presence. “I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to look it over yet,” he said.
He turned the pages until he found the cartoon she’d mentioned of two men who apparently represented Capital and Labour. They were playing a card game called Beggar My Neighbour. The meaning of it eluded Hammersmith entirely.
“It’s a very good picture,” he said.
“He’s my favorite artist,” she said. “I study him. Did you ever read Alice?”
“Alice?”
“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. He drew it all up and it’s beautiful.”
“I will seek it out,” he said.
The girl smiled at him.
“Well,” Kingsley said, “Mr Hammersmith, I would like you to distract yourself now by thinking very hard about music hall songs and cartoons. I’m going to reset your nose and it’s going to hurt a great deal. You should have come to me immediately instead of poking about newsstands. By now the tissue has swelled all round the break. It would be best for you to cast your mind on something else.”
“But now that you’ve told me how painful it’s going to be, I doubt I’ll be able to think about anything else.”
“I apologize. I’m used to dealing with the dead. They never complain.”
“I certainly hope not.”
Kingsley brought his hands together on Hammersmith’s cheeks and placed his thumbs on either side of the bridge of his nose. Hammersmith closed his eyes and felt the doctor drag his thumbs down across his face. Pain exploded through Hammersmith’s skull and he jerked away from Kingsley. Fixing his nose hurt infinitely more than breaking it had. He braced his arms against the back edge of the table, his elbows locked straight, and breathed deeply through his mouth.
When he opened his eyes, Kingsley was holding the bucket out to him.
“If you need to vomit…” he said.
Hammersmith swallowed hard. “Thank you, no.”
“It will be crooked, I think. Noses aren’t my specialty. But it should set well and you’ll be able to breathe through it in the near future. Just be careful about your face for the next few days. Sleep on your back. The nose will most likely be tender for some time to come. Use a steak on it to reduce the swelling.”
Hammersmith couldn’t afford steak, but he smiled as well as he was able. “I will. Thank you.”
“Well, I don’t think you came here to have your nose fixed. And I’m sure you didn’t come to discuss popular literature,” Kingsley said.
“Right,” Hammersmith said. “I’m here about the boy, of course.”
“Yes, I thought you might be anxious for results. I got to him first thing. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot to tell. The boy basically baked to death in the chimney.”
“But the fire wasn’t lit.”
“No, but the intense heat that built up inside the structure was enough. His lungs weren’t able to process the air around him and he slowly suffocated. There is evidence that his organs began to break down before his death, so I imagine it was a long and painful process.”
Hammersmith’s jaw clenched.
“Was there any … Did you find anything on the body that might provide a clue?”
“The boy’s elbows and knees were bloodied and scarred from repeatedly rubbing against bricks over a period of time. At some point, I would say within the past week or so, salt water was rubbed in his wounds to clean them. The soles of his feet had been burnt repeatedly. His master might have given him incentive to climb faster by lighting fires beneath him. He also had a small burn on his left wrist. It was up high and covered by the sleeve of his jacket. Possibly inflicted by a cigarette or a fireplace ember, but of an unusual shape.”
“I drew a picture of it for you,” Fiona said.
“You did?”
“Yes, so you wouldn’t have to look at the body again. You were so upset yesterday, I didn’t think…”
“That’s awfully considerate of you.”
The girl was holding her tablet of paper and had already turned to the proper page as the two men were talking. She tore the page out and handed it to Hammersmith. The picture she’d drawn was of a child’s arm with a dark mottled half-moon centered halfway between the wrist and elbow.
“Thank you very much.”
Fiona smiled. “You look horribly sore and tired, but you smell like chocolate,” she said.
“I do?”
Kingsley leaned in and sniffed Hammersmith’s jacket.
“You do,” he said.
“It must be … I live above a confectioner’s shop.”
“It’s not unpleasant,” Kingsley said.
“It’s nice,” Fiona said.
“Dr Kingsley?” A young woman wearing a starched white hat stood in the door of the big room. “There are two more gentlemen from the police here to speak to you.”
“Well, show them in, of course. No, wait. I’ll accompany you.”
He turned to Hammersmith and lowered his voice so that the nurse wouldn’t hear.
“Clean yourself up. I’ll keep them in the vestibule for a few moments. Fiona, please fetch a clean shirt from my closet in the back. Mr Hammersmith can’t wear this thing.” He waved his hand at Hammersmith’s bloody shirt.
“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,” Hammersmith said.
“It’s no trouble at all.”
Kingsley followed the nurse from the room. Fiona gave Hammersmith a shy smile and disappeared through a second door at the other end of the room.
Hammersmith stood up from the table and had to grab the edge of it to keep from falling down. He felt light-headed and the room tried to swim away from him, slowly receding and being brought back by the tide and leaving again. He moved carefully to the counter against the side of the room, holding the table until he was close enough to put his hand on the countertop. He worked his way to a mirror on a high stand in the corner. It was angled toward the floor, and he swiveled it so he could see his face.
His nose was a huge misshapen beet, and the skin around his eyes was deeply purple with flecks of yellow fading into the flesh of his cheeks. His face had puffed up to double its ordinary size and resembled a bad cheese.
There was a basin of clear water beside the mirror and a stack of small white towels. Hammersmith dipped a towel in the water and dabbed it carefully over his face. He dipped it into the water again and repeated the process. Looking at his face, he couldn’t see a difference, but the water turned pink the second time he dipped the towel, so he supposed he was making some kind of progress.
The towel was rough and it caught on Hammersmith’s whiskers. He cast about the counter for something he might use to shave. There was a drawer under the basin and he pulled it out. There, amid a selection of alien tools, was a razor. Hammersmith didn’t think Kingsley would mind if he borrowed it for a few quick swipes at his chin. He used his hands to pat some of the pink basin water onto his cheeks and jaw and then drew the razor over them as gently as he could, scraping away hair and crusted blood, swishing the razor in the water again and again until it had turned a dark muddy brown.
He was finishing as Fiona reentered the room with a shirt in her hands. He saw her in the mirror and turned to greet her. He moved too fast and almost fell, and she rushed forward to steady him. He noticed that it was the first time he had seen her without her sketchbook.
She drew away from him quickly, as if he had burned her, and gasped when she saw the open razor on the counter behind him.
“You didn’t,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I thought your father wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh, no. It’s not … I mean, I think he’s used that blade on a corpse this morning.”
“Of course. I didn’t think.”
Hammersmith suddenly needed to sit down.
“I shouldn’t have taken so long,” Fiona said. “I wanted to finish my drawing.”
“It’s entirely my fault.”
“Here, put this on.”
She held out the shirt and turned her back to him. He peeled off his old shirt. It was stiff with sweat and dirt and blood, and it was torn under the right armpit. Fiona held out her hand without turning around and he gave her the old shirt. She put it in the bucket with the bloody rags from his face. He put on Kingsley’s clean shirt while Fiona rinsed the razor and put it back in the drawer where Hammersmith had found it. She dumped his brown shaving water from the basin into her bucket.
Kingsley’s shirt was snug through the chest and shoulders, and the sleeves were too short, but when Hammersmith put his jacket on over it he didn’t think anyone would notice.
He didn’t hear Kingsley enter the room, but when he turned around, the doctor was there, showing Inspectors Day and Blacker into the laboratory.
“Good God,” Day said.
“Is that Constable Hammersmith?” Blacker said.
“Sir. Yes, it is.”
“You look a fright.”
“I apologize for my face.”
Day stood quietly, looking at Blacker.
“What?” Blacker said.
“I thought you might make a comment about someone taking a hammer to Mr Hammersmith’s face.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I imagine you haven’t many opportunities to make puns about his name.”
“It would be insensitive for me to begin now, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, of course it would be.”
“Then why would I do it?”
“My apologies, then,” Day said. “And to you, Constable.”
“No need,” Hammersmith said. “My appearance is inexcusable.”
“Well, what happened, man?”
“Nothing I couldn’t deal with.”
“I’d like to see what the other fellow looks like now you’re through with him.”
Hammersmith decided not to mention that the worst he’d done to the barkeep was upset him.
“At any rate,” Day said, “we were hoping to connect with you before the morning was out, so it’s good luck for us running into you here. Detective Blacker says you’re among the best men we’ve got, dedicated and serious. We could use the assistance of a man like that. Clearly you’ve anticipated us, though. I assume you’re here about the body, too?”
“Yes, but-”
“Yes,” Kingsley said. “You mean the man’s body that was brought in late last night. Or rather, early this morning.”
He gave Hammersmith a pointed look. The investigation of the little boy’s death was unofficial. Day and Blacker were here on a different matter.
“Yes, of course. And I wonder if I might take another look at that button found in Inspector Little’s trunk?” Day said.
Kingsley raised an eyebrow and patted his pockets. He found the sofa button and handed it to Day.
“You have an idea?”
“It occurs to me that I may know where this comes from.”
“Do tell.”
“Let me check into it first. I think this button may be immaterial to our case, but I’m not ready to decide that just yet.”
Kingsley nodded. He brushed past Hammersmith and walked to the counter.
“Well, if you find anything, I’d like to know about it. Meanwhile, I haven’t had a chance yet to do a thorough examination of this new body, but I can tell you a few things. To begin…”
He trailed off as he seemed to be looking for something on the countertop. Then he brightened and opened the drawer underneath.
“Forgot where I’d put this,” he said. He brought out the razor Hammersmith had used to shave. “I’m quite certain this was the murder weapon,” he said.
The room began swimming again, and Hammersmith grabbed the table behind him to keep from passing out.
INTERLUDE 2
PYWORTHY, HOLSWORTHY DISTRICT, DEVON, THREE YEARS EARLIER.
Wake up, Constable!”
Walter Day heard the voice as though from a great distance and struggled toward it. He opened his eyes, immediately felt an ice-pick stab of light, and closed them again. After the briefest moment, a shadow blocked the light and he was able to open his eyes again. The shadow resolved itself into Claire Carlyle’s lovely face. She seemed concerned, and Day tried to reach for her, to comfort her, but he couldn’t move.
“Walter? Can you hear me?”
Seeing Claire, knowing she was alive and well, gave him strength. He had known Claire for most of his life and had admired her from afar, but had always understood that she was too good for him. She came from money, and he was the son of a valet. He was almost surprised that she knew his name.
He blinked and found his voice. It sounded far away, as if someone else were speaking.
“I’m awake,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.” It came out Doane wurbit meeh.
“Oh, thank God. The inspector said you would recover, but I was afraid … Your head’s bleeding horribly, you know.”
“I’m okay.” M’uh kay.
He could feel his arms and legs now, heavy and useless, but it was an improvement. He moved his head and saw that he was lying flat on his back on a church pew.
“What’s happened?”
“Mr Sanders hit you.”
“Where is he?” Day said. Whurzee?
“He ran right out after he hit you in the head.”
“Where’s Inspector March?”
“He chased after Mr Sanders. But he stopped first to be sure you were breathing.”
Day worked one marionette arm and grabbed the top of the pew. His body gradually came unstuck and he pulled himself up. The air in the church’s nave smelled hot and dusty and he wanted to lie back down, but he fought the temptation and stood on wobbly legs. Blue and yellow light streamed through the stained-glass windows around them and pressed painfully on Day’s eyeballs. His stomach churned and he swallowed hard.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
The world began to come into focus. The inside of his head was a rock tumbler and his legs still wanted to quit under him, but every second that passed brought a little more resolve. Day touched his temple and stifled the urge to cry out. When he looked at his fingers, there was blood on them.
“You say Sanders hit me?”
Day looked down at the pew. A broken pitchfork lay on the floor beneath it, the two halves of the handle splintered. He realized that his skull must have sustained a terrific blow. It explained why he couldn’t remember anything that had happened since he’d entered the church. He could remember chasing the impostor stable hand, Sanders. He remembered Sanders grabbing Claire, snatching her right off her feet and dragging her into the church. Day had given chase and then…
Then he had opened his eyes here in the nave.
“You saved me,” Claire said.
“Of course I did. I love you.”
“You do?”
Day blinked. Had he spoken out loud?
“What?” he said.
“Perhaps you should sit back down.”
“No. I need to help the inspector.”
“He has had years and years of experience in catching the likes of Rex Sanders.”
“Still…”
“I love you, too, Walter Day.”
Day sat. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, exhaled, and then drew another breath. When he opened his eyes again, she was still there. He looked away, at the high windows in the clerestory above them. A shadow flitted past, blocking the sun, a pitter-pat
of feet on the roof. There was a dreamy quality to the air, and when Day spoke, his voice seemed to him to come from somewhere else.
“Marry me,” he said.
Claire drew back from him.
“Your injury…”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I…”
“No, don’t be sorry.”
“Entirely inappropriate of me. Percy Erwood has his eye on you, I know. It’s an excellent match.”
“I can’t stand Percy Erwood. I can’t stand any of the men my father wants for me. They’re all spoiled little boys who care for nobody but themselves. They love their money and they love the way other people look at them. I am not an accessory.”
“Yes, Erwood’s an excellent match,” Day said. “My head is simply … Again, I apologize most sincerely and I hope you’ll mention nothing of this to your father.”
He stood again and lurched past her, out into the center aisle. He stumbled, regained his footing, and walked steadily past the sanctuary and out the back door into the vestibule. When he looked back through the small window in the door, Claire was standing by the far pews under a stained-glass window, blue light shimmering in her hair. She wasn’t looking in his direction, hadn’t watched him leave. He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to speak to her again.
Outside, he took a moment, leaned his hand against the cool stone of the church wall. Far away, across the marshes, he could see a figure moving slowly toward him. The air in front of him wavered and the figure split into two men, moving side by side, then merged back into one. He closed his eyes again.
When he opened them, Inspector Adrian March was standing over him.
“You look rocky, Constable,” March said. “Your head’s still bleeding.”
“Did you catch him?”
March snorted and stretched his hand out to indicate the marshes behind the church. Green and brown, they extended as far as the eye could see. Day could smell the rotting plant life and hear the desperate insects calling out to one another. Their lives amounted to a handful of days in which to find love and leave their legacies.
“Sanders could be almost anywhere by now. I can find no sign of him out there. He knows this territory far better than I,” March said.
