by Alex Grecian
Without another thought, Hammersmith slung his leg over the side of the hole and began to lower himself down.
The coachman’s hand was clamped tight over Fenn’s mouth and it partially covered his nostrils. He was having trouble breathing and the hand smelled of horses and meat pies and grease.
Above them, Fenn could hear footsteps on the floor of the tailor’s shop. He listened, wide-eyed, as someone stomped about the shop and finally came to the trapdoor in the cupboard.
“Hello?” someone said.
The voice echoed down and around the cave under the floor. It wasn’t the tailor’s voice.
The coachman hissed in Fenn’s ear. “I got a knife here. You make a sound, any sound at all, and I’ll cut you ear to ear.”
After a moment, what little light filtered through the cellar entrance was blocked and Fenn heard someone thumping against the wooden floor above.
Fenn knew that whatever the coachman’s plans for him, Fenn wouldn’t like them. If he had a chance at rescue or escape, that chance would disappear if he waited. He stuck his tongue out and licked the coachman’s hand. The coachman reacted, shifting position just a hair, but it was enough that Fenn was able to get a fold of the man’s palm between his teeth. He bit down as hard as he could. Flesh rolled and crunched between his teeth, and the coachman screamed.
When the hand was yanked away, Fenn shouted as loud as he could, “He’s got a knife!”
The coachman’s other hand covered his mouth again and Fenn couldn’t say anything more. He hoped he had been heard and understood.
There was the sound of someone dropping to the ground and the vague outline of a man against the dim grey light from the shop above. And then the man moved to the side and disappeared in the shadows without a word.
Fenn felt the coachman’s lips against his ear. “I’m gonna take care of him and then I’ll be back for you,” the driver said. “You’re gonna be sorry you done what you did, boy. I’ll get my money for you and then we’ll see what’s what.”
And Fenn was alone again, his leg still trapped under the stones of the collapsed wall, too scared to call out, unable to do anything except wait.
91
The dancing man was clinging to Inspector Day and he wouldn’t stop shouting, his voice echoing in the enclosed men’s ward of Hobgate.
“Stop him! Stop the messenger!”
Men had begun to crawl out of their tiny rooms all along the hall, responding to the noise. Day caught a brief glimpse of the man Henry called “the messenger” before he melted back through an empty doorway at the end of the hall.
“Take Henry to safety,” Day said.
Kingsley nodded and grabbed the dancing man’s arm. He led him quickly down the dark hall, away from Day and away from the messenger. They were quickly swallowed by shadows.
Day raced in the opposite direction, dodging past men in their nightshirts. He ducked through the hole the messenger had gone into. A man with one ear and a slit for a nose was sitting up on his bunk, his eyes wide. On seeing Day, he pointed at the door in the opposite wall. Day nodded and darted through into a hallway that was identical to the one he’d just left. He heard the clatter of running footsteps and held the lantern up. He saw the swirl of a dark cloak, a tall hat, and then the messenger passed beyond the reach of the lamp’s light.
Day found his whistle and blew a warning note that echoed down the hall, gathering in volume. The sound brought men to add to the swelling mob in the hall. Day rushed forward, elbowing his way down the narrow hall, and caught glimpses of the messenger moving ahead of him, weaving through the crowd.
Someone shouted “I got ’im!” and there was a shriek.
The milling men moved aside and Day stopped suddenly, a dark shape on the floor at his feet. He held his lantern up. A bleeding man was slumped against the wall. He was pale and silent, trembling. He looked at Day, his eyes wide and darting.
“Are you all right?” Day said.
The man nodded.
“Let me see it.”
The man held out his arm. There was a deep puncture wound through his forearm. Blood trickled out, but it didn’t gush. It wasn’t a fatal injury.
“Put your other hand here where mine is. Hold it there. You”—Day pointed at one of the other men who stood watching—“help him. Take your shirt off and press down on the wound.”
He moved aside and let the man kneel next to his peer.
“There’s a doctor on the premises,” Day said. “Somewhere here. I’m going to find him and send him back here to help. Just wait until he gets here.”
The bleeding man nodded again and Day stood.
“You others, spread the word. Everybody needs to stay in their rooms. Don’t crowd the halls. I know you want to help, but you’ll only be underfoot. This man is armed with a sharp weapon and he will use it.”
There was a murmur of assent, but nobody moved. Day shook his head.
“Did anyone see which way he went?”
Several men pointed at one of the many interchangeable dark openings in the wall. Day crouched and moved through the hole into a room. It was empty. There was yet another hole in the opposite wall, and beyond that, darkness.
He realized he was completely lost now, turned around in the labyrinthine interior of the workhouse. There was nothing to do but move forward. He crossed the tiny room and edged out into the darkness of the second hallway beyond.
92
Hammersmith heard someone shouting. A woman—or was it a boy?—yelled, “He’s got a knife!” There was a scuffling sound and silence.
Hammersmith dropped from the linen rope and moved sideways into the darkness of what seemed to be an abandoned root cellar. There were at least two people in the cellar with him. He pulled the nightstick from his belt and held it down at his side. He squatted against the stone wall, making as small a target of his body as he could, and he listened.
He heard scuffling across the dirt floor, but before he could pinpoint the direction of the sound he felt something furry brush against his ankle. In an instant he was little Nevil Hammersmith again, miles underground in a tunnel, surrounded by rats and by the never-ending dark.
He drew his knees up to his chest and held them against his body. The furry thing rubbed against him, doubled back, and rubbed against him again. He reached out for it.
The cat pressed up against his hand and purred. He rubbed its back and felt its tail coil around his hand as it turned in circles. He listened for the cart coming down the tunnel with its load of coal. He would need to open the trapdoor when it arrived.
Instead he heard the scuffling sound again and it brought him back to the present. He was a policeman in the biggest city in the world. He had realized his childhood dream of escape and would never have to enter a coal mine again in his life. He shook his head, willing the past away along with the last lingering effects of sleeplessness and poison.
The cat would give away his position. He picked it up and stroked its head by way of apology, then threw it across the cave. He heard it land and scamper away, and he hoped that his unseen opponent had heard it, too.
Crouching, he crept toward where he’d heard the cat land. He kept his hands out in front of him, moving them slowly back and forth, sliding his feet forward an inch at a time so that he wouldn’t trip over anything. He concentrated on breathing, quietly, deliberately. He was a shadow among shadows.
After what seemed an eternity his hand brushed against something solid, and he pulled back just in time. He heard a person turn and felt a breeze beside him as something whistled by, missing him by a fraction of an inch.
He struck out and hit nothing but air. Off balance, he stumbled forward and caught himself before he fell. He grunted as his knee came down hard on the packed dirt.
Immediately he felt the breeze again. It was followed by a burning sensation in his forearm. Something warm and wet ran down his arm. He was cut.
He rolled to the side and stayed low, crawling as q
uietly as he could around and back to where he’d been. He swept the area near him with one foot, keeping his center of balance low and stable. Nothing. He moved to his right and tried again. This time his foot hit something solid. There was a cry and someone hit the ground hard.
Hammersmith was on the other man immediately. Here was a torso, and Hammersmith quickly found the man’s arms, pinning them to the ground with one forearm before the knife could cut him again. The man grunted and tried to roll away. Hammersmith jabbed down as hard as he could with his free elbow and felt ribs give way beneath him. The other man cried out, and Hammersmith aimed his fist at the sound, hitting something solid enough to be a skull. There was another grunt.
From his semi-sitting position, Hammersmith sprang up and came back down on the man’s body. He heard a crack and a cry of pain and lashed out at the man’s head again. This time, he felt his own knuckle break, but the other man’s skull snapped back and he went silent.
Hammersmith found the man’s throat and felt for a pulse. It was strong. He sat back against the stone wall and caught his breath. He kept his good hand on the unconscious man to make sure he didn’t move. His other hand felt like it was on fire and his arm throbbed, but he was alive, and when he checked his wound he found that it had already stopped bleeding.
“Is someone there?” he said. “I know there’s someone else down here.”
He waited, but there was only silence. When his own breathing had calmed, he listened and heard someone else’s breath there in the cave.
“I can hear you,” Hammersmith said. “The man with the knife is unconscious. He can’t hurt anybody. You’re safe now.”
“I’ll be good,” came a small voice from the other side of the cellar. It sounded like a young boy. “Don’t hurt me.”
“I won’t hurt you. I promise. I’m a policeman and I’m here to help you. What’s your name?”
“Fennimore.”
“Fennimore, do you know the name of the man with the knife?”
“No.”
“Was he threatening you?”
“I won’t run anymore. You can tell him.”
“He can’t hear us. He’s asleep.”
“Not him. Tell the other one, the bald man. Tell him he can be my father forever if he wants.”
“Fennimore, were you being kept down here?”
“No. I ran down here and now I’m stuck.”
Hammersmith removed his shirt and used it to tie the unconscious man’s hands together. It occurred to him that he was running out of shirts. It also occurred to him that he was beneath a tailor’s shop. There would be more shirts above. He ought to be able to make himself presentable again once he left the cellar. It wouldn’t do to be seen in his undershirt.
He patted the ground in widening circles, searching for the knife that had dropped during the scuffle. When his fingers touched cold metal, he found the handle, picked the knife up, and stuck it in the waistband of his trousers, against his back.
He crawled toward the sound of the boy’s steady breathing. When he touched what felt like the boy’s shoulder, there was a cry of fear.
“It’s all right, Fennimore. Do your friends call you Fennimore?”
“They call me Fenn.”
“Is it all right if I call you Fenn, too?”
“Yes.”
“Just now you said that the bald man could be your father. Do you know the bald man’s name?”
“It’s Cinderhouse, sir. His name is Cinderhouse.”
“The tailor?”
“Yes, sir. Please tell him I won’t run away anymore.”
“Is he your father?”
“He can be. It’s okay now.”
Hammersmith hesitated. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he didn’t like the sound of it.
“Are you tied up, Fenn?”
“No, sir. My leg’s stuck under some rocks.”
“Is it all right if I touch your leg and try to free it from the rocks?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hammersmith nodded, though he knew the boy couldn’t see him. Fenn’s ankle was lodged under a small landslide of rocks and dirt. It would take some effort, but the stones were loose and Hammersmith began to work at them, moving them aside one at a time.
“Do you have another father, Fenn? Someone before Cinderhouse?”
“Yes, but I’m not supposed to talk about him. Or about my mother, neither.”
“Fenn, did they sell you to the tailor?”
“No, sir. He took me in the street.”
Hammersmith sighed and worked harder on the stones trapping the boy.
“Fenn, that was a bad thing to do. When I get you free from here, we’re going to find your father, your real father, and your mother, too, and return you to them.”
The boy sat perfectly still. He began to breathe faster.
“And we’re going to put Mr Cinderhouse in jail. He won’t bother you again.”
“He won’t get out of jail?”
“I won’t let him get out.”
“Are you really a policeman?”
“Yes, I am.”
“The other policemen didn’t help me. But the fat one tried to. Mr Little tried to help me before Mr Cinderhouse done him.”
“Did you say Mr Little?”
The stones were coming loose faster, now that he’d moved the largest of them out of the way.
“Yes, sir. It’s my fault; I didn’t tell him about Mr Cinderhouse. Don’t let Mr Cinderhouse stab you, too.”
“I won’t, Fenn. Mr Cinderhouse won’t ever hurt anyone again. Sit still and I’ll have you free in another moment, and then we’ll get out of here.”
The boy wiggled his ankle and dirt sifted away from his leg.
“I’m almost free already,” Fenn said.
“We’ll have you back with your parents in no time at all,” Hammersmith said.
He took a deep breath and yanked another stone loose.
93
I know you,” the dancing man said.
“Yes,” Kingsley said. “We’ve met on several occasions now.”
They were wandering down a dark hallway in Hobgate workhouse. Kingsley held the lantern up and watched ahead of them as shadows played up the walls and disappeared into the dark hollows of low open doorways that led into too-small rooms. Kingsley had allowed himself to get turned around and had no idea where the exit was or how long they had been zigzagging through the makeshift tunnels of Hobgate. They had seen occasional faces peering out from the open doors, furtive men who disappeared immediately back into darkness. The great crowds of men had scurried into their rat holes as soon as word spread that police were on the premises.
“Did I dance for you?”
“No,” Kingsley said. “You haven’t danced for me. Why do you dance?”
“Because I have to help. Dancing helps make people happy.”
“You want to be of use? Is that it?”
“Helping, yes.”
“Henry … May I call you Henry? Henry, you were once very good to me. You showed me a small but significant kindness when I came to the morgue, or rather to where the morgue used to be. My wife had only just passed of consumption, and I was very sad. Do you remember that?”
“I remember the dead people.”
“Yes, one of them was my Catherine.”
“That was a bad place. The people had no room. There was no room for dancing there.”
“I agree with you. The dead are in a new place now, a place where I help their families find them and perhaps find some justice, too.”
“That’s good. I do remember you. Your lady wanted a flower.”
Kingsley smiled. “Yes, you gave her a sprig of ivy and you covered her with a blanket.”
“That made you happy.”
“It did.”
Kingsley cleared his throat, unsure of how to proceed. Henry Mayhew was a large man, but his mind was that of a child. Kingsley wanted to make him an offer, but he wasn’t sure if Mayhew
would understand what was being given, and he wasn’t even sure it was a good idea to make the offer in the first place.
He opened his mouth to speak and was interrupted by a gunshot somewhere behind them. Henry jumped and clung to the wall. Kingsley spun around and held up the lantern, but could see nothing. Two more shots echoed through the workhouse and Kingsley turned again. He took Henry by the elbow and guided him down the hall as quickly as they could move.
Kingsley was holding his black bag and his lantern in the same hand, and the bag was causing the lantern to swing back and forth, creating treacherous shadows and knocking the bag back into his ribs with each step. He had just come to the conclusion that he didn’t need to guide Henry Mayhew down the hall and could free that hand up to carry one thing or the other when he tripped over something and dropped the lantern.
The something he had tripped over hollered and he realized it was a man, sprawled out on the floor. Kingsley reached for the lantern, which was miraculously still lit.
“You should be in your room,” he said. “There’s a madman on the loose here.”
“Heh. Yeah, there’s a lot of madmen on the loose here, mister. One of ’em got me already.”
Kingsley held the lantern up and let the pale light wash over the man on the floor. He was young and burly and unkempt, and lying in a small pool of black liquid that Kingsley took to be blood.
“What’s happened?” he said. He was already on one knee in front of the young man, his black bag open. He rummaged through it, setting one thing after another on the floor between them.
“Mad bloke stabbed me with a scissors and ran off. The policeman gave chase after helpin’ me a bit. After a while, everybody sort of wandered off and left me here to bleed. Don’t blame ’em. Not too interestin’ to watch a man bleed after the first few minutes.”
“That policeman is my friend. Was he all right? Was he stabbed, too?”
“Don’t think so. I was tryin’ to help him out, what got me stabbed.”
Kingsley washed out the puncture wound and dressed it.
