by Alex Grecian
“So many people deserve better, Mr Mayhew,” Day said. He spoke quietly. “This city is full to the brim with people who deserve better.”
Day held the other man’s stare until the spark went out of Mayhew’s eyes, leaving them once again watery and grey. Mayhew closed them and hung his head.
“Well, I can’t argue with that,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Mr Mayhew. Truly I am.”
“It was a rubbish idea anyhow. Police don’t do nothin’ for nobody ain’t got two to rub together.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Ain’t fair, but ’tis true. I’ll clear outten your way now.”
Mayhew coughed as he rose. He turned, stumbled, and then fell, toppling over the chair, but keeping his feet. He tripped forward again, trying to catch his balance, dragging the chair under him as it banged back into him. His gaunt body finally crumpled and he lay still beside Inspector Tiffany’s desk.
Tiffany stood and grabbed Mayhew around the waist. He yanked him to his feet.
“Suspect or witness?” Tiffany said.
“Neither,” Day said. “A concerned citizen.”
Tiffany’s expression softened and he set Mayhew on his feet. Mayhew staggered, but stayed upright.
“Are you all right?” Day said.
Mayhew held up his hands, palms out, and nodded. “Be right as rain. Need a moment’s all.”
He coughed again. And again. And then his body shook with convulsions as he barked and hacked, pitching forward and rocking back. Tiffany jumped out of the way as a thick clot of gore spewed from Frank Mayhew’s mouth. Blood, black as tar, spattered the floor. Hammersmith and Blacker rushed from the other side of the room, but Tiffany held them back, giving Mayhew room. Constables and sergeants queued up on the other side of the rail and watched Mayhew work, coughing his life up and out.
Finally Frank Mayhew straightened. He stood quietly with his back to the detectives and took the handkerchief from his pocket again. He wiped his lips.
“You have consumption,” Day said.
“I do.”
“You’re dying.”
“Not too long now.”
“Let me take you to hospital.”
“So I can die there?”
“They can make you comfortable.”
“You know better’n ’at.”
Mayhew turned to face him. The front of his shirt glistened, and Day realized that what he had taken for dirt was actually layer upon layer of dried blood.
“What you said. There’s too many deservin’ of help in this city? That’s true enough. But you could maybe help just one of them that’s deservin’ and that’s somethin’ and that’s true enough, too.”
Day was quiet.
“I can’t look after my brother no more. And I know you can’t, neither. But you can maybe get ’im outta that place and give ’im a fightin’ chance on the street where he can breathe some air and do a dance again. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little dancin’, Mr Police, sir.”
Mayhew nodded at him, sniffed, and turned. He walked away through the gate, and the uniformed men on the other side of the railing moved to let him pass. Mayhew disappeared down the back hallway. He would, Day knew, be swallowed up by the city and he would die in an alley or under a building somewhere within the week.
“Well, this is quite a mess,” Tiffany said.
“It is.”
“We’ll get someone to clean it.”
“Thank you.”
“Day?”
“Yes?”
“If you try to handle more than you can, you’ll drive yourself mad. My advice to you is to concentrate on the job. Anything else will only get in the way of that.”
Day nodded, but said nothing. After a moment, Tiffany clapped him on the shoulder and went to open the gate for a boy who was lugging a bucket of suds and a mop. Day stepped back and let the boy get to work scrubbing the floor.
“What now, old man?” Blacker said.
“I believe I’ll let you and Mr Hammersmith handle the interview with Penelope Shaw by yourselves, if you don’t mind.”
“What Tiffany said just now-”
“No. He’s right, of course, but that’s not the way I’m made.”
“So you’re headed round the workhouse, then?”
“Of course I am. I’ll check in on the tailor first. It’s on the way.”
“Sir Edward wants us to stay together.”
“This isn’t precisely in the line of duty. We can’t lose valuable time on the case while I run a fool’s errand. I’ll catch up to you at the Shaw house as soon as I’m able.”
“With any luck we’ll see you there soon.”
78
Our Mr Day has taken the last wagon.”
“Considerate of him.”
“Fancy a walk?”
“That’s a long walk.”
“Aye.” Inspector Blacker sighed and looked at the sky. “More rain today, I think.”
“Even better news.”
“Aye.”
“I’ve forgotten my hat,” Hammersmith said. “Wait for me?”
“Of course.”
Blacker watched Hammersmith duck past a pair of bobbies and disappear through the back door of 4 Whitehall Place. When Blacker turned around, a black hansom was pulling up to the curb.
“Well, that’s a stroke of luck,” Blacker said.
The two bobbies looked at him expectantly and he waved them on.
“Talking to myself,” he said. “It’ll be the nuthouse for me next.”
They smiled and nodded and moved down the sidewalk as the hansom’s coachman alighted and reached into the cab for something. He emerged with a short stack of books and approached Blacker.
“Pardon me, sir,” the coachman said. “I’m to deliver these to an Inspector Day.”
“I’m afraid you’ve just missed him,” Blacker said. “What have you got?”
“Catalogues from Mr Cinderhouse.”
“The man’s name pops up at every turn. Tell you what: Take those in to Sergeant Kett. He’ll be right inside there. Tell him that Inspector Day needs them left on his desk and he’ll take care of you.”
“I’ll need a receipt of some sort.”
“Kett’s your man.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I say, when you’ve done with that, I don’t suppose you’re up for giving me a ride?”
“A ride, sir?”
“It’s a short distance. Can your employer spare you the few minutes?”
“I’m sure he’d be happy if I was of service to you.”
“Excellent. Hurry yourself, then. Remember, Sergeant Kett’s the fellow you’re looking for.”
The coachman tipped his hat and carried the stack of catalogues into the Yard, passing Hammersmith, who emerged from number four with his hat in his hands. Hammersmith scowled at the sky. Heavy clouds were rolling in, the color and texture of boiled spinach.
“I’m too tired to be wet today,” he said.
“There’s good news in that department, old man. I’ve arranged a ride for us in this shiny beast of a cab.”
“That is good news. I don’t believe I’d have made it halfway there on foot.”
“Then hop in and we’ll be talking to this Shaw woman in mere moments.”
Hammersmith climbed into the cab and shut the door behind him. Blacker stood on the curb until the coachman came back out.
“Did the sergeant fix you up, then?”
“He did. Thank you, sir.”
“Then we’re off.”
“My pleasure. Where to, sir?”
“Here.”
Blacker wrote the address in pencil on the back of a calling card. He handed it to the coachman, who squinted at it.
“It’s not far,” Blacker said.
“Not at all. No trouble, sir.”
“Good man.”
Blacker clapped the coachman on the shoulder and clambered into the cab. He felt the hansom shift as the c
oachman settled into position above. There was the sound of reins snapping and the cab lurched into motion.
Blacker looked over at Hammersmith. The constable had pulled his hat down over his eyes and was snoring softly. Blacker smiled and pulled the curtains closed over the windows. In the darkness he leaned his shoulder against the wall of the cab and shut his eyes. Within moments, the gentle rocking of the hansom had lulled him to sleep as well.
79
Sergeant Kett was so buried in his paperwork that he didn’t notice when the postman rapped twice on the doorjamb. The mail sat in its box for more than an hour before Kett’s internal clock reminded him that the post was overdue.
He fetched the mail to his desk and looked through it, quickly sorting it into piles for the runners to deliver about the building. He always looked through the messages to the Murder Squad room himself, though, to be sure there wasn’t anything that might disturb his detectives. The Ripper fiasco had led to a fair amount of hate mail and even, once, a letter bomb.
There was an envelope addressed to Inspector Day. No return address. Kett slit it open. Inside was a lady’s handkerchief and a note. The handkerchief had the initials CC embroidered on one corner. Kett opened the note. It said:
Inspektor Day, you no who this belongs to amp; I can get at her agin. Stop what your duing and declare it insolvible or the wurst will hapinn.
The note wasn’t signed.
Kett read it again. It was nonsense, clearly meant as a threat, but so vague as to be pointless. Just one more crazy Londoner.
He tossed the envelope, note, and handkerchief in the rubbish can next to his desk. His duty was to serve and protect the detectives who in turn served and protected the great city. Inspector Day didn’t need to be heckled by anonymous citizens.
Kett bundled up the remainder of the mail for the runners and returned to his paperwork.
80
I t had been a long morning and he had barely slept the night before, but there was work to be done, and so he locked up the house and took the boy to the shop with him.
He had just entered the shop when he heard a carriage roll slowly down the street and stop outside the door. But he wasn’t expecting clients today. He pointed at the boy and Fenn nodded. Fenn moved to the back wall of the shop and stood still, waiting. Cinderhouse watched him with pride. The boy was learning.
Cinderhouse quietly turned the bolt on the front door, easing it into its casing in the jamb, and watched through the smeary picture window as Inspector Day alighted from the carriage and approached the shop. Cinderhouse noticed an oily handprint on the glass, no doubt left there by Constable Pringle the previous day. He cursed under his breath and pulled back into the shadows.
What was the detective doing here now? Had he already received the note? How could he know who sent it? Unless he’d talked to his wife. She was entirely too smart for her own good. Or maybe there was a question about the shears. Maybe they had somehow been traced back to Cinderhouse. Had his driver talked? Why would the coachman betray him? More money?
There were too many questions.
He could slip the bolt, open the door, and welcome the detective, show him in, maybe even serve tea. If luck was with him, he might learn more from Day than the detective learned from him. But Fenn was here and the situation would be tense. Suppose the boy spoke up?
Day tried the front door, and when it didn’t open for him, he peered in through the window, past Pringle’s handprint, shading the glass with his own hands. Cinderhouse froze in the shadows. From the corner of his eye he watched Fenn. If the boy moved or called out now, Cinderhouse would have to take drastic action again. He wasn’t sure he could overpower the policeman, but he could move fast enough to reach Fenn and make sure that his son wasn’t taken from him. If he couldn’t keep the boy, he would make sure that nobody else would, either.
The detective moved away from the window. He shook his head and clambered back into the carriage.
Cinderhouse leapt across the room and grabbed Fenn by the upper arm. The boy protested, but there was no time to explain things. He shoved Fenn into a cupboard under the long counter with a slit in the top for cutting fabric. A small padlock fit through two iron loops set into the wood and fastened the cupboard tight. He had used this cabinet to seal away the bleaches and dyes he used so that his first son wouldn’t find them and hurt himself. It would work as well to keep the new son in place.
If there had been time, he would have given Fenn food and water, but he assumed he would be back within the hour.
Cinderhouse grabbed his hat and a pair of shears from a nearby drawer, then hurried out the door and locked it behind him. He looked for his regular hansom and remembered that he’d sent it away. A bright red coach rolled past and he flagged down the driver. He gave terse orders and hopped into the back as the horse was whipped into motion. Up ahead, the wagon carrying the policeman was still visible. The smaller, faster coach would have no trouble catching up to it.
Why had Day come to the shop? Had Cinderhouse overplayed his hand by going to them in the first place? Did the men of the Yard finally suspect that their official tailor was a murderer?
Cinderhouse shook his head. There was nothing to connect him to the murder. He would follow Day and, if necessary, dispatch him. If he had learned anything in the last few days, it was that the police were just as vulnerable as anyone else.
81
Fenn heard the tailor leave and he immediately began to explore. There wasn’t a lot of room to work with in the cramped cupboard. He pushed on the door, but it budged only a fraction of an inch. The hinges felt solid. He knocked over a few bottles next to him. There was some sort of liquid in them, but Fenn didn’t see how that would help him escape. He kicked at the wall to his left and heard a squeak. A moment later, something furry ran across Fenn’s ankle and he jumped, banging his head against the counter above him.
He rubbed the top of his head and scrunched up against the opposite corner, as far away from the furry thing as he could get. After a while he realized that the rat-he was almost certain it was a rat-wasn’t in the cabinet with him anymore.
Wherever it had gone, maybe Fenn could follow.
He probed the corners of the cupboard with his fingers, feeling for any crack or hole. Nothing. He wiped his hands across the walls and then over the floor, moving from one end to the other, shifting his body to feel beneath himself. Three inches from the back wall he found a small half-moon-shaped hole in the floor. He poked his finger into it cautiously, worried about rat bites, but there was nothing on the other side that he could feel. Just empty air.
He prodded the sides of the hole and ran his fingers along a crack that ran from the top of the hole to a point three inches from the wall next to him. The crack made a right angle and, three inches from the cupboard door, made another right angle. He traced the crack all the way around the floor and established that there was some sort of panel in the bottom of the cabinet.
Fenn bent so that his back was against the ceiling of the cupboard and straddled the panel in the floor, his feet wedged against both walls. He was uncomfortable and his neck cramped, but he was excited, too. He reached down, got a finger in the hole, and pulled up. There was a wrenching sound and most of the floor came away. But now Fenn was pinned to the counter above by the edge of the trapdoor. He moved it back and forth, trying to find a way to move past it. Suddenly it gained weight as gravity took hold and he couldn’t hang on to it anymore. He lost his balance and steadied himself with a palm against the cabinet doors. The trapdoor dropped away from him, down the hole, and crashed to the ground somewhere below.
Fenn eased himself down to a sitting position, his feet dangling through the opening, and turned his head back and forth, working the kinks out of his neck.
He had no idea how deep the hole went. If he dropped through it, he might fall too far and be killed. But if he stayed in the cupboard, he knew that the tailor would eventually kill him. That was a certainty. And so
the hole in the floor was the only hope he had.
He took a deep breath, held on to the far edge of the cupboard floor, and scooted himself forward. He plummeted, stopped short by his grip on the floor, but he wasn’t strong enough and his fingers were torn away from the narrow lip. He fell down into the darkness.
He hit the ground hard and felt his ankle twist under him. Pain seared up his leg and lodged behind his ribs. He gasped.
The darkness around him was complete, and beneath him was cold, hard-packed earth.
When he had caught his breath, he dragged himself forward and found the trapdoor where it had fallen. It was broken in half. Past it, he found a wall. Mud at the base of the wall gave way to dense crumbly dirt and then to loose stones. Fenn scraped at the stones with his fingers until pebbles came away. He had no idea what was on the other side of the wall. Probably nothing but more dirt. Still, he had to try something.
He crawled back and retrieved half of the broken trapdoor. Back at the wall, he raised the door over his head and struck the splintered edge of it against the stones. More pebbles tumbled out onto the ground. He struck the wall again and larger stones fell away. Again and again he hit the wall with the stout piece of wood. When he felt he had made some progress, he jammed the end of the door into the small gash he’d created in the wall. He pushed down on the other end. Nothing happened. He got his upper body on the edge of the door that was sticking out from the wall and bounced on it, putting his full weight on the makeshift lever. There was a tearing sound and a shower of stone and dirt sluiced away. Fenn breathed deep and smiled.
Another tearing sound. This time the stones above him fell straight away from the wall. Fenn felt a sudden intense pain in his leg and tried to pull back, but he couldn’t move. His leg was caught.
He forced himself to remain calm. He closed his eyes and did his best to put the pain out of his mind.
