by Alex Grecian
Something furry ran up his arm and he screamed.
Fenn knew that the only person within earshot would be the tailor when Cinderhouse came back to the shop. But Fenn was a little boy and he wanted his parents. And so he screamed again.
82
Blackleg rapped on the door and waited. When there was no answer, he took a flat strip of metal from his back pocket and inserted it between the door and the frame. He pushed on it until he heard a faint click. He put the metal bar back in his pocket and turned the knob. The door swung open.
“Here now, what’re ye doin’?”
He turned and saw an old woman coming down the hall toward him. She was pointing her finger at him like a weapon.
“That’s Mr Hammersmith’s flat,” she said. “And Mr Pringle’s, too, only he ain’t here no more, God bless him.”
Her finger flitted away from him long enough to make the sign of the cross, touching her forehead, then her heart and, quickly, her left and right shoulders. Immediately she was pointing at him again. By now she was directly in front of him, her bony finger an inch from his nose.
Blackleg held his hands up, palms out. “No worries, ma’am,” he said. “We’re friends, him and me.”
“You were a friend of Mr Pringle? I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t know the bloke. But Hammersmith’s me mate.”
He heard himself and smiled when he realized that he was telling the truth. Who’d have guessed that he’d ever be friends with a bluebottle?
“Well,” the old lady said, “I don’t know about that.”
She looked him up and down, clearly taking in his grubby clothes and unkempt beard.
“I’m a police, ma’am.”
Blackleg had long practice in telling people what they wanted to hear. The lie came to him easily, and he saw in her eyes that the old lady wanted to believe him.
“You don’t look like a policeman,” she said.
“Thank you.” He leaned in closer to her, which caused her to back up a step. “What I do,” he said, “is I dress up like as if I’m a lowlife and I mix in amongst them. Amongst that sort, I mean. They take me for one of their own and they tells me things as I can take back to Mr Hammersmith and the other police.”
“Why, how clever,” the old lady said. “You certainly look convincing.”
“Thank you again, ma’am. I do try.”
“Well, I’m afraid Mr Hammersmith isn’t at home today. I would have heard him on the stairs.”
“Quite all right, ma’am. He gave me the key to the place and tole me to wait here for ’im. I’m sure he’ll be here soon enough.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Unless you has a problem with that. If it makes you uncomfortable, me hangin’ about in the flat here lookin’ like I do, lookin’, I mean to say, like as if I’m a criminal, I understand most complete. I’d be happy to go on outside and wait at the door for him.”
“Oh, no,” the old lady said. “That wouldn’t do at all. No, you stay here and make yourself at home. I’m sure if Mr Hammersmith asked you here then it isn’t my place to say otherwise.”
Of course she didn’t want him loitering outside her building. That might make a bad impression on the neighbors.
“Well, you’re uncommon gracious, ma’am. ’Most exactly like my own sainted mother.”
The old lady blushed and covered her mouth.
“My name is Mrs Flanders,” she said. “I’m down the hall here, first door on the right. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ring the bell.”
“Thank you much, ma’am.”
She smiled and turned away.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?” The old woman paused with her hand on the wall.
“There’s one more expected here today. ’Nother police like me who looks maybe a bit down at the heels as well.”
“A meeting here?”
“You might call it that.”
The old woman frowned. “I don’t care for business being conducted on my premises,” she said.
“It’ll be just the one time. We don’t like to meet at the station ’cause someone might see us there and connect the fact that we ain’t really criminals.”
“Oh, I suppose that makes sense.”
“Yes, ma’am. So when he gets here, don’t trouble yerself none. He can find his own way.”
“You’re quite the gentleman, you are, regardless of appearance.”
“Thank you.”
She waved a hand at him and tottered down the hall. When she turned back to look at him, he nodded. She went back into her own flat and closed the door. Blackleg let out a deep breath and pushed Hammersmith’s door open. He went in and closed it behind him.
Inside, the flat was even smaller than Blackleg’s own place. He chuckled to think that a bluebottle probably made less money in a year than he did. Crime wasn’t respectable, but it paid.
He checked the clock above the mantel and saw that he had nearly an hour before his guest was expected. There was a tin of tea beneath the clock and Blackleg opened it. He sniffed the contents and recoiled at the tang of copper in his nostrils. Renewed tea.
“Ah, well,” he said. “Beggars can’t be choosers, can they?”
With time to kill, he went in search of a kettle.
83
Inspector Blacker woke up as the hansom cab ground to a stop. It took him a long moment to realize where he was. His eyes felt gummy. He pulled the curtain aside and saw a low stone wall with a weeping willow drooping over it. The thin light through the window shone on Hammersmith, across from Blacker on the other bench. He was curled up with his neck bent at an awkward angle against the side of the carriage, snoring softly. Blacker grinned and rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to massage the grit away.
He pulled the curtain shut again and opened the hansom door, leaving Hammersmith there to catch up on much-needed sleep. The coachman looked down at Blacker and tipped his hat.
“This the place, guv’nor?”
“I suppose it is.”
Blacker fished in his pocket for a coin, but the coachman held up a hand.
“No need, sir. Happy to do what I can for the police.”
“You’re a gentleman.”
“You’ll be wantin’ me to wait till you’re done here, then?”
“No need. Inspector Day, my colleague, I mean, will be along shortly with a police wagon. If you don’t mind waiting until my friend wakes up, then you can be on your way.”
The coachman squinted at him. “Sir?”
“He hasn’t slept much lately.”
“All right, sir.”
“Thank you again.”
Blacker smiled and patted the side of the cab as he stepped into the street. He hurried across to the Shaw family’s brownstone just as the first drops of rain started to fall.
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The coachman turned up his collar against the rain and watched as the detective crossed the road and knocked on the door of a brownstone, one of several identical homes joined in a row with a decorative wrought-iron rail out front.
After a short wait the door was opened by an attractive woman. She and the detective spoke and the woman moved aside to allow him in. The door shut behind him.
The detective had babbled something about a sleeping friend, but it appeared the household was awake. The coachman didn’t see a reason to wait. He had promised Mr Cinderhouse that he’d return to take him to the shop if it began to rain, and now the light drizzle was turning into a sudden shower. The downpour was washing the fog away, but visibility wasn’t improving, and the coachman decided to hurry. Mr Cinderhouse wasn’t one to be kept waiting. The coachman wouldn’t admit it even to himself, but the tailor’s temper scared him. He snapped the reins. The horse snorted and lurched forward, and the hansom pulled away from the Shaw home.
The coachman thought about warm fires and dry socks, and it never occurred to him that he might have a second passenger asleep inside the c
ab. Nor did he look back to see two women emerge from behind the drooping willow and scurry across the street in the pounding rain.
85
Wasn’t him.”
“Was too him. Saw him clear as day.”
“It’s not clear as day, though, is it? Can’t see yer nose in front a yer face in this rain.”
“Still, I know it was him.”
“Him wears a uniform like the other bobbies. This’un had a suit.”
“It was a uniform.”
Liza led the way down the steps to the sunken garden below ground level. She reached out her hand to steady Esme.
“Slippery here,” she said. “Watcher step.”
At the bottom of the steps, Esme knelt in damp cedar mulch and peered into the brownstone through a tiny window. The room inside was dark. She reached out and pushed on the glass and the window swung up and open.
“Lucky us they don’t lock it.”
“Looks broken.”
“Why ain’t it fixed, then? Ought to afford it, a doctor like he was.”
“Well, it’s just her alone now. Somebody done kilt her husband, so who’s to fix the broken window?”
Esme smiled. She took her friend by the wrists and lowered her over the sill, then hiked up her skirt and swung a leg into the house. She dropped down beside Liza and put a finger to her lips. They both listened, staring at the gloom. Nobody came. Nobody had heard.
They helped each other to their feet and brushed the wet wood chips from their clothes and wrung water from their skirts, letting it pool on the floor.
“They’re up there,” Liza said. “Hear ’em?”
“Hush,” Esme said.
But she could hear footsteps on the floor above. She smiled, and when she spoke her voice was barely audible.
“I suppose we’ll find out if it’s Hammersmith up there or not.”
“Either way,” Liza said.
She withdrew a straight razor from somewhere in the folds of her skirt. The women held hands and closed their eyes in silent prayer. When they were ready, they approached the staircase on the far wall and started up, still holding hands in the dark.
86
Inspector Day stood outside the forbidding brass gates and looked up at the workhouse on the hill. Many of the city’s workhouses were welcoming places where destitute members of the populace could get a simple meal and a berth for the night. In return they were required to work three hours grinding corn or performing some other menial, and largely meaningless, task.
But Hobgate was for those who were determined to be vagrants, unable or unwilling to work and possibly violent. In Lambeth, South London, it was just a step away from the asylum for the poor and mentally crippled, and it resembled a prison more than it did a shelter.
A guard unlocked the gate and swung it open for Day. He held a black umbrella and moved it over Day’s head while they talked. Fat raindrops smacked against the waxed canvas above them, and Day had to raise his voice to be heard.
“I’m with the Yard,” Day said.
“Pardon?”
“The Yard. I’m a detective with the Yard.”
“Aye, what can we do for you today, sir?”
“I’m looking for someone brought in yesterday.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man.”
“Then he’d be in the men’s ward. We don’t separate ’em out as to how they come, so he’d be mixed in with those what come in on their own.”
“Are there many of those?”
The guard chuckled. “Well, not too many, no. Could be this is the same fellow the doctor’s looking for as well?”
“Doctor?”
“Aye, sir. You’ve barely missed him. Come looking for someone not five minutes before you did.”
“I doubt that we’re here for the same reason. The man I’m looking for likes to perform. He dances. Have you seen him?”
“Can’t say as I have, but I’m out here on the entrance. Might ask inside. Just follow the path up the hill and you’ll find someone at the main building. Men’s ward’s on the first floor. Women and children are upstairs.”
“Thank you.”
“Might think to keep your stick handy. Sometimes they get out of line.”
“You hit them?”
The guard looked away. “Only if they need it, sir.”
Day didn’t know how to respond. He was appalled by the thought that the homeless in Hobgate might be abused, but he had no experience with the workhouse and no idea how dangerous the people here might be. Perhaps it was the guards who feared abuse.
He nodded at the guard and set off up the hill. The path twisted and the workhouse disappeared in the fog. The rain was coming down harder now, and Day silently cursed himself for forgetting his own umbrella. The path was lined with small yew trees, all stripped of leaves and bark. Day wondered whether the trees had fallen victim to disease or to the Hobgate inmates. Ahead, the main building hove into view again, a dark stone block against the grey sky. There were no windows in its walls, only a huge oak door wrapped in iron bands.
Another guard was posted outside the door. He was talking to someone as Day approached. The second man had his back to Day and was holding a small black bag in one hand. Both men turned to look at Day.
“Dr Kingsley?” Day said.
“Detective!”
Kingsley seemed relieved to see him.
“What are you doing here?” Day said.
“I suspect I’m here for the same reason you are.”
“The dancing man?”
“Henry Mayhew, yes.”
“I’d like to get him out of here, if I can.”
“As would I.”
“Well, between the two of us…” Day grinned. He couldn’t help himself. In the wagon on the way to the workhouse, he’d wondered if he was doing the right thing, if sending a vagrant back to the streets ran counter to his responsibilities as a police. But if Kingsley had also made the trip to Hobgate, there must be some logical merit to the idea of letting Henry Mayhew live his life as he pleased.
“I didn’t relish the thought of entering this place alone,” Kingsley said. “I was trying to persuade this gentleman to accompany me inside when you arrived.”
He gestured toward the guard, who raised his umbrella and tipped his hat.
“Against regulations to leave my post here, sir, unless there’s a ruckus inside. Otherwise, I’d be proud to help.”
“I understand. Now that the detective is here, I think we’ll be fine.”
“Good luck then.”
The guard gave them a look that made Day nervous, then slid back a bolt on the door and opened it. He reached into a small antechamber just inside the open door and came out with two lanterns. He lit them from his cigarette and handed one to each of them.
“You’ll need these in there,” he said.
Then the guard stood aside and let the two men move past him into the gloom of Hobgate.
The ground floor of the workhouse was one huge room, partitioned off into smaller chambers. The walls on both sides of the makeshift center hallway had been hastily thrown up and were rough, so close that splinters snagged at the sleeves of their overcoats. Day inhaled through his mouth to avoid the odors of human waste and body odor. Every six feet there was a hole cut in each wall. A doorway without a door, so small that a grown man would have to crawl through it.
Day and Kingsley divided the hall, each of them taking a side, and stooped to peer into each room that they passed. The lantern light cast long moving shadows, but there was little else to see inside the chambers. They were all identical, two long platforms fastened to the walls and covered with straw, a walkway between them that ended at a second door-hole. Each platform was deep enough to sleep three men, and the snores echoing throughout the hall were evidence that Hobgate had few vacancies. At the far end of each room was a chamber pot. A single sniff was enough to confirm that the pots were rarely emptied.
“This is inhuman
e,” Day said.
“Hardly unique in this city,” Kingsley said.
“What do you mean?”
“London is growing too fast for the poor and the dead, the children or the simpleminded to keep up. There is no place for any of them.”
“I hope that’s not true.”
“You know that it is.”
Day sighed and changed the subject. “I don’t know how we’re going to find him in this labyrinth. There’s no rhyme or reason to anything here. Men are stacked like cordwood.”
“Let’s try this, then,” Kingsley said.
He set his lantern on the floor, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted: “Henry Mayhew! Come out, Henry Mayhew!”
“I don’t think he’ll respond to that,” Day said. “He’s quite timid.”
“Have you another idea?”
Day raised his eyebrows. “I might,” he said. “Or at least an addition to your own idea.”
Several heads had poked out from the holes along the walls. Men peered down the dark hall at them. Day didn’t like the looks of most of them. He stuck out his chin and shouted.
“Henry Mayhew, your brother has sent us! We’re here on Frank’s behalf! Henry, Frank wants you to come out!”
More faces appeared along the length of the hall. From somewhere ahead, a place deep in the shadows, a rhythmic thumping began as something heavy moved toward them. Kingsley leaned close and whispered, “Do you have your pistol on you, Detective?”
“I do.”
“Are you a good shot?”
“I’ve never used it except to practice.”
“That’s not particularly comforting.”
Day put his hand on the grip of his pistol but didn’t draw it. Kingsley raised his lantern and both men braced themselves as the thumping drew closer. The heads along the passageway swiveled and disappeared back inside their chambers. Finally a figure emerged from the darkness at the end of the hall and moved slowly forward. The swinging lantern created multiple shadows, and Day pulled his gun partially from his belt.
