by Alex Grecian
“This pattern, this is unique?”
“I believe so.”
“Michael, let’s see yours,” Day said.
Blacker stepped forward and looked over Day’s shoulder at the smudged sheet of foolscap. Without a word, he stuck his finger into the ink bottle and made his mark next to Day’s. The three of them bent over the lens and Day passed it back and forth so they could see for themselves.
“They are different,” he said.
Blacker shook his head and nudged Day. Day looked up to see that the dancing man was watching them.
“Would you like to try it?” Day said.
“Can’t move.”
“Why can’t you move?”
“No room. Legs broken.”
“I wish I could place where I’ve met you,” Kingsley said. “I do know you, don’t I?”
“Only the dead know me.”
The dancing man smiled at him, and for the first time Day saw the man behind the madness.
“You will remember. You saw the dance.”
Day saw his chance and moved closer to the dancing man.
“What was your name? The name you had before the dead began to dance?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Henry.”
“Good. Henry. Can I call you Henry?”
“Not Henry anymore. I am a dancer. I am death.”
“I can’t very well call you Death.”
“Whatever you call me, I remain the same.”
“Can you tell us where you found these scissors, sir?” He held up the shears, still wrapped in paper, well out of the dancing man’s reach.
“London. The city gave them to me. London sent me the gift.”
Blacker rolled his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake, can we please stop coddling this infant? Tell us where you got the damn shears, you bloody loon.”
“The messenger on his black chariot. He delivered the gift that was meant for me. Not for you.”
“A man in a black carriage?”
“The messenger.”
“And he gave them to you?”
“He cast them at my feet, wrapped in a shroud so that I would know.”
“A shroud?”
“Yes.”
“There was no wrapping when we found it.”
Kingsley cleared his throat and moved cautiously toward the dancing man.
“That scarf,” he said. “The black crepe at your throat. Is that the shroud?”
The dancing man clutched at the length of fabric.
“It’s mine,” he said. “The message was for you. The blood is yours, but not the shroud. You would only have cast it off. It’s right that I took it. It’s mine.”
“Of course it is. But may I look at it for a moment?”
“You can’t have it.”
“I won’t keep it.”
The dancing man grudgingly unwrapped the crepe from his throat and held out one end of it to Kingsley. He held the other end of it, wrapping it around his hand so that it couldn’t be pulled away from him. The doctor sighed and held up his lens.
“The most useful tool in my arsenal,” he said. He smiled at the dancing man, but got a wary scowl in return.
Kingsley hunched over the chair and held the shears next to the end of the makeshift scarf, comparing the two items. After a minute or two, he straightened up and nodded.
“I’m reasonably certain the shears were wrapped in this material. There’s blood, or something very like it, on the fabric, and the black thread caught in the shears matches those at this frayed end here.”
“That corroborates his story,” Day said.
“So it would seem we’re looking for a black carriage of some sort,” Blacker said. “Not much to go on.” He turned to the dancing man. “What kind of carriage was it? What kind of chariot?”
The dancing man shook his head, still staring at the end of the fabric held in Kingsley’s hand.
“Was it large or small? Would it hold two people or several?”
“It was small,” the dancing man said. “The city doesn’t crave notice.”
“And neither do murderers, I’d wager. Possibly a hansom.”
“I want my shroud.”
“Of course,” Kingsley said.
He let go of the end of the crepe and the dancing man wrapped it around his throat again.
“There’s nothing else this length of cloth can tell us,” Kingsley said.
“But perhaps giving it back to him has bought us some goodwill,” Day said. “What do you say, Henry? Will you make a mark on this paper for us?”
“It is not for me to make a mark. The city makes its mark on us all.”
“True enough. But perhaps, just this once, you could dirty yourself in the furtherance of a good cause.”
Day brought the ink bottle to the dancing man and held it there. He nodded, encouraging Henry to get a little ink on his finger. The dancing man stared at the bottle for what seemed to be a long time, and Day could hear Blacker behind him, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Finally, the dancing man reached out and stabbed his finger into the bottle. Before he could draw away, Kingsley had his hand in a viselike grip and pressed the blackened finger against the paper. He stood back and let go, and Day stoppered the bottle.
“We can’t let him go,” Blacker said. “He might disappear.”
“I know,” Day said. “But I don’t want to cage him, either.”
“We’ve no choice.”
“I know that, too.”
“And we can’t leave him here in the closet.”
“We’ll put him in the holding cell for now.”
“I want my things. You can’t take my things.”
“By all means, take them, sir. All but the shears. Those belong to us now.”
The dancing man gathered his bindle and allowed Blacker to lead him from the room. When they were gone, Kingsley lit a cigarette.
“I should have brought my pipe. The odor is rather overpowering, isn’t it?”
Day held his pipe up and nodded. They both smiled.
“Now then,” said Kingsley. “To work.”
48
Hammersmith sensed something near his right elbow. A moment later, he heard a small noise, a rustling that lasted a fraction of a second. He didn’t open his eyes. His head hurt and he saw red behind the curtain of his eyelids. Behind that was a pattern of winter tree branches, and he spent time listening to himself breathe while he tried to decide whether the skeletal branches behind his eyes were red on black or black against a red sky. When the trees began to fade, he found his tongue and spoke.
“Who are you?” he said.
“Who are you?”
It wasn’t an echo. The voice that returned his question was smaller, higher, than his own. Hammersmith focused on his body and was able to feel some sensation in his hands and feet, a distant tingling. Something brushed against his hand.
He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to filter the light, but couldn’t keep them open for long. He let them drift shut again and concentrated on breathing.
“What happened?” he said.
But even as he said it, he knew that he had been poisoned.
“Why are you in my mama’s bed?” said the small high voice.
“Who are you?” Hammersmith said.
“Bradley.”
“Bradley Shaw?”
“Yes.”
“Is your mama named Penelope?”
“Yes.”
“I’m in her bed?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were at the park with your governess.”
“I was.”
“How long have you been back?”
“Just now.”
“Where is your mother?”
“She’s downstairs.”
“Did she send you to get me?”
“No.”
Hammersmith waited for more, for an explanation, but it didn’t come.
“Did she tell you to wake me up?” he said.
“No.”
“Did you come looking for me?”
“No. I just came in.”
Hammersmith waited, adjusting to the sudden stimulation of the air.
“The door was open,” the boy said.
“How long were you at the park?”
“I don’t know.”
Hammersmith levered himself up on one elbow and swung his feet off the side of the bed. He arranged the bedsheets as he moved to cover himself. He didn’t remember undressing, but he was naked. He sat for a long time, his eyes closed, waiting at the side of the bed for the world to catch up to him.
“Are you my new papa?”
“No.”
He opened his eyes and saw the back of a small boy as he went out by the bedroom door.
“Why would you ask me that?” Hammersmith said.
The boy turned and came back. He might have been five years old. Hammersmith could see that he was sensitive. Bradley Shaw had big ears that stuck out from his face and a cowlick that had arranged his hair in circles around the back of his head so that his face was the epicenter of a hurricane. But his eyes were huge and brown and lively. There were sparkling depths there.
“Because my mama is done with my papa,” the boy said.
“What do you mean?”
“My mama isn’t his friend anymore.”
Hammersmith looked around the room for his clothes.
“Your clothes are on the chair,” the boy said.
“Bring them to me.”
The boy walked sideways, his eyes on Hammersmith, and picked up a pile of clothing from a wingback chair in the corner. He brought them to the bed and set them within Hammersmith’s reach. He stepped back and watched the man on his father’s bed as if waiting for violence, ready to run. Hammersmith picked up his trousers and slid them on under the sheet that lay across his lap. He stood up and fastened them at the front. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. When he closed his eyes, the room seemed to be rocking under his feet. He sat back down on the edge of the bed.
“Your father is always your father,” he said. “He always will be.”
He didn’t look at the boy.
“I don’t care about him,” Bradley said.
Hammersmith looked into the little boy’s big brown eyes.
“Does he hit you?”
The boy shook his head.
Hammersmith pulled his boots on over bare feet.
“Then you’ve no reason.”
He grabbed his hose and garters, stuffed them in his jacket pocket, and then stuffed himself into the jacket. He noticed now that his shirt fit better than it had and he smoothed it over his chest. It was not the same shirt he’d worn into the Shaw house. It seemed Penelope had given him one of her husband’s shirts after all.
“Where is your water closet?”
The boy pointed to a door on the far wall. Hammersmith made his unsteady way across the moving floor. Behind the door, he found a room larger than the bedroom was. A claw-foot bathtub shared space with a toilet, a washbasin, and a conversation suite, including a chesterfield and a vanity table. The Shaws had clearly followed the lead of most middle-class Londonites and converted an existing bedroom into an indoor washroom. The paintings on the walls looked to Hammersmith as if they were of a set with the valuable art in the downstairs room. A bay window overlooked a small garden and served as a light source for the room. The sun was low on the horizon. He closed the door behind him so that the boy wouldn’t follow him, and he leaned over the basin. He stuck a finger down his throat and brought up the contents of his stomach.
He emptied the bowl into the toilet and pulled the brass chain, watched the sad remains of that morning’s penny pie whirl away from him. The poison in Penelope’s tea, however much of it was left in his stomach, went with it.
He sat on the chesterfield, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of Charles Shaw’s borrowed shirt, and waited for his stomach to settle. He wondered whether the boy was still waiting outside the door. After a few minutes he stood and made his way across the room. He felt steadier on his feet.
He cracked the door open and peered out into the bedroom. It was empty. He stumbled through to the hallway and paused at the top of the stairs, but heard nothing anywhere in the house. The boards creaked under his feet as he descended to the ground floor. The parlor was dark and cool, and he almost didn’t see Penelope Shaw sitting in the shadows of the high wingback.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Hammersmith couldn’t see her face.
“Thank you for the shirt,” he said.
“It looks good. At least it fits you better than the one you were wearing.”
“What was it? The poison, I mean.”
“Benzene, just a drop of it, from the laundry.”
Hammersmith nodded. He had seen benzene used to remove stains from upholstery and curtains, things too cumbersome to be washed properly. He had no idea what the long-term side effects of benzene poisoning might be, but he knew that if he stayed awake and on his feet, any poison should eventually work its way through his body.
“What if I’d died? Killing a police officer wouldn’t have gone well for you.”
“It’s not lethal,” Penelope said. “At least not in small doses. My husband uses it on his patients to calm them.”
“Did he tell you to use it on me?”
She raised a finger to her mouth and bit her knuckle. “I was supposed to … I just needed to put you in my bed. Elizabeth had to help me with that part of it. Charles was going to come in and catch you there.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It would give him something, some way of controlling you. The scandal would have ruined you. You would know that and you would leave us alone. Leave him alone.”
“The boy in the chimney.”
“Charles tried to remove him, but he couldn’t. The body was stuck. Charles said we had to go. But we hadn’t the money to go far, and he didn’t know what to do then. Someone was supposed to come and remove the body while we were gone. An associate of Charles’s. But when we came back, you were waiting for us here and Charles knew that you’d been inside.”
“He might have talked to me.”
“You might have talked to him.”
Hammersmith nodded. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t give you as much benzene as he told me to. You woke early.”
“Why would you want me to wake early?”
“I don’t … I hoped you might deal with him when he arrived.”
Hammersmith walked slowly-he was still dizzy and didn’t want to stumble in front of Mrs Shaw-through the arch to the foyer and opened the front door. He paused there, unable to see Penelope.
“I will be back. Don’t leave the house. You may want to send your son away. Send him to visit relatives. It wouldn’t be good for him to see his parents taken into police custody.”
He didn’t wait to hear her response. He stepped out into the late afternoon air and took a deep breath. He closed the door behind him, vomited in Penelope Shaw’s rose garden, and made his unsteady way down the crowded street.
He didn’t notice when Charles Shaw emerged from behind a vendor’s wagon half a block behind and followed him away from the brownstone.
49
We’re missing something, aren’t we?” Kingsley said.
“We are?” Day said.
“Yes, I’m sure I’ve touched that razor. We’ll need my mark to compare.”
He unstoppered the bottle of ink and stuck his finger inside. He wiggled it around and pulled it back out, then pressed it firmly against the piece of paper. When he pulled his finger away, a wet black smudge sat next to the other three marks on the page. There were no ridges visible in the doctor’s mark.
“Too much ink, I suppose,” Day said.
“Yes. Perhaps the bottle is too large a reservoir. In the future, it may be prudent to use some sort of ink
pad instead.”
He moved his finger to the other side of the row of marks and pushed it against the paper once more without re-inking first. This time he left a clear print. He smiled at it.
“Now why didn’t I take the amount of ink into account in the first place? Let’s see the razor and the…” He trailed off.
“What is it?” Day said.
“It’s just occurred to me that there’s absolutely no reason to continue working in a storage closet. Could we possibly reconvene at your desk, Inspector?”
“That would certainly smell better. Henry appears to have left a stain in the air here. But I’m afraid my desk is completely covered with reports at the moment.”
“Then what say we find another place to work?”
Kingsley gathered up his bag, the ink bottle, and the paper with its four finger marks. Day carried the razor and the shears, and the two of them left the storage closet. As soon as they hit the relatively fresh air of the squad room, they both breathed deep.
“Oh, my, I had no idea I was becoming so accustomed to that rank atmosphere. This smells wonderful.”
“We can use Detective Gilchrist’s desk. He’s out at the moment.”
“Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to check in with Sir Edward. I’d like him to be aware of this process, and his office might afford us some privacy.”
Blacker rejoined them. He made no mention of the dancing man.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t bother Sir Edward,” Blacker said. “Until we have concrete results.”
“Nonsense. He’s a thinking man. He’ll appreciate this.”
“Then I will respectfully wait here,” Blacker said.
“Suit yourself. Day, are you with me?”
“I am.”
“Good man.”
“I’ll look through these files and await your good news, then,” Blacker said.
Kingsley led the way across the room and knocked on Sir Edward’s office door. After a moment, they heard the commissioner’s voice.
“Come.”
Kingsley smiled and turned the knob and Day followed him into the office. He closed the door after them. Sir Edward stood and came around his desk. He held out his hand to Kingsley. His other sleeve was folded and pinned up at shoulder height, and Day imagined Sir Edward’s wife ironing that sleeve so that it would lie flat against his side.
