The Yard

by Alex Grecian

  “What are you doing here?” Day said.

  “Inspector Tiffany sent for me. Said there was a suspect in Little’s murder.”

  Day smiled. For all of Tiffany’s bluster and laziness, he had helped.

  “Thank you for coming,” Day said. “As for the suspect, we don’t think he committed the murder.”

  “I haven’t ruled that out,” Blacker said.

  “We think, we both think, that he may have crossed paths with the real killer,” Day said.

  “Well, let’s see what we shall see, shall we?” Kingsley smiled and patted the black bag under his arm. “Lead me to the evidence, gentlemen.”

  47

  The three men squeezed into the small storage room where the dancing man still sat. He appeared to have calmed down since Day and Blacker had left the room. He stared at his hands, clasped in his lap. Day positioned himself between the vagrant and the doctor in case the dancing man suddenly became violent.

  Kingsley set his bag on one of the two empty chairs and opened it. The stench was nearly overpowering, but Kingsley appeared not to notice. He glanced over at the dancing man and frowned.

  “You look familiar to me, sir.”

  The dancing man said nothing, but continued to stare at his folded hands. Kingsley reached into his bag and drew out a bundle of white fabric. He partially unrolled it to reveal the Beard Killer’s straight razor covered with red and black smudges and held it out to Blacker, who took the entire bundle from him. Both men were careful not to touch the surface of the razor.

  “Let’s see those shears,” Kingsley said.

  “They’re on my desk,” Day said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Wait,” Kingsley said. “I’m afraid I’m not as prepared as I’d hoped to be. Could you possibly bring me at least one clean sheet of white foolscap and a bottle of ink?”

  “Of course.”

  Day left the storage closet door ajar and went to his desk. Across the room, Inspectors Waverly Brown and Oliver Boring had returned and were huddled at Boring’s desk, quietly arguing over a report. Brown looked up and nodded at Day, then went back to his murmured discussion with Boring.

  Day grabbed the bottle of ink from his desk drawer and set out two sheets of foolscap. He carefully wrapped the shears in one of the sheets of paper and folded the other sheet in half so that it wouldn’t wrinkle as easily while he carried it. He put the ink bottle in his jacket pocket and took the paper and shears back to the closet.

  In Day’s absence, Blacker had moved himself between the doctor and the dancing man. Kingsley didn’t seem to notice that the two detectives were positioning themselves about the room in order to protect him. Day wordlessly handed over the paper with the shears.

  “Perfect,” Kingsley said.

  He laid the foolscap in his hand and unfolded it to reveal the shears. He took a lens from his bag and scanned the shears carefully. The dancing man was so still that he might have been a statue in the corner of the room.

  “Definitely blood,” Kingsley said. “And I would guess there was a great deal of it in order to produce these streaks across the metal. The blood has dried in layers, do you see? Look here. Two layers, one overlapping the other. The bottommost coating would have dried very quickly, especially if it were waved about in the air for a minute or two. Then, while it was still tacky, more blood was forced past the surface, covering the first batch here and there, building the layers up from the surface.”

  “Is it possible to tell if they’re the same scissors used to kill Inspector Little?”

  “No. In fact, I’ll need to run a chemical test to determine whether this is human or animal blood. I’m afraid that’s as much as the blood evidence will be able to tell us. Of course, it’s possible this is nothing more than pig’s blood. We’ll see.”

  Kingsley must have seen the disappointment on the detectives’ faces because he shook his head.

  “The blood evidence is not the end of it. You’ll see. Forensic technology is making great strides of late. Very exciting. Look at this.”

  He angled the shears in the candlelight so that Day and then Blacker could see the blades.

  “There’s a small bit of thread caught here between the blades.”

  “What does that tell us?”

  “Why, absolutely nothing at the moment. But I’ll want to compare this thread to the threads found at Little’s crime scene.”

  “You didn’t bring those threads with you?”

  “No. It will have to wait until I return to my laboratory. But,” Kingsley said, “before I do that, I’ll require more. I’ll need to gather data from all three of you.”

  Blacker looked alarmed. “All of us?”

  “Oh, I don’t mean that I suspect you detectives of any wrongdoing. But you have touched the shears, and so I’ll need your finger marks to compare them against any evidence left on the weapon. Mr Day, could I have that foolscap? And the ink, if you please?”

  Day handed over the paper and produced the bottle of ink from his pocket. He opened the bottle and set it on the chair next to Kingsley’s bag. Kingsley flattened out the piece of paper against the wall and smoothed it with the back of his hand.

  “I do wish we had a bit more room,” he said.

  “I apologize. The commissioner felt it best to keep him contained and out of the way while we questioned him.”

  “That’s undoubtedly wise. Here now, Mr Blacker, let’s have you go first. Please dip your finger, any finger will do, into the ink bottle and apply it to this piece of foolscap.”

  “Then my finger will be dirty.”

  “Regrettable, but unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t see the point of it.”

  “I demonstrated this for you in my lab.”

  “I didn’t see the point of it then, either.”

  Kingsley sighed. “What about you, Mr Day? Will you risk a little ink on your finger?”

  Day shot an apologetic glance at Blacker, then ran his index finger around the inside edge of the bottle. He held his finger up to show that it was black. Kingsley grabbed his hand, held his finger, and pressed it against the paper. He handed over the lens and Day looked through it at the black loops and whorls on the clean white paper.

  “This pattern, this is unique?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Michael, let’s see yours,” Day said.

  Blacker stepped forward and looked over Day’s shoulder at the smudged sheet of foolscap. Without a word, he stuck his finger into the ink bottle and made his mark next to Day’s. The three of them bent over the lens and Day passed it back and forth so they could see for themselves.

  “They are different,” he said.

  Blacker shook his head and nudged Day. Day looked up to see that the dancing man was watching them.

  “Would you like to try it?” Day said.

  “Can’t move.”

  “Why can’t you move?”

  “No room. Legs broken.”

  “I wish I could place where I’ve met you,” Kingsley said. “I do know you, don’t I?”

  “Only the dead know me.”

  The dancing man smiled at him, and for the first time Day saw the man behind the madness.

  “You will remember. You saw the dance.”

  Day saw his chance and moved closer to the dancing man.

  “What was your name? The name you had before the dead began to dance?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Henry.”

  “Good. Henry. Can I call you Henry?”

  “Not Henry anymore. I am a dancer. I am death.”

  “I can’t very well call you Death.”

  “Whatever you call me, I remain the same.”

  “Can you tell us where you found these scissors, sir?” He held up the shears, still wrapped in paper, well out of the dancing man’s reach.

  “London. The city gave them to me. London sent me the gift.”

/>   Blacker rolled his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake, can we please stop coddling this infant? Tell us where you got the damn shears, you bloody loon.”

  “The messenger on his black chariot. He delivered the gift that was meant for me. Not for you.”

  “A man in a black carriage?”

  “The messenger.”

  “And he gave them to you?”

  “He cast them at my feet, wrapped in a shroud so that I would know.”

  “A shroud?”

  “Yes.”

  “There was no wrapping when we found it.”

  Kingsley cleared his throat and moved cautiously toward the dancing man.

  “That scarf,” he said. “The black crepe at your throat. Is that the shroud?”

  The dancing man clutched at the length of fabric.

  “It’s mine,” he said. “The message was for you. The blood is yours, but not the shroud. You would only have cast it off. It’s right that I took it. It’s mine.”

  “Of course it is. But may I look at it for a moment?”

  “You can’t have it.”

  “I won’t keep it.”

  The dancing man grudgingly unwrapped the crepe from his throat and held out one end of it to Kingsley. He held the other end of it, wrapping it around his hand so that it couldn’t be pulled away from him. The doctor sighed and held up his lens.

  “The most useful tool in my arsenal,” he said. He smiled at the dancing man, but got a wary scowl in return.

  Kingsley hunched over the chair and held the shears next to the end of the makeshift scarf, comparing the two items. After a minute or two, he straightened up and nodded.

  “I’m reasonably certain the shears were wrapped in this material. There’s blood, or something very like it, on the fabric, and the black thread caught in the shears matches those at this frayed end here.”

  “That corroborates his story,” Day said.

  “So it would seem we’re looking for a black carriage of some sort,” Blacker said. “Not much to go on.” He turned to the dancing man. “What kind of carriage was it? What kind of chariot?”

  The dancing man shook his head, still staring at the end of the fabric held in Kingsley’s hand.

  “Was it large or small? Would it hold two people or several?”

  “It was small,” the dancing man said. “The city doesn’t crave notice.”

  “And neither do murderers, I’d wager. Possibly a hansom.”

  “I want my shroud.”

  “Of course,” Kingsley said.

  He let go of the end of the crepe and the dancing man wrapped it around his throat again.

  “There’s nothing else this length of cloth can tell us,” Kingsley said.

  “But perhaps giving it back to him has bought us some goodwill,” Day said. “What do you say, Henry? Will you make a mark on this paper for us?”

  “It is not for me to make a mark. The city makes its mark on us all.”

  “True enough. But perhaps, just this once, you could dirty yourself in the furtherance of a good cause.”

  Day brought the ink bottle to the dancing man and held it there. He nodded, encouraging Henry to get a little ink on his finger. The dancing man stared at the bottle for what seemed to be a long time, and Day could hear Blacker behind him, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Finally, the dancing man reached out and stabbed his finger into the bottle. Before he could draw away, Kingsley had his hand in a viselike grip and pressed the blackened finger against the paper. He stood back and let go, and Day stoppered the bottle.

  “We can’t let him go,” Blacker said. “He might disappear.”

  “I know,” Day said. “But I don’t want to cage him, either.”

  “We’ve no choice.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “And we can’t leave him here in the closet.”

  “We’ll put him in the holding cell for now.”

  “I want my things. You can’t take my things.”

  “By all means, take them, sir. All but the shears. Those belong to us now.”

  The dancing man gathered his bindle and allowed Blacker to lead him from the room. When they were gone, Kingsley lit a cigarette.

  “I should have brought my pipe. The odor is rather overpowering, isn’t it?”

  Day held his pipe up and nodded. They both smiled.

  “Now then,” said Kingsley. “To work.”

  48

  Hammersmith sensed something near his right elbow. A moment later, he heard a small noise, a rustling that lasted a fraction of a second. He didn’t open his eyes. His head hurt and he saw red behind the curtain of his eyelids. Behind that was a pattern of winter tree branches, and he spent time listening to himself breathe while he tried to decide whether the skeletal branches behind his eyes were red on black or black against a red sky. When the trees began to fade, he found his tongue and spoke.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “Who are you?”

  It wasn’t an echo. The voice that returned his question was smaller, higher, than his own. Hammersmith focused on his body and was able to feel some sensation in his hands and feet, a distant tingling. Something brushed against his hand.

  He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to filter the light, but couldn’t keep them open for long. He let them drift shut again and concentrated on breathing.

  “What happened?” he said.

  But even as he said it, he knew that he had been poisoned.

  “Why are you in my mama’s bed?” said the small high voice.

  “Who are you?” Hammersmith said.

  “Bradley.”

  “Bradley Shaw?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is your mama named Penelope?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m in her bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you were at the park with your governess.”

  “I was.”

  “How long have you been back?”

  “Just now.”

  “Where is your mother?”

  “She’s downstairs.”

  “Did she send you to get me?”

  “No.”

  Hammersmith waited for more, for an explanation, but it didn’t come.

  “Did she tell you to wake me up?” he said.

  “No.”

  “Did you come looking for me?”

  “No. I just came in.”

  Hammersmith waited, adjusting to the sudden stimulation of the air.

  “The door was open,” the boy said.

  “How long were you at the park?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Hammersmith levered himself up on one elbow and swung his feet off the side of the bed. He arranged the bedsheets as he moved to cover himself. He didn’t remember undressing, but he was naked. He sat for a long time, his eyes closed, waiting at the side of the bed for the world to catch up to him.

  “Are you my new papa?”

  “No.”

  He opened his eyes and saw the back of a small boy as he went out by the bedroom door.

  “Why would you ask me that?” Hammersmith said.

  The boy turned and came back. He might have been five years old. Hammersmith could see that he was sensitive. Bradley Shaw had big ears that stuck out from his face and a cowlick that had arranged his hair in circles around the back of his head so that his face was the epicenter of a hurricane. But his eyes were huge and brown and lively. There were sparkling depths there.

  “Because my mama is done with my papa,” the boy said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My mama isn’t his friend anymore.”

  Hammersmith looked around the room for his clothes.

  “Your clothes are on the chair,” the boy said.

  “Bring them to me.”

  The boy walked sideways, his eyes on Hammersmith, and picked up a pile of clothing from a wingback chair in the corner. He brought them to the bed and set them within Hammersmith’s reach. He steppe
d back and watched the man on his father’s bed as if waiting for violence, ready to run. Hammersmith picked up his trousers and slid them on under the sheet that lay across his lap. He stood up and fastened them at the front. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. When he closed his eyes, the room seemed to be rocking under his feet. He sat back down on the edge of the bed.

  “Your father is always your father,” he said. “He always will be.”

  He didn’t look at the boy.

  “I don’t care about him,” Bradley said.

  Hammersmith looked into the little boy’s big brown eyes.

  “Does he hit you?”

  The boy shook his head.

  Hammersmith pulled his boots on over bare feet.

  “Then you’ve no reason.”

  He grabbed his hose and garters, stuffed them in his jacket pocket, and then stuffed himself into the jacket. He noticed now that his shirt fit better than it had and he smoothed it over his chest. It was not the same shirt he’d worn into the Shaw house. It seemed Penelope had given him one of her husband’s shirts after all.

  “Where is your water closet?”

  The boy pointed to a door on the far wall. Hammersmith made his unsteady way across the moving floor. Behind the door, he found a room larger than the bedroom was. A claw-foot bathtub shared space with a toilet, a washbasin, and a conversation suite, including a chesterfield and a vanity table. The Shaws had clearly followed the lead of most middle-class Londonites and converted an existing bedroom into an indoor washroom. The paintings on the walls looked to Hammersmith as if they were of a set with the valuable art in the downstairs room. A bay window overlooked a small garden and served as a light source for the room. The sun was low on the horizon. He closed the door behind him so that the boy wouldn’t follow him, and he leaned over the basin. He stuck a finger down his throat and brought up the contents of his stomach.

  He emptied the bowl into the toilet and pulled the brass chain, watched the sad remains of that morning’s penny pie whirl away from him. The poison in Penelope’s tea, however much of it was left in his stomach, went with it.

  He sat on the chesterfield, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of Charles Shaw’s borrowed shirt, and waited for his stomach to settle. He wondered whether the boy was still waiting outside the door. After a few minutes he stood and made his way across the room. He felt steadier on his feet.