The Yard

by Alex Grecian

  “Sergeant, you’ve been coddling Little’s killer right outside your door,” Blacker said. “You and Inspector Day both.”

  “No,” Kett said. “It can’t be.”

  “There is that possibility,” Day said, “but it seems doubtful at the moment. Don’t trouble yourself, Mr Kett. Detective Blacker is getting ahead of himself.”

  “If this’s the one did Mr Little in, you just put me in a room with ’im for a minute or two and look the other way, lads.”

  Day grimaced and pushed the dancing man down the hall and around the corner. The big room was busy with the bustle of uniformed police coming and going, but the Murder Squad room behind the rail was nearly empty. Only Jimmy Tiffany sat at his desk, writing a report and cursing his pen, which had worn to a nub. Day was too far away to read what Tiffany was writing, but he could well imagine the ink smearing across the page.

  “Get him out of here,” Tiffany said when he saw the dancing man.

  The dancing man was quiet, scowling at the floor. Blacker pushed him through the short gate in the railing and guided him to Patrick Gilchrist’s desk. Day dumped the dancing man’s belongings on the desk and started sorting through them. Tiffany stood up and moved over to Gilchrist’s desk.

  “Help me go through all this,” Day said.

  “I’m not touching any of that,” Tiffany said. “What’s he doing in here?”

  “Not sure yet. May be something, may not, but he led us to what looks like our murder weapon.”

  “Did he do the deed?”

  “Personally, I think not. I think he just found the scissors.”

  “Well, take him somewhere else to figure it out.”

  There was a small holding cell in the back, but it was only used to keep dangerous or demented criminals temporarily out of the way until they could be moved to the larger and more permanent jail facility at Millbank.

  “Since I’ve no idea what we’re doing yet, I can’t promise anything.”

  Tiffany turned to Blacker.

  “Come now, Blacker, you can’t expect the rest of us to work while you’re parading this creature through here. He reeks. And now the entire room reeks.”

  “Then take your work off to Trafalgar Square and make a picnic of it. Or better yet, help us. Have a boy sent round to fetch Dr Kingsley.”

  “I’ve already got more here than I can handle. I don’t have time to be your errand boy.”

  “Then try to stay out of our way.”

  Tiffany glared at Blacker for a moment, but Blacker didn’t flinch under his gaze. Finally Tiffany gave up and went back to his desk. He threw his hands in the air as if to wash them of the entire incident, then turned his attention back to his broken pen and his uncompleted report. Day noticed that Tiffany was now breathing through his mouth to avoid the odor in the room.

  Day spread the dancing man’s dirty blanket out on the desk and placed each item on the blanket as he examined it. There were two mismatched boots, one of them too big to fit the dancing man’s foot; a dented tin canteen (Day opened it and smelled the contents, which resembled chicken soup); the toy knife; a handful of grubby rags; and the tattered remains of what might have been a foxtail stole. Day held this last item up at arm’s length and made a face before dropping the bedraggled thing on the blanket. When he looked up, Tiffany was staring at him.

  “That’s it,” Tiffany said.

  He pushed his chair back, stood, and went to the back of the room where he rapped loudly on Sir Edward’s office door. Day looked at Blacker, who shrugged and gestured for the dancing man to sit. Sir Edward’s door opened and Day heard Tiffany ask if he could enter. A moment later, Tiffany was in the office and the door had shut behind him.

  Day gathered the corners of the blanket together to form a loose bindle with the dancing man’s belongings inside. It did nothing to cut the stench in the room. He was looking around for an out-of-the-way place to stash the bindle when Sir Edward’s door opened and Tiffany stomped out. Behind him, Sir Edward’s deep voice boomed. “Ridiculous.”

  Sir Edward stepped out of the office and his eyes swept the Murder Squad desks. He took in Day, Blacker, and the dancing man, sniffed the air, and nodded.

  “Is this man a suspect?” he said.

  “We believe it’s possible, sir,” Day said. “He’s at least a witness.”

  “Then get on with it, detectives. Feel free to use the storage closet in back for your interview. I believe two chairs will fit quite comfortably inside and it might be best to keep him out of sight of Little’s peers. We don’t want anyone assuming the worst and lashing out at the fellow before we know anything useful.”

  He turned to Inspector Tiffany.

  “As for you, Mr Tiffany, if you can’t help in the investigation, at least stay out of Mr Day’s way. I don’t want my detectives running to me with every little thing.”

  He turned on his heel and went back to his office. The door closed behind him.

  Tiffany looked over at Day, his jaw set and his eyes narrow. Day knew there was a chance Tiffany would never recover from being embarrassed in front of him. Day was still too new on the job to want enemies, even someone like Jimmy Tiffany. He looked over at Blacker, who was politely pretending to be very interested in the scissors they’d brought in with the dancing man. Day walked to his desk and opened the top drawer. Inside, there was an ink bottle and three new pens that Claire had sent with him on his first day. He chose his least favorite of them and took it to Tiffany’s desk.

  “This might be better than the one you’re using.”

  He set it there and walked away. At Gilchrist’s desk, he picked up the bindle again and snuck a glance at Tiffany. Tiffany looked up. He didn’t smile, didn’t nod, but he was using the pen.

  40

  They sat outside Euston Station waiting for the crowd to clear out, but the stream of commuters, in and out through the tall arch, remained steady. At last Cinderhouse gave up. If they loitered outside the station too long, he feared they might draw attention. It would be hard to explain the contents of the trunk under his feet if a curious bobby asked him to open it.

  He passed a note up to the coachman to take them round to St James’s Park. They were sure to find a deserted path there.

  He patted the trunk.

  “Don’t you worry, Mr Pringle,” he said. “We’ll find a place for you yet.”

  41

  When Penelope didn’t return, Hammersmith began to worry. He stood and paced unsteadily about the drawing room. A shared chimney connected all the floors of the house, and there was a fireplace here directly above the one downstairs where the dead boy had been found. An embroidered cloth covered the mantel and a large mirror was fastened to the wall directly above it. The mirror was surrounded by gold filigree and two narrow cases with tiny shelves where porcelain ballerinas posed. A gas ceiling lamp hung above the central table, and there was a daybed under the only window in the room. Sunlight danced across the rills and glens of its tatted cushions. Glancing at the bed, Hammersmith realized he felt dizzy. The daybed was too inviting. He couldn’t wait here any longer. There was work to do and he needed to keep moving or he might fall asleep.

  He moved to the staircase and looked up to the floor above. He couldn’t see or hear any movement there.

  “Mrs Shaw?”

  No response.

  He pulled his nightstick from under his arm and held it ready in his right hand. With his other hand on the banister for balance, he took the steps two at a time at first, but he stumbled and set out again more slowly. A green patterned runner extended up the center of the staircase and softened his footfalls. His feet felt heavy and his knees came up with each step as if he were moving underwater. He stopped and took inventory of his body, realized he could no longer feel any sensation in his fingers or his face.

  The hall at the top of the stairs was dark and silent. He leaned against the wall and called again. “Mrs Shaw?” he said.

  After a long moment, he heard so
mething rustle off to his left and her voice floated toward him down the long hall.

  “I’m here.”

  “I can’t see. Where are you?”

  There was no answer this time. He turned to his left and held on to the wall, shuffling forward in the dark. Diffuse light formed a halo in the air a few feet from him, but when he moved his head, the halo moved, too. He thought he was still gripping his nightstick, ready for anything that might jump out at him, but he couldn’t be sure. His arms were deadweights. He knew he wouldn’t make it to the downstairs door, and he had come too far into the house to do anything now except keep moving forward for as long as his legs continued to respond.

  The halo around his vision grew brighter and resolved itself into a vertical line somewhere in front of him. He moved toward it and put out his hand. With the tip of the nightstick, he pushed out and a door swung open.

  Penelope Shaw stood in a floating rectangle of light. He wasn’t sure her feet were touching the floor.

  “What was in the tea you gave me?” Hammersmith said.

  Penelope smiled at him and dissolved into a beautiful swirl of pink light. Hammersmith reached out toward her, stumbled, and fell. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was Penelope Shaw’s bare ankle.

  He did not notice the soft hands unbuttoning his shirt.

  42

  So we’re agreed then that the scissors are the murder weapon?” Day said.

  “I don’t think there’s much question of that.”

  “Nor I.”

  Day and Blacker looked at the meager evidence on Detective Gilchrist’s desk. They had only a pair of shears and a button. Day had once more decided that Gilchrist’s desk was fair game since Patrick Gilchrist wouldn’t be showing up to claim it. Besides, it made it look as if the absent Gilchrist was contributing to the case.

  “It’s progress, I suppose, but there’s no way to connect them to anybody.”

  “Not yet. Anyone could have access to scissors, but that thinking leads us nowhere.”

  “The dancing man might tell us something about them.”

  They had escorted the dancing man to the empty storage closet behind the squad room and left him there for the moment.

  “He might,” Day said, “but he’s hardly reliable. He can wait. I’d like to have a better grasp of the evidence so that we can guide him and possibly get better answers, if he has them. I think we have to continue to act as though the scissors have to do with the killer’s profession. The ferocity and strength required to follow through with the murder rules out the possibility of a woman, agreed?”

  “Of course. No woman could have done this.”

  “So we need not look at seamstresses, nurses, or the ordinary London wife.”

  “And that leaves us with…?”

  “Tailors, doctors, perhaps a cobbler.”

  “Or anyone else in the city who happened to pick up his wife’s scissors.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we connect them with the button?” Blacker said. “Does that lead us back to the upholsterer?”

  “I don’t think so. I have a theory about that, and if I’m right, it’s entirely disconnected from the case itself.”

  “A false clue?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “In what sense?”

  “I’d like you to take another trip out to Little’s place with me later, if you’re up for it. I’d like to talk to his widow one more time.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Nor I.”

  “But if it’s unavoidable…”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “So do we rule out upholsterers, too?”

  “Not necessarily. But probably.”

  “So then there’s the trunk itself.”

  “Kingsley’s got that. And the needle and thread, too. He says the needle used was probably an ordinary one, and I don’t see how that helps us much. Except inasmuch as the needles used by an upholsterer are apparently of a different sort entirely, which may be another reason to rule out that occupation as suspect. The thread…” Day shrugged. “I suppose a thread is a thread.”

  “Unless we find a length of it covered with blood in someone’s pocket,” Blacker said.

  “That would be convenient.”

  “Time’s running out and we still don’t have much to go on. If we don’t catch this one soon, it’ll be another Ripper case.”

  “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “The widow.”

  “Didn’t I just say no to that?”

  “Not specifically.”

  “Damn it.”

  43

  What on earth is that frightful odor?”

  Sergeant Kett looked up at the man standing in front of his desk. He was dressed in an immaculately tailored black suit accentuated by an aquamarine cravat and matching pocket square. He had a tall black hat with an aquamarine hatband, and the lines around his eyes and mouth suggested that smiling was something other people did. Kett recognized him as Geoffrey Cinderhouse, official tailor to the Metropolitan Police. Cinderhouse was holding a pair of navy trousers on a wooden hanger. He removed his hat with a flourish, revealing a perfectly smooth bald head that gleamed in the sunlight from the open doors.

  “I don’t mean to seem rude, but it rather smells as though someone’s died in here,” the man said.

  “What can I do for you, Mr Cinderhouse?” Kett said.

  He realized that he’d become used to the lingering odor of the dancing man, who was in the back room and out of sight, but who nonetheless seemed to be exerting some influence over the atmosphere.

  “I’ve an errand here,” the man said. “Two errands, actually. I’d like to speak to Inspector Day.”

  “You’ve brought Inspector Day a change of clothing?” Kett said.

  “What? Oh, the trousers. No, these are for Constable Pringle.”

  “I’m not sure where Pringle is at the moment.”

  “He was supposed to pick them up from me, but hasn’t been by the shop. So I thought I’d kill two birds, as it were, by fetching them round here and seeing the detective at the same time.”

  “How kind of you. I’ll get Mr Pringle’s clothes to him.”

  Kett stood and held out his hand.

  “Oh,” Cinderhouse said. “Of course.”

  He started to hand over the trousers, but then pulled them back.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I really did have my heart set on meeting Mr Day. I’ve heard so many good things about him, and if I don’t take the initiative, I may never have a chance to congratulate him on his recent promotion.”

  “I’ll let him know you inquired.”

  “Is it true he’s working to solve Inspector Little’s murder?”

  “He is.”

  Cinderhouse leaned forward over the desk, Pringle’s trousers dangling just out of Kett’s reach.

  “Any progress?” the tailor said.

  “I rather think they’re close,” Kett said. “They have the murder weapon now.”

  “Do they? What is it?”

  “A pair of shears.”

  Pringle’s trousers dropped from the tailor’s hand.

  44

  The sound of wood clattering on wood snapped Cinderhouse awake as if from a trance, and he ducked to retrieve the fallen hanger. He felt around under the desk for it, his face hidden from the sergeant for a precious minute or two.

  They had the shears. How did they have the shears? And so quickly?

  It hadn’t been more than a few hours since Cinderhouse had thrown them from the window of the hansom into the road. He’d expected the shears to be swept up by early morning street sweepers, along with the previous day’s horse-shit. Or perhaps found by some vagrant and whisked away into the bowels of London’s tenements.

  And yet, here they were, almost immediately at Scotland Yard, in the custody of the new detective.

  Was the man that good? Was Detective Walter Day the enemy he
had always feared might come for him?

  At least they didn’t seem to know that Pringle was dead.

  His fingers closed around the hanger. He composed his expression, stood up, and draped the trousers over the hanger, giving himself a moment before turning his attention back to the sergeant.

  “Are you quite all right?” Kett said.

  “Yes, of course. Please forgive me. I’m just so fascinated by detective work that I get too excited sometimes.”

  “Quite all right.”

  “The shears … Are you sure they’re the murder weapon?”

  “You’d have to ask the detectives that.”

  “Of course, of course. I only bring it up because I’m so used to working with shears myself. You might call me an expert. I’d be happy to look them over and lend the detective my opinion, if you think it would do any good.” He smiled, hoping that the smile looked genuine.

  Kett looked over his shoulder at the entrance to the big hall and the tiny, fenced-off domain of the Murder Squad.

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’m not a policeman myself, of course,” Cinderhouse said, “but my close association with the force puts me in a unique position, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll leave a message with the detective and have him get back to you.”

  “I really think I can help,” Cinderhouse said.

  He stepped around Kett and walked down the short hall. He ignored the large area to his right and went straight to the low railing that surrounded twelve cluttered desks in a corner of the big open space. He started to open the gate in the rail but was stopped short by Sergeant Kett’s hand on his arm.

  “Here now,” Kett said. “I’d hate to do anything nasty when we’ve been so cordial up to this point.”

  Cinderhouse put his hands up and smiled again. “I don’t mean any harm,” he said. “It’s the thrill of being able to help these fine gentlemen. You understand. Surely you understand.”

  “And I hope you understand that I can’t let every citizen off the street in here to muck with evidence in a murder case.”