by Alex Grecian
“Was Shaw following you, Mr Day?”
“We were discussing his killer.”
“His killer was following him.”
“He doesn’t say here that anyone was following him. This says following you.”
“He also wrote that his killer was two women,” Blacker said. “He called them whores.”
Hammersmith stiffened and grabbed Day’s arm. “He was following me. Shaw was following me. This must be a confession.”
“What makes you say that?”
“His widow told me as much. Remember I told you that he had me poisoned?”
“That’s a large leap to make from two words scribbled on a page.”
“I know. But I think I’m right.”
“But why would he confess to following you?” Blacker said. “What good does it do him as he lies dying to tell you that?”
“If he was confessing his sins, why not confess all of them?” Day said. “Why this one?”
“Perhaps he ran out of time,” Hammersmith said, “and this was merely the first of many confessions. I do believe he had more wicked sins to talk about.”
“Wait a moment,” Sir Edward said. “Did you say that he poisoned you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?” Sir Edward said. “The man came to my office to complain about you. If I’d known…”
“Sir, Mrs Shaw was involved, and I wanted to think through the possible repercussions before bringing anything to you. I believe she was coerced into helping him and the scandal would be-”
“Mr Hammersmith, the health and safety of my officers is of great concern. You should have brought the matter to me.”
“I apologize.”
“Well, I imagine the murder of Mr Pringle rather occupied your thoughts. But in the future…”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you’re feeling quite all right?”
“I am now, sir.”
“Good. Well, then, back to the matter before us. If this man Shaw wasn’t confessing a sin, then do you think it possible he was delivering a warning?”
“A warning?”
“Yes. Think about it from the killer’s point of view. He’s been killing police and now the police are on his trail. Isn’t it possible he’s been following one of you? He might even be planning to make one of you his next victim.”
“It’s possible.”
“And if Shaw was following you, Mr Hammersmith, perhaps he saw the killer, also following you. Perhaps you’re the next target.”
“Following me? Why would the killer be following me? Mr Day or Mr Blacker here, they’re the ones investigating him.”
“Maybe you saw something.”
“Nothing I’m aware of.”
“It’s a thought. We still don’t know why Little or Pringle were killed. You’re as logical a target as any of us. You said Shaw’s wife is involved in this somehow?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s have a talk with her, then.”
“I’ll pay her a visit.”
“No, not you, Mr Hammersmith. It sounds to me like you’re already chin-deep in a situation there.”
“But, with all due respect, sir-”
“I’ve made my decision. Mr Hammersmith, I want you to keep your distance from the Shaw home. Help Mr Day as he pursues Pringle’s killer. You should find that a satisfactory outlet for your energies. Mr Blacker, you’ll visit the Shaw woman. Take someone with you. And Mr Hammersmith?”
“Sir?”
“You worry me. I’ve already told these men and now I’m telling you: I don’t want you doing anything alone, and I mean anything at all. You will stay with these other men at all times.”
“But I’m perfectly capable.”
“Of course you are. Indulge me. I am not prepared to lose any more of my men.”
72
He won’t return.”
“Hammersmith?”
“Aye, him.”
“Of course he’ll return. He likes the lady. Her own husband told us so.”
“He’s had her already.”
“Hasn’t. She’s a proper one. And anyhow, her husband’s only just dead. But once our Mr Hammersmith finds the body, he’ll be round here to call on her, I promise.”
They looked at each other and both burst out laughing at once. Then they lapsed into easy silence. The two women sat side by side under the willow tree on the same low wall that Constables Hammersmith and Pringle had occupied two nights before. The sun had moved behind a blanket of fog and did nothing to warm them. Liza leaned her head against Esme’s shoulder.
“He doesn’t have hair on his face,” she said. “There’s no beard to shave.”
“They all have beards,” Esme said. “This one keeps it down, is all.”
“Less work for us, I suppose.”
“He done the work for us. Partly.”
“Partly. Not all.”
“You really think he’ll come here?”
“If he doesn’t, we know where to find him.”
“Not done it to a police afore.”
“You done it to plenty a police, girl.”
Esme laughed. “Ain’t done the other thing, though. Ain’t killed one.”
“Don’t matter he’s police. What they done fer us, huh? They dint catch him.”
“They let the Ripper do what he done to Annie.”
“And the others.”
“Aye.”
“And you.”
“Aye.”
They were silent then, and the fog rolled over the wall and up the trunk of the willow behind them and swirled down. It was cool and damp, and Liza closed her eyes and felt it on her face.
“He’ll come,” she said. “Patience, love. He’ll come.”
73
Should I be worried about this woman poisoning me?” Blacker said.
“You’re not her type,” Hammersmith said.
“Excuse me?”
“A joke. I thought you liked those. Penelope Shaw was a victim of her husband’s cruelty and manipulation. She won’t cause any trouble for you.”
“Michael and I seem to have hit a dead end with Little’s murder,” Day said. “Now that we have your notes, Nevil, I’d like to follow Constable Pringle’s movements in the last few hours of his life.”
Hammersmith nodded.
“You know,” Blacker said, “that I have the utmost respect for Sir Edward.”
“Of course.”
“The jokes … about his arm? They weren’t meant to hurt.”
“Perhaps joking makes the job easier for you.”
“Sir Edward knows you meant no real disrespect,” Hammersmith said. “If he didn’t, I believe you’d be back to walking a beat today.”
The creak of the opening gate caused the three men to turn toward the rail where Sergeant Kett was entering.
“Some news for you gentlemen,” he said. “Mr Day, I’m afraid we needed the room in lock-up and I was forced to send your prisoner to the workhouse.”
“The dancing man?”
“He wasn’t dancin’ when I saw ’im last.”
“Which workhouse did you send him to?”
“Hobgate.”
“Damn.”
“I had little choice.”
“No, I understand, but I don’t think he’s well equipped to survive long there.”
“Well, who is?”
“Granted.”
“And Mr Hammersmith, there’s been another dispatch from hospital. It’s your father.”
“My father can wait.”
“No, son, it don’t sound like he can.”
“I’ll get round to see him when I have the time.”
“If you want to do that today, I can handle the investigation on my own for a bit,” Day said.
“No, you’ll need me to point out Colin’s habits.”
“Your notes will steer me in the right direction, I’m sure I can-”
“I don’t care to see my father
.”
“Ah.”
“He doesn’t know me. He’s half the size he once was and he coughs blood onto himself, and I have no desire to watch him die. If it’s quite all right with you lot, I will do my job and I will remember my father the way that I wish to remember him.”
The other policemen looked at one another, but remained quiet. Finally Kett reached out and clapped Hammersmith on the shoulder.
“Well,” he said, “you lads have a busy afternoon ahead of you. I’ll let you get to it.”
Kett stepped through the gate and disappeared down the back hallway.
“Well, then,” Day said. “Let’s get started, shall we? Where would Pringle have been yesterday morning?”
Hammersmith was grateful to Day for giving him something constructive to think about, a goal, no matter how wretched the circumstances surrounding that goal might be. His head throbbed and the room spun slowly round him, the poison still working its way through his system. He closed his eyes, thinking, waiting for the walls to stop moving.
“He was headed to the tailor’s shop,” he said. “I forget the name. It’s the one used by the department for uniforms and the like.”
“Cinderhouse,” Blacker said.
“That’s it. Colin had new trousers being made and he was anxious to have them fitted.”
“He was anxious for a pair of trousers?”
“He was quite … well, he was immaculate in his ways and in his appearance. He liked to impress the ladies.”
Hammersmith allowed himself a wistful smile at the thought of all the disappointed women who would never again receive a compliment from Colin Pringle. Some of them, Maggie especially, deserved an explanation. Hammersmith could see that the days ahead would be busy. He would need to track down and inform Pringle’s friends-the friends that Hammersmith knew about-that their social circle had been diminished.
“Then Cinderhouse should be your first stop,” Blacker said. “You were going to pay a visit there anyway. We can share a wagon, at least that far, before I have to head for the Shaw home.”
“The scarcity of police wagons is alarming. How can we hope to track anyone down when we have no transportation?”
“The tailor’s shop won’t be open yet,” Hammersmith said.
“What say we roll past it and take a look? I don’t want to wait another day before questioning him. If he’s not in there, we’ll try again after we see this Shaw woman. Meanwhile, Mr Hammersmith looks particularly rough this morning. Perhaps we could all do with a spot of tea and a fresh change of clothing.”
“I’m fine,” Hammersmith said. “Perhaps not as rested as I might be, I’ll admit, but I won’t be able to sleep again until this monster is in our dungeon.”
“Of course.”
“Then what say, after the tailor’s shop, we pay a visit to Shaw’s widow together?” Blacker said. “We’re supposed to stick together anyway and I’ll feel a bit less likely to be knocked off by her.”
Day looked at Hammersmith.
“I’ll wait outside her home,” Hammersmith said, “in the wagon.”
Day chuckled and clapped Blacker on the back. “Very well. Perhaps the presence of three of the Yard’s finest will convince Mrs Shaw to keep her poisons locked up.”
The gate creaked again.
“Your pardon,” Kett said, “but there’s a gentleman out here who says he’s got to talk to Mr Day.”
“To me?”
“Well, not by name, but he said it was regarding the dancin’ man, and that’s your special interest.”
Day looked at Hammersmith and Blacker. Blacker shrugged.
“I can spare a minute,” Day said, “but no more.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Wait. Who is it?”
“Never seen ’im round before, but he says he’s the dancin’ man’s brother.”
74
Dr Bernard Kingsley looked past the body of Dr Charles Shaw. Most of the tables in the large spotless room were full, and two nurses were busy bringing in more bodies. Next to Shaw was the body of a girl who couldn’t have been much older than Fiona Kingsley. Most of the girl’s jaw was missing, her tongue lolling down the length of her neck. A belated victim of the white phosphorus used to make matches, and a clear holdover from London’s match girls’ strike of the previous year. Kingsley had seen scores of similar bodies, but fewer of them since the strike. The young women who had worked in the Bryant and May matchstick factory had breathed the phosphorus fumes. They had touched their faces when they lit their cigarettes, scratched their noses, and wiped the sweat from their brows, transferring white phosphorus from their fingers. Their skulls had turned to jelly.
He pronounced the cause of death for the poor girl at a glance and the nurses cleared the table to make room for a new corpse. There were many more waiting. There always were.
The man next to her had been ill. He had come from somewhere upstairs in the hospital and had been worked over by another doctor. There were small purple wounds on the man’s chest, abdomen, legs, arms, and forehead where leeches had been applied. It was an old method of treatment, and Kingsley had no use for it. Patients who had been bled were invariably weaker and thinner and sicker than when they were first admitted to hospital. Kingsley would have to decide whether to credit the man’s death to illness or malpractice. In similar cases in the past, he had marked bleeding as the cause of death, but the hospital frowned on that. Dr Kingsley had been encouraged to keep his progressive thinking to himself.
There was a bin next to the only empty table in the room. The bin was filled with disembodied limbs, heads, and torsos. There was no mystery as to the cause of death. A man in Mayfair had wheeled the bin into a police station and had confessed to chopping up his entire family in a fit of pique after too much drink. Kingsley had already pronounced cause on the woman and two children whose body parts were mingled in the bin. But he had decided to stitch the three people back together, to make them whole again, before their burial. It seemed only proper.
The bodies of children always bothered Kingsley most.
Many of the other tables’ occupants had been struck down by horses or wagons or stray building materials as they walked in the streets near the hospital. Here a man’s head was stove in and unrecognizable; there a woman’s arm was separated from her shoulder. She had bled to death while the omnibus that hit her had rolled on to its appointed rounds.
Victims of consumption occupied three of the tables near the far wall. They were all razor-thin, their skin marble grey, their clothing spotted with blood. They had slowly coughed up their lives. Kingsley’s own wife had suffered this way, and he avoided looking too closely at their faces, afraid he might see the same dull animal fear that had transformed Catherine. He had carefully compartmentalized the memories of his wife on her deathbed: the bloodstained linens, the long nights, the hoarse moans that had echoed through their home every night. He preferred to remember her as she had been in her prime.
He moved on as he always moved on when those memories surfaced.
The last table in the corner of the room held an old woman’s body. Her throat had been cut as she passed through an alley, her bag stolen. Kingsley had no idea what might have been in that bag. The mugger and murderer had not been caught. Kingsley stood by the table and looked down at the old woman. She seemed peaceful, sleeping, as if she might wake at any moment and ask for a cup of tea. He took her hand and gazed at her untroubled face and allowed himself a moment before turning and unloading the bin of body parts onto the empty table beside it.
There was much to do and the work never ended.
INTERLUDE 3
CHARING CROSS, LONDON, TWO YEARS EARLIER.
Dr Bernard Kingsley stood in the open doorway and surveyed the room. It was long and narrow like a potting shed, with more than thirty tables flanking a tight center aisle. There was just enough room between the tables for a man to walk sideways. There were no windows in the room and only the single door. The ivy
that grew along the outside walls of the tiny morgue had pushed through crevices in the wood and moved inside, where streamers of it spilled across the low ceiling. Street sounds echoed through the odd-shaped chamber like the bustle of an open-air bazaar, but the room lacked the breeze or sunlight of such a place. No one had yet noticed Kingsley standing there.
Two men in dirty smocks wandered aimlessly at the back of the room. One of the men had tied a kerchief around his mouth and nose, presumably to filter the stench, which was considerable.
Kingsley took a step farther into the room, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. He resisted the impulse to gag and reached inside his coat for his pipe and tobacco. Disguising the odor of the dead was the only reason he ever smoked. He blew through the stem and added a pinch of an American blend to the bowl, catching the leftover tobacco in his pouch as it fell. Hard to do in the semidark. He tamped the bowl with his thumb and sucked air in through the dry tobacco, tasting it.
One of the men, the one with the kerchief over his face, saw the flicker of Kingsley’s match and moved toward him as Kingsley drew on the pipe and got a decent flow going. It was a false light; the pipe went out. He tamped again and lit another match. This time smoke billowed around his head. His own private and portable atmosphere.
The man with the kerchief waited patiently as Kingsley made the matches and tobacco pouch disappear back into the recesses of his coat. Kingsley took a long drag and held it. He looked back out at the street, then turned and plunged into the morgue facility.
“Beg pardon, sir,” the man with the kerchief said. “Not s’posed to be reg’lar folk in here while the work’s goin’ on.”
“What’s your name, fellow?” Kingsley said.
“Frances Mayhew, sir. Call me Frank. That over there’s my brother, Henry. But he don’t like to be called Hank on account of it rhymes with me.”
“Frances and Henry. Are you doctors?”
Frank let out a guffaw. The sudden gust of air blew his kerchief up over his eyes. When it had drifted back down over his mouth and nose, Frank bowed and tugged on his forelock.
“No, sir. Not hardly. No call for doctors round here noways. Patients in here’s all dead, don’tcha know.”
