The Yard tms-1

by Alex Grecian

  “What’s this next bit, then?”

  “Turtles? I think it says turtles.”

  Day sneaked a glance at Shaw. He seemed frustrated, but it was hard to read an expression on his blood-caked face. The tray under his neck was brimming with fluid.

  “It’s definitely two words,” Hammersmith said.

  “Yes, I think you’re right,” Blacker said. “Maybe the first word is two?”

  “Does it actually say two words?”

  “No, that second word has an h in it.”

  “Whores.”

  Hammersmith said this last word too loudly and the nurse at the end of the row of beds looked up and glared at them.

  “Two whores? Is that what you mean to say?”

  Shaw blinked rapidly and Day put the paper and pencil back in his hands. He wrote again. Yes.

  “So it wasn’t a man who did this to you? It was two women?”

  Yes again.

  “But how were you overpowered by women? Even two of them?”

  This time Shaw didn’t write on the pad. Day saw Blacker and Hammersmith look away from the bed. They seemed uncomfortable.

  “Did they first render you unconscious?” Day said.

  After a moment of hesitation, Shaw wrote again. Yes.

  “I see.”

  “Why did they accost you, sir, do you know?”

  No.

  Another furious bout of writing and Shaw handed the pad to Day. Shaw’s hand fell back against the bed and he seemed to collapse in on himself, exhausted. His eyes closed and he was instantly asleep again.

  “What does it say?”

  “I can’t … This first word may be flow.”

  “Let me see,” Blacker said. He took the pad from Day. “I think it says ploughing tool. But that makes no sense.”

  “Let’s wake him and ask,” Hammersmith said. He reached out to poke Shaw again, but Day grabbed his hand.

  “Show some mercy. He’s done in. I don’t think there’s anything else he can tell us this way.”

  Hammersmith stared down at Shaw. “Maybe Kingsley will be able to tell us more once he gets hold of this.”

  Day understood what Hammersmith meant. When Shaw died, his body would be transported to the basement of the hospital, and Kingsley would take him apart. If there were physical clues to be found, they would only come to light upon Shaw’s death.

  “You act as if you hate this man,” Blacker said.

  “I don’t hate anyone,” Hammersmith said. “But this creature isn’t among my favorites.”

  “What did he ever do to you?”

  “Yesterday he nearly had me killed.”

  “You jest.”

  “He had me poisoned. And he used a good woman whose only mistake was in marrying him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “It had no bearing on the case.”

  “I think I’d better be the one to determine that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Clearly,” Day said, “there are a great many things going on at once, and it might be a good idea for the three of us to talk.”

  “Agreed,” Blacker said.

  They stood at Shaw’s bedside until he drew a last rattling breath and passed away. None of them made any move to try to resuscitate him, and when they left they did not inform the nurse that she had one less patient to care for.

  70

  I hardly know what to say.”

  Colonel Sir Edward Bradford stared at Patrick Gilchrist’s empty desk as if it were a coffin. He didn’t look up at the assembled Murder Squad, but kept his eyes on the stark desktop. His voice, when he spoke again, was soft and low and thoughtful.

  “You all know by now that we have lost another fine officer,” he said. “Many of you knew and worked with Constable Pringle. I did not get a chance to know him well. I regret that.”

  He paused and no one interrupted him. The detectives found themselves looking down at Gilchrist’s desk as well, though none of them knew why.

  “It would appear that someone is targeting the police. The morale of London has not been good for some time now. The police are out of favor. Now someone is killing you.” He took a deep breath. “I will not lose another policeman. You must be able to perform your duties without fear and without violence done to you. You are the hope of this city. I believe that.”

  He cleared his throat and looked up. He regarded each of his men in turn before he began to talk again.

  “Mr Day and Mr Blacker have been working together on this case and they remain unharmed, despite being most at risk. So I would like all of you to work in pairs for the foreseeable future. Not only is it safer for you men, but it’s possible that each of you brings a different perspective to the same situation. Perhaps it will help us to solve crimes more quickly. Speed is of the essence. And so is your safety. When you leave this building, unless you are going home, you will partner with someone else, another detective, a sergeant, a constable, I don’t care who. But there will be no exceptions. If you cannot find someone to accompany you, tell Sergeant Kett and he’ll find someone.”

  He nodded and looked at Inspector Day. “Catch this villain, Mr Day. And do it today if you can.”

  “Sir,” Day said. “I will.”

  “There will be a service for Mr Pringle the day after tomorrow. Before that I expect to see you all at Inspector Little’s funeral tomorrow. Let these be the last two funerals I ever have to attend for my police. Mr Day, I would like to see you in my office now. Please bring the others involved in this with you. That includes Constable Hammersmith.”

  He turned and went into his office and gently shut the door. The click of the latch echoed like a thunderclap through the silent squad room.

  71

  Sir Edward sat behind his desk, the tiger glaring down from its post on the wall above his head.

  “Where is Mr Blacker?” Sir Edward said.

  “He seemed to think you only wanted to speak to the two of us.”

  “I asked for those of you involved in the investigation of Mr Little’s murder, and that includes Detective Blacker.”

  Sir Edward pulled a cord that ran along the top edge of the wainscoting and out of the office through a small hole near the door. A moment later, the door opened and Sergeant Kett stuck his head in the room.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Please find Mr Blacker.”

  “Unless I’m mistaken, sir, I just saw Mr Blacker leavin’ by the back hall.”

  “You are rarely mistaken, Sergeant. Do you think you can catch him?”

  Kett smiled. “I’ll get ’im in here straightaway, sir.”

  The door closed again. Sir Edward busied himself with the paperwork on his desk while Hammersmith and Day stood at awkward attention. Long minutes went by before they heard a knock at the office door. Sir Edward looked up from his papers.

  “Yes?”

  “Detective Blacker here, sir,” Blacker said. His voice was muffled by the closed door.

  “Open the door, Mr Blacker. I’d like to be able to see you when you talk to me.”

  The door cracked open and slowly swung on its hinges until there was enough room for Blacker to squeeze through. He moved sideways into the office as if he were being pulled along, a tired fish on a line. Sir Edward put on a patient face until Blacker had completely entered the room.

  “I hope you move more swiftly in pursuit of your cases, Mr Blacker. Please close the door behind you and join your colleagues.”

  Blacker did as ordered. He kept his eyes on the floor.

  “Detective Blacker,” Sir Edward said, “do you know why I’m always right?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I never meant-”

  “It’s because I have no left.”

  Hammersmith averted his eyes from Sir Edward’s empty left sleeve. He looked at Day, but Day was staring at a spot near the ceiling, seemingly oblivious to what was happening. Hammersmith fixed his gaze upon the same spot.

  “There was no disr
espect intended, sir,” Blacker said.

  “I still have both of my ears, Mr Blacker, and if you insist on circulating jokes about me, I will hear them.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “So you knew that I would hear them?”

  “I–I understand it now, sir.”

  “You understand? So you must have imagined that the loss of my arm was a richly humorous affair for me.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You may relax, Mr Blacker. I do have a sense of humor, and it’s unlikely that you’ll invent a joke that I haven’t already heard.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “In the future, if you insist on risking your career, at least come up with better jokes. Here’s what you’ll do: The next time you believe you’ve formulated a wonderful bon mot about me or about my missing arm, I want you to come to me immediately. You come straight here and tell it to me, and I’ll help you decide whether it’s funny enough or not. There’s no sense spreading a joke until you’ve refined it. We’ll work on these jokes together, you and I. Does that sound agreeable?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Of course you are. From all I’ve seen, you’re a good detective. Don’t let your personality get in the way of that.”

  Blacker nodded at the floor.

  “I hope you fully understand what I’m saying to you, Constable Blacker.”

  Blacker looked up, his eyes wide, his mouth open. Sir Edward shook his head.

  “What did I say? Did I call you Constable Blacker? My mistake, Inspector. Perhaps I was imagining a future conversation. I hope that conversation never happens.”

  “It won’t, sir.”

  “See that it doesn’t. Now, with that out of the way, let us discuss something more serious. How does the Little murder case progress?”

  Hammersmith looked at Day, who was already looking at him. It was clear that neither wanted to be the first to speak. Hammersmith wasn’t easily embarrassed, but he felt some of Blacker’s humiliation and couldn’t figure out why Sir Edward had reprimanded Blacker in front of them. Surely Blacker would now feel uncomfortable around them, knowing what they had seen and heard. Of course, Blacker’s jokes about the one-armed police commissioner had been told behind Sir Edward’s back, in public. Perhaps Sir Edward had simply given shame for shame, making Blacker’s humiliation nearly as public as his own. He had spent years outside of England and away from the social norms that governed proper Victorian society. It was possible, Hammersmith thought, that the ways of Indian society were more direct.

  “If none of you is willing to talk, I could select someone.”

  Day cleared his throat and stepped forward.

  “Sir, we do have some clues. You saw for yourself the demonstration of Dr Kingsley’s finger marks, and he discovered a great many of them on the trunks and the weapons that may have been used.”

  “Yes. But that was yesterday and another police officer has been murdered since Dr Kingsley was in this office.” Sir Edward turned his attention from Day to Hammersmith. “I’ll be addressing the entire squad momentarily, but I wanted to talk to you three first. And especially you, Mr Hammersmith. I understand Colin Pringle was an especially close friend to you.”

  “Yes, sir. We joined the force together.”

  “If you need the day off…”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Keep your head in the game, then.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “Should I enquire about your appearance?”

  Hammersmith looked down at his ensemble of dirt and sweat and blood and tattered fabric. He had fallen into bed the previous night and then rushed out upon hearing the news of Pringle’s death without taking the opportunity to change his uniform.

  “Sir, I would prefer that you let me bathe and change my clothes first.”

  “Very good. Now then, what of this Charles Shaw fellow? Was he involved somehow?”

  “We don’t think so,” Day said.

  “Is this the same Charles Shaw who visited me with a concern about you, Mr Hammersmith? Do you have any light to shed on this?”

  “It was, sir. He won’t be visiting again.”

  “He’s dead, then?”

  “He is.”

  “Murder or accident?”

  “Murder, sir. Throat slashed almost to his backbone.”

  “I see. Same person who killed Little and Pringle?”

  “We don’t think so.”

  “Sir,” Blacker said. It was the first time he’d spoken since Sir Edward had given him a dressing-down. “I respectfully disagree with my colleagues, Sir Edward.”

  “You think Shaw’s death is related to the other two murders?”

  “I’m not certain. But I’m suspicious of coincidences.”

  Sir Edward nodded and leaned back in his chair. “As am I,” he said. “But I have experienced a great number of them anyway. What is the coincidence in play here?”

  “We’re agreed that the same person killed both Little and Pringle. The methods are nearly identical.”

  “Yes?”

  “And we have three other murders, at least three, that are also similar to each other.”

  “Are they similar to the murders of Little and Pringle?”

  “No, they’re not. But I have trouble believing that there are two completely unrelated murderers at work in London who kill again and again, and seemingly at random.”

  “Whether the killings are random or not remains to be seen. That fact is up to you men to discover, is it not?”

  “It is, sir. But to kill in this sort of repeated pattern isn’t the work of any kind of murderer we’re used to seeing.”

  “There was Jack.”

  “Yes.”

  “But we don’t think this is him, do we?”

  “Right, sir,” Blacker said. “I mean, no, sir.”

  Sir Edward almost smiled, but raked his fingers through his beard and scowled at the desk. “I think,” he said, “that Jack was the first of a new breed of killer. I think he opened a door to certain deranged possibilities and there will be more like him. These cases you’re currently pursuing may well be connected, but if they’re not-or even if they are-this department, the Yard itself, is going to have to adapt. We’re going to have to stop struggling against the idea of the mad killer and instead take steps to anticipate such a person. There are still patterns in the crimes they commit. We have to be able to see those patterns. I have great faith in you men, and I’m encouraged by the new techniques that Dr Kingsley and others are discovering.”

  “I think-”

  Sir Edward held up his hand. “I understand your misgivings, Mr Blacker. I do. But we are living and working in the largest city in the entire civilized world. There are more people packed together within London’s borders than anywhere else. And I think it’s that very closeness, that utter lack of privacy, that has caused a new kind of perversion to flower in the minds of some deviant people. I saw things in India that would shock you, all of you. But I also saw kindnesses among the people there that I don’t see here. London is locked in a sort of dance of propriety, and it seems to me that it has led to desperation among certain elements of our society.”

  He took a deep breath. “And that is as much as I want to say on the matter. I would much rather hear from you detectives.”

  “Should I leave, sir?”

  “No, Hammersmith. You’re involved in this and I’d like you to have a hand in, so to speak.”

  He looked at Blacker as he said it and smiled. Blacker blushed and looked down at his shoes.

  “For now, let’s treat Dr Shaw’s murder as a separate case, but to be handled in conjunction with the Little case. Work them both and compare notes. As I told you, Mr Day, all of the detectives out there are at your disposal, but I regret that I have nobody to assign Shaw’s case to as a separate matter. I hope that you’ll rise to the challenge.”

  “I will do my utmost, sir.”

  “Back to Shaw, t
hen. Were you able to learn anything from him?”

  “He couldn’t speak, but he was able to write answers to a few questions before he passed.”

  Day took the small notebook from his jacket pocket and opened it to the page Shaw had written on. He laid it on Sir Edward’s desk.

  “Anything useful here?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” Day said. “Most of what he wrote consisted of answers to specific questions we asked. That last bit at the bottom of the page was spontaneous, though.”

  Sir Edward held the pad up close to his face and squinted at it. “I can’t make it out.”

  “Neither could we. It seems to be a reference to ploughing something, but we don’t know what. He wrote it just as he died.”

  “He certainly didn’t appear to be a farmer when I saw him.”

  “He was a surgeon, sir.”

  “It may have no bearing on his case at all, then. Just the delusional last thoughts of a man in great pain.”

  “That’s possible, sir.”

  “Still. Be nice to know what it says. Give me a moment.”

  He opened his top desk drawer and rummaged inside before finding a small pair of reading glasses. He perched them on the end of his nose, and picked the notebook back up.

  “I’ve had occasion to decipher the handwriting of Indian doctors,” he said. “Their penmanship was better than this, but perhaps I can bring a fresh pair of eyes to it.”

  He didn’t look up as he spoke, but continued to gaze at the paper in front of him. There was a long moment of silence as the three policemen watched the commissioner. Finally Sir Edward pursed his lips and shook his head.

  “I don’t think that’s a p. It looks like an f to me.”

  He laid the pad on his desk, removed his glasses, and pointed at the paper.

  “Look here.”

  Day leaned in.

  “If that’s an f,” Sir Edward said, “then this word isn’t ploughing. I think it says following. What do you think? See the w?”

  “Yes.” Day looked up at the others. His face was flush with excitement. “It says following. That’s exactly it. And this second word has to be you. Following you.”

  “Following who?” Blacker said.