by Alex Grecian
Hammersmith wondered if he could live for a month on nothing but recycled copper-tasting tea.
He fell into bed without removing his trousers and followed the darkness down into sleep.
60
Charles Shaw waited until Hammersmith got off the bus and it started rolling again. When Hammersmith had crossed the road, Shaw hollered at the driver and hopped down before the horses had stopped moving. Hammersmith didn’t turn around, but Shaw had to wait in the shadows of an awning while his quarry stared into a shop window across the street from him. He didn’t know if Hammersmith could see him reflected in the glass, but he felt reasonably secure in the dying light of the day.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Shaw turned to see two women standing behind him. Their dresses were shabby and had been inexpertly dyed in bright Easter colors. Their faces were thickly painted and their hair hung in ropes from loose buns at the backs of their heads. The taller one had a scar across her face.
“Not interested,” he said. “Get along now.”
“Weren’t asking.”
“What is it, then? I’m very busy.”
“Well, obviously, sir. Any time we sees a man standing about on the street, we know right away there’s big business afoot, right?”
“Ah, sarcasm,” Shaw said. “The lowest form of humor unless you count limericks.”
“Well, I like a good limerick,” one of the ladies said.
“Of course you do.”
He turned back in time to see Hammersmith enter through a green door across the road.
“We was just wondering about that lovely beard you’ve got, sir.”
“My beard?”
“Yes, sir. It’s impressive, is all we wanted to say.”
Shaw turned and smiled. He had Hammersmith cornered. There was time enough to be polite.
“It is impressive, isn’t it?” he said.
“Oh, very. It must take you some time to get those beautiful curls just so.”
“Would you believe it takes me four hours? Four hours, twice a week.”
“Cor, I don’t doubt it, but what an awful gob of time to spend,” the first lady said.
“Not that it ain’t worth every minute,” said the other.
“Oh, of course, of course,” the first one said.
“Well, I’m glad you appreciate it.”
“You wouldn’t let us touch it, would you?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m sure you understand.”
The second, friendlier whore frowned and sighed. She reached out and touched his chest with her fingertips.
“Well, of course we understand. Just disappointin’, is all.”
“There’s other things we might touch,” the first one said. She winked at him.
“Wouldn’t cost a thing for a man with a beard like that one neither, would it, Esme?”
The second one, whose name was apparently Esme, moved her hand down Shaw’s chest and stomach.
“Not a thing,” she said. “For either one of us. Or both at once, if the gentleman prefers.”
Shaw felt his face redden and he swallowed hard. He glanced once more at the green door across from him and then back at the ladies. They looked more attractive than he’d first thought, and he wondered whether he’d misjudged them or if it was merely a trick of the shadows.
“Where do you live?” Esme said.
“I’m afraid I’m rather far from home at the moment.”
“Well, that’s no problem for us. We know a place.”
“Unless he ain’t interested.”
“Oh, no, I’m … I assure you, I’m interested.”
“Of course you are, aren’t you?” Esme said. “I’ve got the evidence in my hand.”
She did. Shaw looked around, up and down the street, but few people were about and nobody was looking their way.
“Come with us,” Esme said.
Charles Shaw allowed himself to be led away.
61
Hello, Sergeant,” Claire said.
It took a moment for Constable Jones to look up, but when he did he smiled at her and stood up from his seat behind the desk.
“Ma’am,” he said. “Thank you, but Sergeant Kett’s out tonight and I’m sittin’ the desk for a bit. I’m Jones.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Jones, I should have realized. My husband’s only just started on the Murder Squad and I haven’t had a chance to meet everyone yet.”
“You’d be Mrs Day, then? If you’re here to see yer mister, I’m afraid he’s out and about, same as Sergeant Kett. It’s been a bit of a day round here but I’ll tell him you stopped in.”
“Please do. But, if I may impose, I’d like to ask a question of you.”
“It’s no imposition at all.”
“Is there, by chance, an Inspector Bentley working with my husband?”
Jones frowned. “Bentley, did you say?”
“Yes, Inspector Richard Bentley.”
“No, ma’am, there’s no Bentley here. Never since I been here.”
“I see.”
Claire felt the hairs at the back of her neck rise and pinpricks of sweat bead her upper lip. So the friendly bald man who had come to the house was not a detective at all. He’d been playacting. But why?
“There’s a Benton, though,” Jones said, “if that’s who you mean.”
“Is he a part of the Murder Squad?”
“No, ma’am, he’s helping keep the peace on the docks. Good fellow. I can see if he’s in.”
“Oh, would you?”
Jones nodded and smiled and walked away down the short passageway behind him. He turned to his right and passed out of Claire’s line of sight.
Perhaps, Claire thought, she’d been mistaken about his name. Perhaps he’d said Benton and she’d heard Bentley, and all that time cooped up in the house with nothing to do and nobody to talk to had made her suspicious and fidgety. Now Constable Jones would tell Walter that she’d come visiting and he would worry about her.
She skirted the desk and hurried down the hall. She just needed a glimpse of Inspector Benton to be able to tell if he was the same man. If he was, then she would apologize and be on her way.
And if he wasn’t? What then?
She saw Jones at the other side of a massive room, talking to an old man with a long droopy handlebar mustache and a fringe of grey hair at the back of his head. Jones turned and came to her. “That’s him. You can go on over if you like.”
Claire shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ve changed my mind.”
The old man was not her visitor. Claire’s stomach turned over and her vision blurred. She stumbled against the rail behind her and through a cloud of bright floating specks she saw the young constable rush toward her.
“Ma’am? Mrs Day, are you all right?”
She waved him off. “Of course, thank you. I’ll be fine, Mr Jones. Just a momentary spell.”
“Constable!”
A tall man stood up from a desk behind Claire, in the area behind the railing where she knew Walter worked. The man was square-jawed, handsome in a vague way, with an impressive mane of dark hair.
“Constable Jones,” he said, “can we please have some peace in here? We can’t accomplish anything with the public coming through on these asinine tours and banging into the fixtures.”
“I beg your pardon,” Claire said. “I can’t have disturbed you as much as all that.”
“Inspector Tiffany, sir,” Jones said, “may I introduce Inspector Day’s lovely wife.”
Inspector Tiffany sniffed and smoothed his necktie. “Ah,” he said. “I hadn’t realized. I’m a bit distracted with work, I suppose.”
“That’s hardly an apology,” Claire said. “You’ve been quite rude.”
Tiffany raised an eyebrow at her and almost smiled. “Then I do apologize.”
“Apology accepted, Mr Tiffany. I’m sure I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
She held out her hand and he stepped to the rail and t
ook it.
“And I yours,” he said. “Please, call me James. But I’m afraid if you’re here to see your husband he’s stepped out. It’s just me and Boring here right now.”
He gestured to a fat detective, who raised a hand in greeting without turning around.
“Thank you. No, I came to report a suspicious man.”
“That’d be for one of the others to hear about,” Jones said. “Inspector Tiffany and the other Murder Squad detectives isn’t to deal with nothin’ but murders. Instructions from the commissioner hisself.”
“It’s all right,” Tiffany said. “I can hear the lady, Constable.”
“Sir Edward won’t like it none.”
Tiffany smirked. “I suppose he won’t, will he?”
Jones shrugged. “Then it’s you who’ll get an earful from ’im. I done my duty. Mrs Day, it’s a real pleasure to meet you.”
Jones hurried away in the direction of his temporary post in the back hall.
Tiffany gestured for Claire to follow him through the gate and into the squad room. He pulled a chair over from another desk for her to sit and took his own seat across from her.
“Have you a disagreement with Sir Edward?” Claire said.
“I preferred Commissioner Warren,” Tiffany said. “He let us do our jobs and kept his nose out of it.”
“I see.”
“But that’s hardly your concern, is it, Mrs Day? Let’s hear about your suspicious character.”
He picked up a pen from his desk and toyed with it, as if prepared to write down what she said, but he leaned back in his chair, away from his desk. She could see that, despite his pretense, he had no intention of writing anything down or pursuing anything she might have to say to him. She was nothing but a diversion for him.
Still, she needed to tell someone.
“I had a man come round the house earlier today,” she said. “He presented himself as a detective and told me that he worked closely with Walter. But Mr Jones has just confirmed for me that there is no such person here at the Yard. I’m worried that Walter may be in some danger from this man.”
“It sounds to me as if you’re the one in danger.”
“He didn’t threaten me or make any move toward me at all. In fact, he acted the perfect gentleman.”
Tiffany sat back in his chair and tossed the pen on his desk. “Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you? I suspect you’ve just let nerves get to you. Happens to women all the time. Go home, have a rest, and you’ll be right again in no time.”
“But what could his purpose have been? He seemed to want information from me regarding one of Walter’s cases.”
“And did you give him information?”
“Well, no, of course not. I don’t even know about Walter’s cases.”
“Good. This sort of work isn’t anything a woman need trouble herself with. Your husband’s done the right thing by keeping you well out of his business.”
Claire wasn’t sure she wanted Inspector Tiffany to approve of her husband. Walter and Tiffany were different men entirely, and Claire was glad of it.
“Are you married, Mr Tiffany?”
“I hardly see how-”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Thank you, Mrs Day. I believe we’re done here.”
“One more thing, please. That pen you’re using is one of Walter’s, isn’t it?”
“Why, yes, I think it is.”
“I know because I gave it to him. I suppose he shared it with you?”
“Mine wasn’t working.”
“That’s right. Thank you, Mr Tiffany. I’ll show myself out.”
She stood and left by the back hall, stopping just long enough to thank the kind constable for his time and trouble. Claire resolved to tell Walter about her strange visitor as soon as she saw him. He would listen to her. He had always listened to her.
The world was full of men like James Tiffany. There was only one Walter Day.
62
Somewhere in the dark house, Saucy Jack called out to him.
“I won’t hurt you,” Jack said. “Come out and watch me play.”
Hammersmith remained quiet. He was in a drawing room with no lamps, but he could see dust motes floating through the air around him, backlit by the blue light of a picture window. The furniture was covered with white sheets, but the sheets were stained brown and red, spattered with the blood of Jack’s victims, who lounged about, blocking Hammersmith’s exit.
There was Annie Chapman, sitting on a Prince of Wales chair, her uterus in her lap. She smiled at Hammersmith. Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes were together, leaning against the empty fireplace, talking in hushed tones. Stride raised a hand in greeting and her throat opened with the effort, fresh blood pouring out and over the front of her party dress. Mary Kelly relaxed on the daybed. Her heart beat slowly next to her. Mary Ann Nichols stood at the window, and Hammersmith noticed for the first time that it was snowing outside the room. Mary held a finger to her lips, hushing him, and Hammersmith realized the snowflakes were actually grey ash drifting past the window.
The Ripper had been busy. Saucy Jack had not stopped with those five women. Or started with them. Jack was London itself and London had always been a killer.
Eight-year-old Johnny Gill played with a tin train set beside the divan. He grinned at Hammersmith and a thin smear of blood slid across his teeth. The train continued round its track and Johnny’s attention returned to it. Elizabeth Jackson sat by Johnny, brushing her hair, one hundred strokes before bed every night. She turned her decapitated head this way and that in her lap, blindly moving the brush, her shy face tucked away in the crook of an elbow.
The drawing room door was closed and the key was in the lock. Hammersmith could see it from where he stood. The key moved as someone worked the handle. Then a great fist struck the door and Jack’s voice echoed through the hall outside.
“You’re too small, Nevil,” Jack said. “I’m everywhere and I always find my little boys and girls. You can’t hide from me.”
Hammersmith looked down at his body and saw that he was a child again. He was almost five, and he was still smaller than most four-year-olds.
Elizabeth Jackson picked up her head and stood. Her face peered out from under her arm and a single eye focused on Nevil. It winked.
Nevil grabbed the white sheet from the divan and threw it over his head. Under the sheet, the air was thick and the darkness was complete and Nevil felt safe. If the door broke down and the Ripper came in, he would tramp right past the sheet-clad boy and he would never ever find him. Jack would only see another ghost.
He was blind, but he could still hear as, across the room, the key fell out of the lock and clattered to the floor. Hinges creaked as the door opened and deliberate footsteps thumped across the floorboards and over the rug and stopped in front of the police boy under the cloth.
Jack’s lips pressed against the other side of the sheet, and Nevil felt the Ripper’s breath, hot and moist against his cheek. A kiss.
“Thank you, Nevil,” Jack said. “I couldn’t do any of it without you.”
The lips drew away and Nevil heard the Ripper’s footsteps retreat, and the room must have grown because the footsteps went on and on.
Nevil closed his eyes-there was no change in the quality of darkness-and he wished that the footsteps would stop, that Jack would reach the door and leave, but the sound of the killer continued, pounding against the floor, pounding.
He awoke in a sweat, his bedsheet tangled about his throat. His room was nearly as dark as the dream had been. He could still hear the distant pounding.
“Hammersmith,” someone said.
The voice was faint, coming through the hall door. Someone was out there knocking.
“Are you in there? Answer the door, man, or I’ll break it down.”
Hammersmith sat up and stumbled out of his bedroom to the front door. He threw the latch and opened the door and Sergeant Kett blinked at him, his arm
raised to knock again. Hammersmith’s landlady, Mrs Flanders, was behind the sergeant. Beside her, Inspectors Day and Blacker stood with their hats in their hands.
“I couldn’t find the key, Mr Hammersmith,” Mrs Flanders said. “I’ve told you not to lock the door.”
Hammersmith said nothing. He stared at the old lady and the three police, and he tried to remember why he had felt so safe with a sheet over his head.
“I’m sorry, lad,” Kett said. “We was worried perhaps you’d been done in, too.”
Hammersmith shook his head. He didn’t step back from the door, didn’t make way for anyone to enter the flat. Day and Blacker appeared uncomfortable, and Kett was red in the cheeks.
“He’s dead, lad. Little’s killer done him.”
Hammersmith found his voice. “What time is it?”
“It’s not late,” Blacker said. “Did we wake you?”
“No,” Hammersmith said. “Of course not. Who’s died?”
But somehow he already knew.
DAY THREE
63
FORTY-ONE HOURS SINCE THE DISCOVERY OF MR LITTLE.
The sun was beginning to rise, but its rays had not yet reached the alley where Sam Pizer waited. He mashed the lit end of his cigar between his thumb and forefinger and put it in his pocket to enjoy again later. The rattle of wheels on stone grew louder, echoing up and down the alley, then slowed and stopped.
Pizer leaned against the alley wall and waited. After a long moment, a voice came from atop the hansom cab.
“You the sweep?”
Pizer spat on the stones and nodded, realized the coachman couldn’t see him in the shadows, and cleared his throat.
