The Harvest Man (14 page)

N
evil Hammersmith trudged up the stairs next to the confectionery shop. The scent of chocolate already suffused the entire building as the early-rising bakers and candy makers hurried to fill the front window with sweets, but Hammersmith barely noticed the smell anymore. He unlocked his door on the landing and went inside, closed the door after himself, and locked it. He found his way to the fireplace in the dark and lit the lamp on the mantel.

The flat seemed dimmer and smaller than usual and he suspected that was because he would be spending more time there in the future. He was suddenly paying attention to his surroundings. There would be no more Scotland Yard to retreat to, no work to bury himself in. He would eventually have to find new employment and he wasn’t qualified to do anything else that might bring him a sense of fulfillment or usefulness. Grim days ahead. Still, he had enough money saved to allow him to pursue Jack the Ripper for another week or two. Surely that would be enough, especially with Blackleg’s help. No madman, no matter how clever, could evade pursuit much longer than that.

There was no kitchen in the flat, but there was a low table under the window that overlooked the street. Half a loaf of stale bread gathered dust there, along with a hard wedge of cheese. Hammersmith filled the pot from a basin on the windowsill and put it on the hotplate to warm. He tore a piece of bread from the loaf and ignored the crumbs that showered the floor at his feet. He would have liked a spot of cream and perhaps a sausage, but the bread and cheese and strong tea would be enough.

After an hour or two of sleep, he would start again. He and Day would find the missing boys in the wood. And Hammersmith might even find Jack, too. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would begin the inevitable search for some new purpose in his life. He stared out the window as he waited for the water to get hot, and he watched over his city as lights began to come on in the dark buildings across the street.

•   •   •

A
LAN
R
IDGWAY
SQUATTED
in the shade of the tall tree across the street from 184 Regent’s Park Road. His eyes hurt, but he was afraid to close them. He was afraid to fail the man Jack. Alan had been stationed beneath the tree watching the blue door when a cab had pulled up and a tall man who walked with a stick had helped two little boys down and escorted them inside the house. Alan felt certain the tall man was Walter Day, but he was confused. Who were the boys? And why had they been kept out so late at night? Alan had expected his first sighting of Walter Day to come in the morning, when the man left his home. Alan knew there were two babies inside the house, and the man Jack had told him all about Mr and Mrs Day, but now there were extra people and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do about them.

Alan was not disturbed to find that there was a guard on the door, an older man with impressive whiskers. He’d been expecting that. The old man was much larger than Alan was, and Alan could see that he wore a revolver in a holster under his arm. The guard looked as if he could handle himself in a fair fight, which was not the sort of adversary Alan preferred, but he had his orders and he knew better than to cross Jack.

He stretched and yawned and settled back against the tree. Alan would wait until Walter Day came out of his home again and he could deliver both his messages at once.

•   •   •

D
R
B
ERNARD
K
INGSLEY
SAT
in his office at University College Hospital and frowned at his desk. He chewed his lower lip while he thought. He leaned forward and picked up an empty water glass, set it in the center of the desktop, and frowned at it some more. He rose and went to a cabinet against the wall, rummaged inside, and came out with a handful of small items: a letter opener, a bottle of ink, a pen nib, a ball of string. He set them on the desk next to the water glass and stepped back. Then he reached out and rearranged them, picked up the ball of string and tossed it half a foot in the air, caught it absently in his right hand. He looked at the string and smiled. He turned his head, looking for someone he could talk to, but he was alone. He nodded to himself and began to unwind the ball, quicker and quicker.

•   •   •

T
HERE
WAS
A
SINGLE
constable guarding the murder scene when Inspector Jimmy Tiffany arrived. Nothing had changed overnight. He paused in the doorway and crossed his arms over his chest, scowled at the broken fireplace on the wall across from him. Muddy footprints were tracked everywhere through the parlor and down the hallway next to it. He stepped inside and looked up at the ceiling, stalling before taking the trek up the stairs, where he knew the bits of gore would have hardened overnight and the pools of blood turned to tar. There was nothing left here. He would search the house one more time, but it seemed impossible that there could be a clue left undiscovered. He decided to vacate the place by afternoon and let the landlord clean it all out.

“Sir?”

Tiffany jumped and turned around. A young boy stood on the porch, just outside the open door.

“Is your name Tiffany, sir?”

“It is. You have a message?”

“From Inspector Day. He says to tell you that the boys is found safe and whole. He’s got ’em now and they’s asleep. He’ll bring ’em round the Yard later today if you wanna ask ’em questions.”

The boy held out his hand, but Tiffany ignored him. He’d been paid already and didn’t need to collect twice for delivering a simple message. He turned back to the fireplace, took a deep breath of the rank air inside the house, and let it out.

And he smiled.

H
ammersmith was mildly annoyed with himself. He’d managed a full three hours of sleep, but still felt exhausted. He hoped his lack of stamina was a result of the chest injury and that he’d eventually be back in fighting form, but he was afraid he might finally be falling apart, an old man at twenty-three. He trudged along the hallways of University College Hospital, trying to look like he belonged, like he knew where he was going, but he got turned around three or four times and ended up backtracking before he found Dr Kingsley’s laboratory in the basement. It was empty, except for three bodies laid out on wooden tables at one side of the big room. Two of the bodies were missing their faces, skulls devoid of expression, staring up at the ceiling with empty sockets. Lamplight glanced across their cheekbones and scurried away into the empty sockets where Hammersmith imagined he could still see their eyes, somewhere deep in the shadows, watching him. He shuddered and left that room, went upstairs and, after getting lost again, finally found the doctor’s office. The door was open, but it was dark inside and Henry Mayhew sat on the floor in the hallway. The magpie Oliver hopped and strutted about in front of the giant, occasionally pecking at the clean floor, as if encountering invisible crumbs. At Hammersmith’s approach, the bird fluttered up onto Henry’s lap and cocked its head at him.

“I was hoping the doctor might be in early today,” Hammersmith said.

“Hullo, Mr Hammersmith.”

“Good morning, Henry.”

“I don’t know where the doctor is,” Henry said. “He’s usually here by now.”

“So on any other day he’d be here.”

“Usually.”

“Just my luck. The one day I need him.”

“Did something bad happen?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“The police never want to ask the doctor questions unless something bad’s happened. Did somebody get killed?”

“I’m afraid so. Three ladies are dead and I’m on my way to see where their bodies were found. I’d hoped Dr Kingsley might go along with me. He’s more likely to find a clue than I am.”

“He likes clues,” Henry said. “He finds them everywhere.”

“That he does. Well, I suppose I’ll be off, then. Would you tell him . . . On second thought, never mind. No point telling him anything, is there? I’ll have seen what there is to see by the time he gets the message.”

“You said you’re going to where the ladies was killed?”

“I’m on my way there now.”

Henry hoisted himself to his feet, towering above Hammersmith. The displaced magpie squawked and flew up to perch on Henry’s shoulder.

“I’ll go with you, then,” Henry said.

“Oh, well, thank you, but there’s no need.”

“No, I think I’d better go. The doctor would want you to be safe. He went to a lot of trouble sewing you up when you was dead and he wouldn’t want you to die again. If them ladies was killed, the bad person might still be there.”

“I assure you, whoever killed them is long gone,” Hammersmith said.

“Have you been there before? To the place they was killed?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know who’s there?”

“I suppose I don’t.”

“Then it’s settled.”

“Ah.”

Henry stood perfectly still, like a statue of some Oscar Wilde fairy-tale character, staring down at him. Hammersmith blinked at him and decided there was no point in trying to argue. Besides, the giant might come in handy after all. He turned and walked away and heard Henry fall into step behind him. He led him down two wrong passages before finding the exit.

T
he sun had risen, but it didn’t reach far into the narrow alley, and it never would. The alley floor shifted under Hammersmith’s feet as he walked. Over time, the stones had been covered by a fine layer of silt, and stray seeds had taken root in the gloom. Tiny green shoots stretched upward with misplaced optimism. Hammersmith stepped carefully as he followed the glow of Blackleg’s lantern deeper into the dark. He trusted Blackleg well enough—after all, if the criminal wanted him dead, he could have killed him the night before and nobody would ever have found Hammersmith’s body—but even Blackleg might be unaware of the dangers at the other end of the alley. Hammersmith wished he had kept the extra lantern from the warehouse basement. He reached for his truncheon and was momentarily surprised that it was missing. He was unarmed and without authority. But still, as always, in over his head. He was glad of Henry’s comforting presence at his back. At last Blackleg stopped moving and stood in place over a spot in the haphazard shadow garden.

“Here it was,” he said. “This is where we found her.”

Hammersmith glanced back at the shard of pale light at the mouth of the alley, then joined Blackleg and squatted on his heels to examine the ground.

“Hold that lower here, would you?”

Blackleg obliged, bringing the lantern down close to a patch where the silt and stifled greenery had been worn away.

“Your people trampled all over this,” Hammersmith said. He could hear Dr Kingsley’s influence in his voice and almost smiled.

“Told you there wouldn’t be much to see,” Blackleg said.

“Did you erase anything?”

“What do you mean?”

“Were there markings here that you or somebody else might’ve rubbed away?”

“What kind of markings?”

“Chalk.”

“Oh, that. No, nothin’ like that. ’Course, I wasn’t the first one in here. But I didn’t see nothin’ looked like chalk.”

“A circle? Blue chalk drawn in a circle. Maybe here on the wall beside the body.”

“No, not a bit of it.”

Hammersmith nodded and put his palm on the cool alley wall, leaned forward, and squinted. It seemed logical to him that the brick and stone would show some sign of fresh wear if a chalk line had been rubbed away. He saw nothing but the normal effects of age. He swept his fingertips over the ground and dislodged a tiny methodical snail. It pulled its head inside its shell, protecting every part of itself except two wet probing eyestalks. Oliver changed his position on Henry’s shoulder and cocked his head. Hammersmith closed his fist loosely over the snail.

“You didn’t find anything else?”

“Just the body,” Blackleg said.

“You moved it right away to that place underground?” Hammersmith suppressed a slight shudder at the thought of the subterranean tomb.

“Depends what you mean by ‘right away,’ but we didn’t take our time about it.”

“Didn’t stand around arguing over whether to call the police in?”

“That much never occurred to anybody, and I guarantee it.”

“And nobody lingered here when the body was gone?”

“Nobody I noticed. Of course, anybody could’ve come back later and done whatever it is you think was done.”

“I wish Dr Kingsley were here.”

“I wish he was here, too,” Henry said.

“I don’t mind if you bring ’im,” Blackleg said. “He’s not a rozzer.”

“He might find something I’m missing.”

“What do you wanna do now, then?”

Hammersmith opened his hand and set the snail down safely out of Oliver’s line of sight. He stood and kicked the wall, knocking dust off his boots. “Let’s take a look at the place where you found the second dead girl.”

Blackleg nodded and turned. Hammersmith had to trot along quickly to keep up with the bigger man.

A
fter sending Walter off for the day, Claire spent some time in the nursery with the twins, who ignored her while they babbled at each other. She checked in on the boys, who were still sleeping at opposite ends of the daybed in the parlor. Simon stirred and whimpered. She sat and put her hand on his forehead, and he pulled himself farther under his blanket. When he was calm, Claire rose and went back through the house and wandered outside with her book of poems.

Her garden was exactly large enough to hold a young ash tree, as well as four white-painted chairs and a table roughly the size of a tea tray. It was not a suitable place for games or picnics, but she enjoyed reading there.

This morning, she found her mother sitting under the spreading branches of the ash with a newspaper. Eleanor Carlyle put the paper down, removed her spectacles, and smiled at her daughter. She was all sharp angles, teeth and elbows and chin. Eleanor was wearing a mint-green dress with a subtle floral print and an enormous sun hat. The brim of it hid her eyes. From where she stood in the open doorway, Claire could smell her mother’s lavender and talcum powder scent wafting through the garden.

“Come over here,” Eleanor said. “I’ve barely seen you this entire week.” She folded her newspaper and set it aside on the miniature table, then patted the seat of the chair beside her. Claire reluctantly moved around the table and took the offered seat. She smoothed her skirts over her lap and looked down at the paper, tried to read it, though it was upside down.

“You know, I didn’t sleep a wink last night,” her mother said. “People in and out at all hours. And those babies of yours.”

“We’ve named them, Walter and I.”

“Mary and Margaret?”

“No. We’ve decided on Winnie and Henrietta. Winnie will be the small one.”

“Your father won’t like that.”

“Won’t he?”

“Do you want to tell him that you won’t be using his dear sisters’ names?”

“Why don’t you tell him?”

“I’d be only too happy to. Well, whatever their names, can’t you keep them quiet? The walls here are so thin.”

Claire had not heard the babies at all. If they’d been up during the night, the governess had swiftly responded to their needs. The twins seemed to thrive on each other’s company and rarely demanded attention from anyone else.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Oh, well, it can’t be helped,” Eleanor said. “If one is going to have small creatures about, one must expect a bit of hardship. Have I told you your father’s decided to get another dog? And just when the house has finally quieted down. I suppose I shall never sleep properly again.”

“Yes,” Claire said. “A dog is much the same as a baby, isn’t it?”

“What’s that, dear?”

“Nothing, Mother. Only talking to myself.” She decided to wait a bit before telling her mother about the boys sleeping in the parlor. She could well imagine what Eleanor would have to say about that situation.

“Talking to yourself? Oh, the habits you’ve picked up here,” Eleanor said. “I’m afraid this city’s driving you mad.”

“I like the city.”

“You don’t know what you like. Walter pulls you this way and that and you go along like a dutiful wife. It’s to be commended, I suppose. He certainly chose well for himself.”

Claire stood. “I believe I’ve had enough sunshine. I’m going to lie down.”

“Nonsense. You just now came out and you’re deathly pale. Sunshine is exactly what you need. Come, let’s talk some more.”

“About what, Mother?”

“Well, about anything you’d like, I suppose.”

“I don’t think I have anything to talk about at the moment.”

“You have something better to do than talk to your poor mother?”

Claire sighed.

“I suppose you could be practicing your needlework,” Eleanor said. “You should, you know. You’re dreadful at it.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, you are. Or perhaps you could take singing lessons. Tell me, do you sing to Walter after supper?”

“No. But we often talk with each other.”

“A man does not enjoy talking with his wife at the end of the day when he’s trying to relax. A husband needs to be entertained. Sing to him if you want to be of any use.”

“Walter does enjoy talking with me. We discuss what’s happened during the day.”

“But nothing’s happened to you during the day. You take care of babies and mope about the house complaining of too much sunshine. You’re morose, dear. What self-respecting husband would want to discuss the events of the day with you?”

“Oh, Mother.”

“I’m only trying to help, you know. You need to find something to do with your time, other than just filling a room with your presence and bothering your poor husband. No wonder he’s . . .”

“He’s what, Mother?”

“Never mind.”

“Walter is fine. And I do lots of things.”

“Like what, dear? What do you do?”

“I’ve been writing . . . Oh, never mind what I do.”

“No, I want to hear about it. You write something? Are you practicing penmanship? Writing letters? That’s lovely. A good way to pass the time.”

“Not letters. I write poems.”

“Poems?”

“Well, not poems. Rhymes for the babies.”

“How charming! And them with absolutely no understanding of poetry. The perfect audience for you, aren’t they, dear?”

“I had thought . . .”

“What, dear?”

“Never mind.”

“No, tell me. What other ways have you found to occupy yourself?”

“I’m going inside now.”

“Suit yourself.” Eleanor clucked her tongue and picked the paper up from the table. She muttered something under her breath.

“What was that, Mother? I didn’t hear you. Or were you talking to yourself?”

“I most certainly was not talking to myself. I said you’re a very silly girl.”

Claire opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again. Anything she said to her mother would only prolong their conversation. She turned on her heel and left Eleanor in the garden. Inside the dim house, she bit her lip and closed her eyes, willed herself not to cry. She took a deep breath, wiped her fingertips across her cheeks to catch any escaping tears, and walked to the staircase without glancing in at the parlor. She tried to dismiss her mother’s nagging, but she was afraid there was a kernel of truth in what Eleanor had said. Claire was certain that Walter really did enjoy her company, but there might still be something she could do to be of use, perhaps even to bring in a little extra money for the household. An idea occurred to her as she looked up the stairs at the dark landing above. She pursed her lips and climbed the steps to the room where the twins slept. She took a chair beside their bassinet and gazed at their plump pink faces and let her thoughts wander far from the little house on Regent’s Park Road.