by Alex Grecian
With that, Sir Edward stepped through the door and pulled it shut behind him.
Kingsley drew in a deep breath and blew it slowly back out. For two years he had dreaded such a visit, and now that it had finally occurred he felt relieved and even excited. He ran his hands through his wild thatch of grey hair and belatedly wondered whether he had got all of Thomas’s cranial fluid off his fingers. He made a mental note to wash his hair, then promptly forgot when he returned to work on Thomas’s corpse.
With long-handled scissors, bent near the tip, he reached in past the brain and snipped blindly but expertly, and the brain slid into his hand and he drew it out. He held it up like a newborn for Thomas to see, the corpse’s eyes still set in the grinning skull.
The brain went into a small basin, a damp cloth to cover it. Kingsley filled Thomas’s empty brainpan with cotton and set the skullcap back in place with a bead of thick glue. He maneuvered the corpse’s skin back up over the top of the head and down. It was a tight fit. He smoothed it over the skull, popping the teardrop of cartilage back in place over the nose. He stitched the skin shut at Thomas’s throat using one of the upholsterer’s thick curved needles and made a mental note to order more of the needles for the lab. They were ideally suited for this type of work. When the flesh was joined again, he moved his expert fingers over the corpse’s face, pushing here, pressing there, realigning the features so that the dead man looked like himself once more.
“See there,” he said. “Good as new. No one need ever know you haven’t a brain in your head.”
He smiled.
The door of the laboratory opened again, barely a crack, and Fiona’s soft voice floated in.
“Tea’s ready, Father.”
“I’ll be there directly.”
The door closed again with a sigh and a click.
Kingsley rinsed his bloody hands in a bowl of water, wiped them on a clean towel, and left the room. Before he closed the door, he looked back at the dead man. Kingsley followed Thomas’s empty gaze to the laboratory’s ceiling.
“I hope it’s all worth it,” he said.
He closed the door, leaving Thomas to sort it out for himself.
37
M r Pringle was smaller than Inspector Little had been, and he fit more naturally inside a steamer trunk. Cinderhouse, the bald man, had only two trunks left in his possession, and one of them was a hat trunk, cube-shaped and half the size of his only remaining steamer. Pringle wasn’t that small.
Cinderhouse locked the shop door and took Fenn home. He bolted the boy in a downstairs closet with a sandwich and a jug of water and then returned to the shop. He took a hatchet with him.
Pringle’s arms were separated from his torso. This was easily accomplished, but there was a suspenseful moment when Cinderhouse’s foot slipped from where it anchored Pringle’s weight and the body rolled to one side. The bald man almost lost a toe.
But without arms, Pringle was easier to pick up and maneuver into the trunk. Inspector Little had been a nightmare. The tailor liked to think that he learned from his mistakes. He had given more thought to the disposal of this second body.
Pringle’s legs were folded up against his body and tied there with a length of stout twine. The arms were thrown in on top of the rest of the mess and the trunk closed over it all, removing it from sight and memory.
Cinderhouse wrapped the bloody shears in a length of black crepe and put them in his pocket. He would dispose of them later, anywhere so long as they were far away from the scene of the crime.
He mopped the floor and scrubbed it with an ammonia solution until it glowed.
The coachman was summoned, and for a shilling, he helped Cinderhouse lift Pringle’s trunk up into the hansom. The tailor climbed onto the board next to the coachman and with a snap of the whip and a “Haw!” the three of them set out toward the train station.
38
I hope you don’t mind my saying so … Your shirt is ridiculous.”
Hammersmith took the cup from Penelope Shaw and smiled. “It’s not mine.”
“Of course it isn’t yours. It doesn’t fit you.”
“A friend was kind enough to lend me his shirt. Mine was ruined.”
“How was it ruined?”
“I spilled something on it.”
“Spilled something?”
“Blood.”
“Oh, my.”
Penelope took a step back and reached for the wall behind her. Hammersmith rose from the chair and reached out toward her, but she waved him away.
“You didn’t say what happened to you. You killed someone, did you?”
“It was my own blood. I apologize for troubling you.”
“You haven’t troubled me in the least. I lost my balance for a bare instant, that’s all.”
Hammersmith took a sip of tea and scalded his tongue. He set the cup on the side table.
“Have you ever killed anyone?” Penelope said.
“No, of course not.”
“I’m sorry, I just thought perhaps … So many villains out there.”
“Perhaps fewer than you might think.”
“Well, it’s clear that someone’s been acting up.”
She gestured at Hammersmith’s shirt, then his damaged face, taking in the entire tableau with an up-and-down movement of her wrist.
“Again, only an accident. A misunderstanding.”
“Well, I hope you gave as good as you got.”
Hammersmith smiled. “I believe God will eventually even the scales in this particular case.”
“If that’s so, then why do we need policemen at all, Mr Hammersmith? Why don’t we all simply wait for…” She waved her hand again, this time taking in all of time and space.
“Because no man should send another to his death. It’s not for us to decide. Police maintain the natural order of things.”
“Do you?”
“I try to.” He shrugged and picked up the cup. The tea had cooled a bit now and he took a swallow. There was none of the bitter tang of copper that he was used to.
“You’re about my husband’s size. I’ll fetch you a fresh shirt, at least.”
“No need for that.”
“It would make my time spent with you more pleasant if I weren’t constantly reminded of violence and death and your ‘natural order.’”
Hammersmith narrowed his eyes. “Where is your boy?”
“He’s with his governess. They’re at the park.”
“You don’t accompany them?”
“I waited here in case you chose to visit.”
“Why did you think I would?”
“I didn’t think that you would. But I had hope.”
She stood and left the room. She paused under the arch and turned toward him for a moment.
“I’ll be back with that shirt.”
39
What’s he doing here?”
“He’s harmless enough,” Day said.
“Let me dance for you,” the dancing man said.
He began to gyrate, waving his broom handle in the air between them, a talisman of something only he understood. A streamer of black crepe fluttered at his throat.
“Somebody should’ve moved him along weeks ago,” Blacker said. “He belongs in the nuthouse. Or at least the workhouse.”
“No,” the dancing man said.
The dancing stopped. He dropped the broom handle and reached into the folds of his clothing. He drew out the knife that Day had seen the night before.
Day took a step back, but Blacker moved forward. The dancing man feinted with the knife and Blacker jumped back, then forward, rocking on his toes. He grabbed the other man’s arm and twisted. The dancing man made no sound, but Day watched as his expression changed from anger to confusion. Day reached out toward Blacker, but the older detective had already disarmed the dancing man in two swift movements and knocked him to his back on the cobblestones.
“Stay there,” Blacker said.
“What made him do t
hat?” Day said. “I’ve mentioned the workhouse to him before without any threat of violence.”
“Look at him. You think he ever makes any sense?”
Day didn’t answer. He leaned down and helped the dancing man to his feet. He held the dancing man’s elbow tight and steered him toward the back door of number four.
Blacker picked up the knife. He held it out to Day, then pulled it back and looked at it more closely, letting sunlight play over the silvery surface.
“This is made of wood. It’s only painted wood.”
“Surely not.”
“You think I don’t know wood when I see it?”
“It’s not a real knife?”
“It’s a child’s toy.”
Day threw his head back and laughed. He couldn’t help himself. The anxiety he’d felt since moving to London caught up to him all at once and he let go. Blacker glared at him and then gave in and began to laugh, too.
“It looked so real,” Day said. He wiped a tear from his eye. “In the gaslight it looked completely real.”
“It looks real enough in the sunlight as well,” Blacker said.
“I don’t hurt people,” the dancing man said.
“Of course you don’t,” Day said. “But you’re in danger of being hurt yourself. This isn’t the best spot for you to dance, you know.”
“I have a message for you,” the dancing man said. “The messenger wants me to show you something.”
“How lovely,” Blacker said.
“The messenger?” Day said.
“He left something for you. He knows who kills the police.”
“Who is this?”
Day was suddenly interested despite himself. Even Blacker had stopped chuckling and seemed to be listening.
“Come,” the dancing man said.
He took off at a full gallop across the street and down an alley. Day and Blacker followed at a safe distance, keeping the vagrant in sight. At the mouth of a storm drain, the dancing man ducked down and disappeared. The detectives rushed forward and found the dancing man standing hip-deep in rippling water.
“I’m not going down there,” Blacker said.
“Nor I,” Day said. “But thank you for showing us, sir.”
He smiled at the dancing man and turned to go back to the Yard, but the dancing man shouted, “No, look!”
Day turned back and, with a deep sigh, squatted down to see what the vagrant was pointing at. There was a ledge formed by a crosspiece between two pillars deep in the tunnel, and there, shining bright against the dark red bricks, was a pair of shears.
Day pointed and grabbed Blacker by the leg of his trousers.
“There,” he said. “Go get those.”
“Not me,” Blacker said.
“I’ll get them,” the dancing man said.
He splashed into the cavelike tunnel and emerged a moment later holding the shears high. He presented them to Day, who took them and turned them over. They were streaked with a filmy layer of red. He clenched his jaw and looked at his colleague.
“Kingsley said that Little’s wounds were-”
“Inflicted by shears.”
“Yes.”
“Let me dance.”
“Come with us,” Day said. “You can dance inside.”
The dancing man tossed one end of the long strip of black crepe around his throat as if defying the breeze to touch him.
“My things,” he said. “I need my things.”
They walked back to number four and Day collected the dancing man’s things, including the broken broomstick, but left the milk crate where it was against the brick wall. He was conscious of spectators who had begun gathering in the street in the hope that there might be an arrest.
Sergeant Kett was at the desk in the back hall and he stood as the dancing man entered ahead of them.
“Here now, get on out,” he said.
Then he saw Blacker and Day. He scowled.
“Aw, what’re you doin’ bringin’ ’im in here? Smell’s worse’n usual today.”
“Sergeant, you’ve been coddling Little’s killer right outside your door,” Blacker said. “You and Inspector Day both.”
“No,” Kett said. “It can’t be.”
“There is that possibility,” Day said, “but it seems doubtful at the moment. Don’t trouble yourself, Mr Kett. Detective Blacker is getting ahead of himself.”
“If this’s the one did Mr Little in, you just put me in a room with ’im for a minute or two and look the other way, lads.”
Day grimaced and pushed the dancing man down the hall and around the corner. The big room was busy with the bustle of uniformed police coming and going, but the Murder Squad room behind the rail was nearly empty. Only Jimmy Tiffany sat at his desk, writing a report and cursing his pen, which had worn to a nub. Day was too far away to read what Tiffany was writing, but he could well imagine the ink smearing across the page.
“Get him out of here,” Tiffany said when he saw the dancing man.
The dancing man was quiet, scowling at the floor. Blacker pushed him through the short gate in the railing and guided him to Patrick Gilchrist’s desk. Day dumped the dancing man’s belongings on the desk and started sorting through them. Tiffany stood up and moved over to Gilchrist’s desk.
“Help me go through all this,” Day said.
“I’m not touching any of that,” Tiffany said. “What’s he doing in here?”
“Not sure yet. May be something, may not, but he led us to what looks like our murder weapon.”
“Did he do the deed?”
“Personally, I think not. I think he just found the scissors.”
“Well, take him somewhere else to figure it out.”
There was a small holding cell in the back, but it was only used to keep dangerous or demented criminals temporarily out of the way until they could be moved to the larger and more permanent jail facility at Millbank.
“Since I’ve no idea what we’re doing yet, I can’t promise anything.”
Tiffany turned to Blacker.
“Come now, Blacker, you can’t expect the rest of us to work while you’re parading this creature through here. He reeks. And now the entire room reeks.”
“Then take your work off to Trafalgar Square and make a picnic of it. Or better yet, help us. Have a boy sent round to fetch Dr Kingsley.”
“I’ve already got more here than I can handle. I don’t have time to be your errand boy.”
“Then try to stay out of our way.”
Tiffany glared at Blacker for a moment, but Blacker didn’t flinch under his gaze. Finally Tiffany gave up and went back to his desk. He threw his hands in the air as if to wash them of the entire incident, then turned his attention back to his broken pen and his uncompleted report. Day noticed that Tiffany was now breathing through his mouth to avoid the odor in the room.
Day spread the dancing man’s dirty blanket out on the desk and placed each item on the blanket as he examined it. There were two mismatched boots, one of them too big to fit the dancing man’s foot; a dented tin canteen (Day opened it and smelled the contents, which resembled chicken soup); the toy knife; a handful of grubby rags; and the tattered remains of what might have been a foxtail stole. Day held this last item up at arm’s length and made a face before dropping the bedraggled thing on the blanket. When he looked up, Tiffany was staring at him.
“That’s it,” Tiffany said.
He pushed his chair back, stood, and went to the back of the room where he rapped loudly on Sir Edward’s office door. Day looked at Blacker, who shrugged and gestured for the dancing man to sit. Sir Edward’s door opened and Day heard Tiffany ask if he could enter. A moment later, Tiffany was in the office and the door had shut behind him.
Day gathered the corners of the blanket together to form a loose bindle with the dancing man’s belongings inside. It did nothing to cut the stench in the room. He was looking around for an out-of-the-way place to stash the bindle when Sir Edward’s door open
ed and Tiffany stomped out. Behind him, Sir Edward’s deep voice boomed. “Ridiculous.”
Sir Edward stepped out of the office and his eyes swept the Murder Squad desks. He took in Day, Blacker, and the dancing man, sniffed the air, and nodded.
“Is this man a suspect?” he said.
“We believe it’s possible, sir,” Day said. “He’s at least a witness.”
“Then get on with it, detectives. Feel free to use the storage closet in back for your interview. I believe two chairs will fit quite comfortably inside and it might be best to keep him out of sight of Little’s peers. We don’t want anyone assuming the worst and lashing out at the fellow before we know anything useful.”
He turned to Inspector Tiffany.
“As for you, Mr Tiffany, if you can’t help in the investigation, at least stay out of Mr Day’s way. I don’t want my detectives running to me with every little thing.”
He turned on his heel and went back to his office. The door closed behind him.
Tiffany looked over at Day, his jaw set and his eyes narrow. Day knew there was a chance Tiffany would never recover from being embarrassed in front of him. Day was still too new on the job to want enemies, even someone like Jimmy Tiffany. He looked over at Blacker, who was politely pretending to be very interested in the scissors they’d brought in with the dancing man. Day walked to his desk and opened the top drawer. Inside, there was an ink bottle and three new pens that Claire had sent with him on his first day. He chose his least favorite of them and took it to Tiffany’s desk.
“This might be better than the one you’re using.”
He set it there and walked away. At Gilchrist’s desk, he picked up the bindle again and snuck a glance at Tiffany. Tiffany looked up. He didn’t smile, didn’t nod, but he was using the pen.
40
T hey sat outside Euston Station waiting for the crowd to clear out, but the stream of commuters, in and out through the tall arch, remained steady. At last Cinderhouse gave up. If they loitered outside the station too long, he feared they might draw attention. It would be hard to explain the contents of the trunk under his feet if a curious bobby asked him to open it.
