The Yard

by Alex Grecian

“So do I. How could—?”

  “I don’t know. But if I were married to that, I’d spend all my time at work, too. Sir Edward’s admonition to the men to spend more time with family must have gone hard with poor Little.”

  “Well, I don’t only feel sorry for him. Look at them. What kind of life is that?”

  “That’s why I’m not married,” Blacker said. “I’m sure she wasn’t like that when he met her.”

  Day looked back at the door. If Mrs Little had changed over the years, how had her husband fared? Had he once been an idealistic young detective? Or had he always avoided his work and his family, just waiting for the inevitable end?

  “The magic trick,” Day said. “That was kind of you.”

  “He seems like a good boy,” Blacker said.

  “You know you can’t have children if you don’t first find a wife.”

  “Who said I want children?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll find the right woman.”

  “Who said I was looking?”

  Halfway down the stairs, they could still hear the chorus of misery behind them. The wailing and howling seemed to keep time with the regular beat of the chair banging against the wall.

  “That boy should be taken away.”

  “You think he’d be better cared for in an asylum?”

  Blacker sighed. “No. I wouldn’t wish the asylum on anyone.”

  “Thank God they’ll get Little’s pension.”

  Blacker stopped as they reached the door to the street. The sorrowful music wasn’t heard down here so much as it was felt, a fog seeping through the walls and the floor.

  “Little’s pension?” he said.

  “What?”

  “Little didn’t have a pension any more than you or I do. And it doesn’t look like he saved much over the years.”

  “Then what was she talking about?”

  “Sir Edward.”

  “You mean…?”

  Blacker nodded. “I have to think so. After witnessing all that, the man’s doing what he can.”

  “Bully for him.”

  “He’s a better man than I am, that’s a sure thing.”

  Blacker pushed open the door and the two stepped out into bright daylight. Day breathed deep and let the sun fill his lungs. He took the peanut shell from his pocket and tossed it into the street. Blacker saw but didn’t ask.

  “I say live every day as if you’re Walter Day,” Blacker said.

  “And what does that mean?”

  Blacker smiled. He shook his head and put an arm around Day’s shoulder.

  “What say we find a murderer?” he said.

  Day nodded and allowed himself to be led down the rain-damped street. The bright morning sun shone on his face and London beckoned. He listened to the birds calling to one another above, to the costermongers hawking their wares by the side of the road, to the healthy children shouting from the windows, and everything he had seen and heard and smelled in the Littles’ flat began to recede like the tide, leaving only the faintest trace of black silt behind.

  30

  You’re covered with blood,” Kingsley said.

  Hammersmith was surprised to find Kingsley in his lab so early. He had left Blackleg after arranging a time and place to meet later in the day and had rushed to the college, stopping briefly at stalls along the way to grab a penny pie, a ginger beer, and something to read.

  “I’m sorry?” he said.

  He looked down at his shirt, which was permanently ruined by a wide brown swath of blood.

  “Oh. Yes, you might say I had an adventuresome night.”

  “Does your nose hurt badly?”

  Hammersmith shrugged. He had stopped paying attention to the low throbbing pain that surged outward from the middle of his face.

  “Come,” Kingsley said. “Let’s have a look at you. If it’s broken we’ll need to set it.”

  Hammersmith allowed himself to be led to an empty table in the middle of the laboratory. There were ten tables here, and all but two of them were currently occupied by corpses. The girl Fiona was standing near one of the tables, sketching the body that lay on it. Hammersmith didn’t see Inspector Little’s body anywhere in the room. Nor did he see the dead chimney climber.

  Fiona looked up from her tablet and gasped when she saw Hammersmith.

  “Is it that bad?” he said.

  He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.

  “You look a fright,” she said. “As bad as these’uns on the tables.”

  “I’m more lively than they are. Though not by much.”

  Kingsley dipped a clean rag in cold water and began dabbing at Hammersmith’s face, gently around the nose. Hammersmith could feel dried crumbs of blood falling past his lips.

  “Here,” Kingsley said. “Blow your nose.”

  He handed Hammersmith a second rag and stood back. Hammersmith tried to squeeze his nose with the rag, but his vision went suddenly dark and pinpricks of light danced behind his eyes. He steadied himself, then held the rag against his upper lip and blew gently out through his nose. A great clot of blood and snot slid out onto the rag.

  “Oh, good Lord,” he said. “That’s horrible.”

  “Not even the worst thing I’ve seen this morning,” Kingsley said. “What’s this you’ve got here?”

  He took the balled-up bloody rag from Hammersmith and pointed at the magazine rolled up under his arm.

  “I expected to have to wait for you,” Hammersmith said. “I came prepared.”

  “You read,” Kingsley said.

  Hammersmith nodded.

  “May I?”

  Kingsley dropped the rag into a bucket under the table and held out his hand. Hammersmith gave him the magazine. Kingsley unrolled it and frowned at the cover.

  “Punch?”

  “It’s quite popular and I like to keep up.”

  Kingsley flipped through the magazine.

  “What’s this? ‘Mr Punch’s Model Music Hall Songs’?” He smirked and handed the magazine back to Hammersmith. “Amusing, I’m sure.”

  Hammersmith smiled, embarrassed. “Well, there’s a variety of subjects. That’s only one snippet. But anyway I’m sure you must read more…” He stopped, at a loss for what the doctor might read.

  “Any reading is good for the mind,” Kingsley said. “And I suppose even a humorous magazine may stimulate the imagination.” He smiled. “We have some of these same weeklies around the house, don’t we, Fiona? I’ve seen this before.”

  The girl blushed and made a show of concentrating on her drawing. She spoke as if to the tablet of paper.

  “I quite like the illustrations in it,” Fiona said. “Did you see the new one by Mr Tenniel in that one?”

  Hammersmith was surprised. It was the most the girl had said in his presence. “I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to look it over yet,” he said.

  He turned the pages until he found the cartoon she’d mentioned of two men who apparently represented Capital and Labour. They were playing a card game called Beggar My Neighbour. The meaning of it eluded Hammersmith entirely.

  “It’s a very good picture,” he said.

  “He’s my favorite artist,” she said. “I study him. Did you ever read Alice?”

  “Alice?”

  “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. He drew it all up and it’s beautiful.”

  “I will seek it out,” he said.

  The girl smiled at him.

  “Well,” Kingsley said, “Mr Hammersmith, I would like you to distract yourself now by thinking very hard about music hall songs and cartoons. I’m going to reset your nose and it’s going to hurt a great deal. You should have come to me immediately instead of poking about newsstands. By now the tissue has swelled all round the break. It would be best for you to cast your mind on something else.”

  “But now that you’ve told me how painful it’s going to be, I doubt I’ll be able to think about anything else.”

  “I apologize. I’m used to
dealing with the dead. They never complain.”

  “I certainly hope not.”

  Kingsley brought his hands together on Hammersmith’s cheeks and placed his thumbs on either side of the bridge of his nose. Hammersmith closed his eyes and felt the doctor drag his thumbs down across his face. Pain exploded through Hammersmith’s skull and he jerked away from Kingsley. Fixing his nose hurt infinitely more than breaking it had. He braced his arms against the back edge of the table, his elbows locked straight, and breathed deeply through his mouth.

  When he opened his eyes, Kingsley was holding the bucket out to him.

  “If you need to vomit…” he said.

  Hammersmith swallowed hard. “Thank you, no.”

  “It will be crooked, I think. Noses aren’t my specialty. But it should set well and you’ll be able to breathe through it in the near future. Just be careful about your face for the next few days. Sleep on your back. The nose will most likely be tender for some time to come. Use a steak on it to reduce the swelling.”

  Hammersmith couldn’t afford steak, but he smiled as well as he was able. “I will. Thank you.”

  “Well, I don’t think you came here to have your nose fixed. And I’m sure you didn’t come to discuss popular literature,” Kingsley said.

  “Right,” Hammersmith said. “I’m here about the boy, of course.”

  “Yes, I thought you might be anxious for results. I got to him first thing. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot to tell. The boy basically baked to death in the chimney.”

  “But the fire wasn’t lit.”

  “No, but the intense heat that built up inside the structure was enough. His lungs weren’t able to process the air around him and he slowly suffocated. There is evidence that his organs began to break down before his death, so I imagine it was a long and painful process.”

  Hammersmith’s jaw clenched.

  “Was there any … Did you find anything on the body that might provide a clue?”

  “The boy’s elbows and knees were bloodied and scarred from repeatedly rubbing against bricks over a period of time. At some point, I would say within the past week or so, salt water was rubbed in his wounds to clean them. The soles of his feet had been burnt repeatedly. His master might have given him incentive to climb faster by lighting fires beneath him. He also had a small burn on his left wrist. It was up high and covered by the sleeve of his jacket. Possibly inflicted by a cigarette or a fireplace ember, but of an unusual shape.”

  “I drew a picture of it for you,” Fiona said.

  “You did?”

  “Yes, so you wouldn’t have to look at the body again. You were so upset yesterday, I didn’t think…”

  “That’s awfully considerate of you.”

  The girl was holding her tablet of paper and had already turned to the proper page as the two men were talking. She tore the page out and handed it to Hammersmith. The picture she’d drawn was of a child’s arm with a dark mottled half-moon centered halfway between the wrist and elbow.

  “Thank you very much.”

  Fiona smiled. “You look horribly sore and tired, but you smell like chocolate,” she said.

  “I do?”

  Kingsley leaned in and sniffed Hammersmith’s jacket.

  “You do,” he said.

  “It must be … I live above a confectioner’s shop.”

  “It’s not unpleasant,” Kingsley said.

  “It’s nice,” Fiona said.

  “Dr Kingsley?” A young woman wearing a starched white hat stood in the door of the big room. “There are two more gentlemen from the police here to speak to you.”

  “Well, show them in, of course. No, wait. I’ll accompany you.”

  He turned to Hammersmith and lowered his voice so that the nurse wouldn’t hear.

  “Clean yourself up. I’ll keep them in the vestibule for a few moments. Fiona, please fetch a clean shirt from my closet in the back. Mr Hammersmith can’t wear this thing.” He waved his hand at Hammersmith’s bloody shirt.

  “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,” Hammersmith said.

  “It’s no trouble at all.”

  Kingsley followed the nurse from the room. Fiona gave Hammersmith a shy smile and disappeared through a second door at the other end of the room.

  Hammersmith stood up from the table and had to grab the edge of it to keep from falling down. He felt light-headed and the room tried to swim away from him, slowly receding and being brought back by the tide and leaving again. He moved carefully to the counter against the side of the room, holding the table until he was close enough to put his hand on the countertop. He worked his way to a mirror on a high stand in the corner. It was angled toward the floor, and he swiveled it so he could see his face.

  His nose was a huge misshapen beet, and the skin around his eyes was deeply purple with flecks of yellow fading into the flesh of his cheeks. His face had puffed up to double its ordinary size and resembled a bad cheese.

  There was a basin of clear water beside the mirror and a stack of small white towels. Hammersmith dipped a towel in the water and dabbed it carefully over his face. He dipped it into the water again and repeated the process. Looking at his face, he couldn’t see a difference, but the water turned pink the second time he dipped the towel, so he supposed he was making some kind of progress.

  The towel was rough and it caught on Hammersmith’s whiskers. He cast about the counter for something he might use to shave. There was a drawer under the basin and he pulled it out. There, amid a selection of alien tools, was a razor. Hammersmith didn’t think Kingsley would mind if he borrowed it for a few quick swipes at his chin. He used his hands to pat some of the pink basin water onto his cheeks and jaw and then drew the razor over them as gently as he could, scraping away hair and crusted blood, swishing the razor in the water again and again until it had turned a dark muddy brown.

  He was finishing as Fiona reentered the room with a shirt in her hands. He saw her in the mirror and turned to greet her. He moved too fast and almost fell, and she rushed forward to steady him. He noticed that it was the first time he had seen her without her sketchbook.

  She drew away from him quickly, as if he had burned her, and gasped when she saw the open razor on the counter behind him.

  “You didn’t,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. I thought your father wouldn’t mind.”

  “Oh, no. It’s not … I mean, I think he’s used that blade on a corpse this morning.”

  “Of course. I didn’t think.”

  Hammersmith suddenly needed to sit down.

  “I shouldn’t have taken so long,” Fiona said. “I wanted to finish my drawing.”

  “It’s entirely my fault.”

  “Here, put this on.”

  She held out the shirt and turned her back to him. He peeled off his old shirt. It was stiff with sweat and dirt and blood, and it was torn under the right armpit. Fiona held out her hand without turning around and he gave her the old shirt. She put it in the bucket with the bloody rags from his face. He put on Kingsley’s clean shirt while Fiona rinsed the razor and put it back in the drawer where Hammersmith had found it. She dumped his brown shaving water from the basin into her bucket.

  Kingsley’s shirt was snug through the chest and shoulders, and the sleeves were too short, but when Hammersmith put his jacket on over it he didn’t think anyone would notice.

  He didn’t hear Kingsley enter the room, but when he turned around, the doctor was there, showing Inspectors Day and Blacker into the laboratory.

  “Good God,” Day said.

  “Is that Constable Hammersmith?” Blacker said.

  “Sir. Yes, it is.”

  “You look a fright.”

  “I apologize for my face.”

  Day stood quietly, looking at Blacker.

  “What?” Blacker said.

  “I thought you might make a comment about someone taking a hammer to Mr Hammersmith’s face.”

  “Why would I do that?”
/>
  “I imagine you haven’t many opportunities to make puns about his name.”

  “It would be insensitive for me to begin now, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, of course it would be.”

  “Then why would I do it?”

  “My apologies, then,” Day said. “And to you, Constable.”

  “No need,” Hammersmith said. “My appearance is inexcusable.”

  “Well, what happened, man?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t deal with.”

  “I’d like to see what the other fellow looks like now you’re through with him.”

  Hammersmith decided not to mention that the worst he’d done to the barkeep was upset him.

  “At any rate,” Day said, “we were hoping to connect with you before the morning was out, so it’s good luck for us running into you here. Detective Blacker says you’re among the best men we’ve got, dedicated and serious. We could use the assistance of a man like that. Clearly you’ve anticipated us, though. I assume you’re here about the body, too?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Yes,” Kingsley said. “You mean the man’s body that was brought in late last night. Or rather, early this morning.”

  He gave Hammersmith a pointed look. The investigation of the little boy’s death was unofficial. Day and Blacker were here on a different matter.

  “Yes, of course. And I wonder if I might take another look at that button found in Inspector Little’s trunk?” Day said.

  Kingsley raised an eyebrow and patted his pockets. He found the sofa button and handed it to Day.

  “You have an idea?”

  “It occurs to me that I may know where this comes from.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Let me check into it first. I think this button may be immaterial to our case, but I’m not ready to decide that just yet.”

  Kingsley nodded. He brushed past Hammersmith and walked to the counter.

  “Well, if you find anything, I’d like to know about it. Meanwhile, I haven’t had a chance yet to do a thorough examination of this new body, but I can tell you a few things. To begin…”

  He trailed off as he seemed to be looking for something on the countertop. Then he brightened and opened the drawer underneath.

  “Forgot where I’d put this,” he said. He brought out the razor Hammersmith had used to shave. “I’m quite certain this was the murder weapon,” he said.