The Harvest Man (26 page)

T
he Harvest Man felt secure and comforted in the small space. It was even better than an attic, since it surrounded him on all sides. He was thankful he had never grown up big and strong like an adult. Only a boy could fit where he had gone. It was lucky, too, that he had lost the plague mask with its massive beak. He could never have brought it under here with him. The new mask snugged against his face, flat and close. It made him sweat, but sweat was good. He lay on his back and concentrated on breathing slowly, quietly, ignoring the heat.

A man and a woman entered the room and they stood talking perhaps two feet away from the Harvest Man. He could hear their voices almost on top of him and he wondered if he’d be able to touch their ankles if he only reached out and tried.

“Of course a larger room would suit me better,” the woman said. “But we’re still able to fit fifty people in here at a time.”

The man sounded bored. “If you took out that platform, more people could fit.”

“Silly, that’s my stage.”

“What do you do there?”

“I enact famous scenes from paintings and poems and sometimes from plays, although anyone can put on a play. I try not to be too awfully common,” the woman said.

“And people come here to watch you do that?”

“The whole street comes, the whole neighborhood, and many important people from all over London. My performances are famously well attended.”

“Like a costume ball?”

“No, nothing like a costume ball. I swear, Mr Hammersmith, you act like you’ve never seen a tableau vivant.”

“Not sure I have.” The man’s voice—the woman had called him Hammersmith—sounded disengaged. He was humoring the woman; even the Harvest Man could tell, but the woman kept talking about herself as if Hammersmith cared.

“We have fabulous sets designed by the great, and as yet undiscovered, George Bristol. Those go up behind the stage and we change them out, depending on the performance. The next one we do, and I haven’t decided what it shall be as of yet, but the next one we do we’ll take down this curtain. And the new set, whatever it is that George designs, will cover those windows instead, you see?”

“Hmm.”

“And I design my own costumes. You should see me. The last one I did there was no costume. I was completely nude.” The Harvest Man could hear a change in her voice. She was flirting with Hammersmith, trying to get a reaction from him. The Harvest Man had heard his mother do that sometimes when she spoke to his father, but he was reasonably certain these two people were not his parents. His father had cared a great deal for his mother. It was clear that Hammersmith did not particularly like this woman. “Well, I shouldn’t say
completely
nude,” the woman said. “I did wear a wig.” And she giggled.

“Is that so?” Hammersmith’s voice was clearer now. He had moved closer to the Harvest Man’s hiding place. “What is this, three feet high?”

“Two and a half,” the woman said.

“What’s under it?”

“We store George’s old flats and cutouts under the stage, in case we need them again. They stack quite well, but it’s full now. We’ll have to find a new place to keep them. Would you like to see? I can have Pritchard pull some out from under. In fact, if you’d like I can throw on one of my old costumes and give you a demonstration. A sort of private performance. You should hear me sing!”

“Oh, thank you, but no. I would like to take a look under there, though, if you—”

“Pritchard!”

The Harvest Man changed his grip on the razor in his right hand. He decided to wait until the little door at the side of the stage opened and then he would reach out and slash anything nearby. With luck, he’d be able to use the ensuing chaos to crawl out and escape.

“Ma’am?” This was a new voice. An older man.

“That was quick, Pritchard,” the woman said. “You must have been right outside the room.”

“Indeed, ma’am. I was coming to inform you that we have another visitor. An Inspector Tiffany.”

“Tiffany’s here?” Hammersmith was moving away from the stage now. “What’s he want?”

“He didn’t say, sir. Shall I tell him . . .”

But now the voices trailed away as the three people left the room, their footsteps fading down the hall. The Harvest Man relaxed his grip on the razor and closed his eyes. The moment had passed. He had time now.

He would wait.

H
ammersmith,” Inspector Tiffany said. “What are you doin’, always underfoot? This is a police matter, not for you.”

“This isn’t a crime scene,” Hammersmith said.

“Do you live here? No? Then what’re you here for?”

“This is my home,” a Rubenesque woman said. “Well, my mother’s. I’m Eugenia Merrilow.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“And this man is my guest.”

“He’s been warned about interfering,” Tiffany said. “He’s not a proper—”

“He’s with me,” Day said. He came limping into the entryway on the arm of Hatty Pitt. “What brings you here, James?”

“Where’ve you been at, Day? Don’t you know everybody’s out lookin’ for you?”

“For me? Why?”

“It’s your babies,” Tiffany said. “They’ve gone missing.”

Day came quicker across the room than Tiffany would have imagined he could. “Babies? You’re talking about the twins?”

“That’s right,” Tiffany said. “I think so, anyway. They told me it was a little girl.”

“One little girl?”

“I didn’t hear. All I know, there’s somethin’ not right with your babies. Somebody came and took ’em and they’re gone.”

“Who? Who took them?”

“That giant friend of yours. Ran out the house with ’em.”

Day turned to Hammersmith. He was pale and shaking. “Henry.”

Hammersmith shook his head. “Henry wouldn’t do that.”

“I’m sure it’s all right,” Tiffany said. “Some sorta misunderstanding.”

“The bird,” Day said. “Oliver, remember? He was trying to tell us something.”

“He wanted you to follow him.”

“I should have.”

“No way of knowing,” Hammersmith said.

“I have to go,” Day said.

“I’m going with you.”

“No, someone has to stay here.”

“Tiffany can stay,” Hammersmith said. “It’s his job, after all.”

“It’s why I’m here,” Tiffany said.

“Listen,” Day said. “The Harvest Man is somewhere nearby. Very close by.”

“I know it. Jones and I almost caught him, too.”

“He’s taken the smiling mask from the front of this house.”

“There isn’t an attic, is there?” Tiffany looked up at the chandelier.

“No. But we’re missing something, something about this one. I just can’t figure out what. Regardless, I don’t think Hatty’s in any danger. He’s never stalked anyone.”

“That we know of,” Tiffany said.

“I don’t think that’s how he works, how his mind works.”

“You go,” Tiffany said. “Take care of your family. And if you see Jones out there, take his horse. It’ll get you there faster than a carriage will. I’ll coordinate the search from here.”

Eugenia stepped in front of Tiffany. “My house is not a police station,” she said.

Hammersmith leaned in and whispered something to her and Eugenia’s eyes widened. “I suppose,” she said, “it might make a good story. But I’ve never done an original production before.”

Before Tiffany could figure out what she was talking about, the front door banged shut and he realized he was alone with the two women. Day and Hammersmith had both gone.

“Good luck,” Tiffany muttered under his breath. “And Godspeed.”

T
he sitting room of the rented cottage was crowded with people when Day and Hammersmith burst through the door. Claire stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by other people and holding one of the babies. Her mother was there, along with Dr Kingsley and his daughter, the boys Robert and Simon, and the twins’ governess, who was sobbing uncontrollably while Eleanor Carlyle patted her on the back. When she saw her husband, Claire gave the baby to Fiona and rushed to him, throwing her arms around him.

“He took Winnie,” she said.

“Are you sure it was Winnie?” As the words left his mouth, Day realized how daft he sounded. Of course Claire was sure. And if she wasn’t? What did it matter which of the twins was missing?

“He took her!”

Kingsley went to the decanter on the sideboard and poured Day a drink. “Henry came here earlier in the day, a couple of hours ago, I think. He was wet and may have fallen in the canal. He went upstairs and took one of your daughters from her cradle, then left with her. My daughter was here and she and Claire chased Henry into the park. They lost sight of him there.” Day took the glass of brandy and swallowed its contents. He handed the glass back to Kingsley, who raised his eyebrows. “Another?”

“Thank you, but not just now. Is anyone—”

“There’s a search party being led by Mr Carlyle. I planned to join them myself, but wanted to wait until you got here. I’m going to give Mrs Day a sedative, but she insisted that she see you first.”

Day nodded. “Yes, thank you.” He took Claire’s arms and led her to the daybed, laid her down. He sat next to her and smoothed his hand along her forehead. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hair was damp where it lay against her cheeks. “Henry wouldn’t hurt the baby, darling,” Day said. “I can’t tell you—”

“Why? Why did he take her?”

“I don’t know why, but we’ll find him.”

“I don’t care about him. Only Winnie.”

“I understand. But don’t worry now. She’ll be just fine. I’m sure he’s taken good care of her.”

“Oh, Walter, what if—”

“Don’t let your mind travel down that path, darling. You rest. Nevil’s here with me. And your father’s out looking. Between us, and with Dr Kingsley’s help, we’ll find the baby.”

“Oh, Walter, don’t let Nevil go. He’ll be killed if he goes out there. Something awful always seems to—”

“He’ll be fine.” Day looked up at Kingsley. “Do you have that sedative?”

“Here.” Kingsley hovered next to them for a minute, blocking Day’s view of his wife, then stood back, a syringe held neatly out of sight under his arm. “That should start to work in a moment or two.”

“Walter?”

“Yes, dear. I’m here.”

“Walter, I can’t go to sleep.”

“You must try.”

“If I go to sleep, I might never see you again. Just like Winnie.”

“That’s not . . .” He stopped talking when her eyes closed and her breathing evened out. He sighed and stood up. “Will she be all right?”

“She’s had a shock,” Kingsley said. “But the sedative will help.”

“Thank you, Doctor, but what will really help is if we find that baby while she’s asleep.”

“I thought I might check Henry’s home, that ridiculous room in the lamppost. It’s possible he went back there.”

“You said he was wet when he arrived here?”

“Yes, that’s what Fiona told me.”

“He might be hiding near the canal,” Hammersmith said.

“I have another idea where he might be,” Day said, “but it’s only the slimmest possibility.”

“One possibility is as good as another right now,” Kingsley said.

“If we split up, we’ve got a better chance of finding him quickly,” Hammersmith said. “I’ll head down to the water.”

“Take my revolver,” Day said. Claire’s concern for Nevil echoed in his mind.

“I don’t need it,” Hammersmith said.

“I’d feel better if you had it.” Day pressed his Colt on Hammersmith, who took it reluctantly, a sour look on his face.

“Now, you’ll be unarmed.”

“No, I have my new sword stick. Doctor, let’s find something for you.”

“I don’t like carrying weapons. It’s against my oath to cause harm.”

“But surely for self-defense . . .”

“I’ll be fine. Henry wouldn’t hurt me. Honestly, he wouldn’t hurt anyone. This isn’t like him at all. He must believe he’s playing some sort of game.”

“I think that’s exactly what’s going on,” Day said. He didn’t give voice to his private fear. Henry really wasn’t acting himself, which meant he might be acting on someone else’s behalf. He might not intend to harm Winnie, but if he was being used as a pawn in someone else’s game, the baby could still be in grave danger.

Kingsley turned to Fiona. “Watch Claire and take care of the remaining baby. Lock the door after us and do not let anyone in until at least one of us is back here.”

She nodded and Day saw her give Hammersmith a worried glance. The three men went to the door and out, and Day listened for the click of the bolt before he went down the steps to the road. Kingsley clapped Day on the shoulder and peeled off in the direction of Trafalgar Square without a word. Hammersmith shoved Day’s revolver in his belt and shook his head.

“She’s fine, Walter,” he said.

“I know.”

“We’ll have her back within the hour. I promise.” And with that, Hammersmith turned and ran toward the canal. Day watched him disappear into the gathering darkness, then he limped across the road and into the park. He prayed that his child was still alive and that she’d be found in time. Alan Ridgway had delivered a message from Jack. Something about Day having been chosen, whatever that meant. But if Jack was toying with him, if he was behind Winnie’s disappearance, Day thought he had an idea where he might find him.

T
here was a church on the corner. Hammersmith vaulted the low fence around its gardens and trotted to the back, where he knew he would find stairs down to the waterway. He could smell mildew and decay and freshwater, could hear the canal, full from the recent rain and lapping against its banks. He moved quickly and carefully down the dark steps and stood for a moment at the bottom, getting used to the gloom. The sun was going down and branches hung low over the water, filtering out all but a few diamond sparkles through the leaves and on the water. A red narrowboat bobbed up and down nearby, nudging against the stone embankment. Hammersmith moved toward it.

“You there!”

Hammersmith turned and saw Leland Carlyle running toward him. Hammersmith moved his hand off the gun in his belt and waited for the older man to catch up to him.

“What are you doing here? Do I know you?”

“We met once, sir,” Hammersmith said. “I’m a friend of Walter’s.”

“Is there news? Has the baby been found?”

“Nothing yet. I thought there was a chance he might have brought her here.”

“I thought the same thing,” Carlyle said. “The fellow was apparently wet when he arrived at the house.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ve been all up and down this side, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

Hammersmith glanced at the narrowboat and Carlyle followed his gaze.

“Yes,” Carlyle said, “I thought of that, too, but it’s empty. There’s nothing here. I’ve encountered a few people walking along here, but nobody’s seen a big man with a baby.”

“We’ll find her, sir.”

“Will we? How can you be certain?”

“I have faith in Walter. He’ll think of something. He always does.”

“I wish I shared your conviction, young man.”

Hammersmith shook his head and squinted at the water’s surface. “If they’re not down here, perhaps we should go find Walter. He can’t be far. Maybe he’s on the right track.”

“Let’s hope someone is.”

•   •   •

T
RAFALGAR
S
QUARE
WAS
sparsely populated, only a few clerks heading home from the office and a single straggling vendor, wheeling his oyster cart slowly across the square, hoping for one more sale before the day was done. Kingsley didn’t even look at the man, but hurried straight across to the lamppost on the southeast corner. He hesitated at the low door before reaching up to rap on the dark window with his knuckles. He was afraid he’d find Henry here, and he was afraid he wouldn’t.

After a long moment, Kingsley heard a soft noise from inside the hollow stone structure. He put his ear to the window and listened. The unmistakable fussing of a baby was clearly audible. He reached for the knob and rattled it, but the door was locked.

“Henry? Henry, if you’re in there, open up.”

“No.”

“Henry, is the baby all right?”

“She smells bad.”

“Is she all right?”

“I think she messed herself. And we’re hungry.”

Kingsley let out a sigh of relief and sagged against the post. “Henry, you have to open the door. You’ve created a great deal of trouble for yourself.”

“I’m scared.”

“You’ll be in more trouble if you don’t open up.”

“No, I’m scared about the baby.”

“What about the baby?”

“She’s in danger. The voice told me she was in danger. I’m saving her.”

“Saving her from what, Henry?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who told you she was in danger?”

“I don’t know.”

“Henry, somebody lied to you. The baby isn’t in danger. I’m afraid you’re the one who is in some trouble. And you’re only making it worse.”

“I’m saving her,” Henry said again.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then open the door now.”

Kingsley waited. At last he heard more noises from within the lamppost. A scraping sound, a click, and the door swung open. Henry crouched there in the dark, holding the little girl in his arms. Kingsley reached out and took her from the giant. Winnie Day kicked her legs and turned her face toward Kingsley’s chest. He checked her eyes and they were clear and bright. He laid her on the low stone wall beside the lamppost, kept one hand on her to prevent her rolling off. He conducted a cursory examination of the infant and satisfied himself that she was healthy and hungry and unharmed. Kingsley didn’t know what to think about his assistant. He’d always known the man was simple, but now he wondered if he might be deranged.

“Oh, Henry,” he said at last. “What have you done?”

“I didn’t hurt her.”

“No, I know you didn’t.”

“Should we take her back to Mrs Day now?”

“I’m going to do just that, Henry. But you can’t come with me.”

“Why can’t I?”

“I don’t imagine Mrs Day wants to see you anytime very soon. In fact, she may have you arrested. You’d better stay far away from her, and from Mr Day, too.”

“Until tomorrow?”

“For a long time. I don’t think you’d better come back to work, either.”

“What will I do?”

“I don’t know that. I’m very sorry, Henry. I don’t know what to tell you just now. I’ll do what I can for you.”

“Oh, that sounds very bad.”

“Mrs Day is a kind woman and I’m sure she’ll forgive you. But these things take time. Wait here until I send for you.”

With that he walked away across the square with the baby in his arms, looking for a cab that could get him back to Primrose Hill. Behind him, he heard poor Henry sob.