The Harvest Man (28 page)

H
e lay under the stage and listened. For an hour or two—he had no way of telling time—he drifted off. When he woke up, the house was quiet. He stayed where he was, in pitch black and surrounded by the smells of paint and wood and dust. Spiders and silverfish crawled over his face and he ignored them. At last the grumbling of his stomach grew too loud. He worried that it would wake the household. He pushed open the small door in the side of the stage and held his breath, but heard nothing, no reaction. He opened the door all the way and pulled himself out. He reached back in and retrieved the length of slender rope he’d found. His skin was sticky with sweat and he got the sense that, if he took off the strap holding the mask to his face, it would stay where it was, a part of him now. He thought about the mask and it made him happy. He was smiling now, always smiling, and shiny. His mask was gold. He was his parents’ golden boy now, as he was meant to be. And they wouldn’t be afraid of him anymore when they woke up. They would see his happy laughing sparkling gold face and they would smile back at him. He used his fingers to brush the insects out of his hair and went to the room’s doorway. The hall beyond was silent and dark. He crept forward, close to the wall, the rope coiled in his hand. There were many openings all along the passage, but he couldn’t see or hear a single person. Mother and Father must be upstairs, he reasoned, sleeping. He hoped he’d be able to tie them down before they woke up. He had left his ether behind at the last false home, along with everything else. Near the front of the house was a receiving room of some kind, a sitting room or parlor, and the Harvest Man stepped inside to regroup and plan his next course of action. Should he find something to eat first or get right down to business? He was surprised to see a man there, sitting upright in a chair, his back to the window. Lamplight from somewhere outside streamed in and backlit the man’s body. The Harvest Man froze in place, one foot in the hallway, one foot in the room. He stood there for several minutes, waiting for the man to move. Finally, the man snorted and shifted position. He was asleep! The Harvest Man moved to the side of the chair without making a sound. He stood and looked down on the sleeping man. The man had a revolver, held loosely in his hand, and the Harvest Man took it carefully away, set it down on the floor behind the chair. The man did not have a kind face. He had a neatly trimmed mustache that made his features difficult to discern. Still, it was possible the bone structure was good, under the mask. Always under the mask.

The Harvest Man got to work right away, wrapping his rope around and around the sleeping man in the chair.

H
ammersmith left 184 Regent’s Park Road feeling vaguely unsettled. Day was not there, but Hammersmith had found his flask lying on the upper floor, still half full of brandy. It was enough to convince Hammersmith that the inspector had been there recently, but there was no other sign of him, nor was there a clue as to where he might have gone from there. Hammersmith took the flask with him.

Hammersmith had told Kingsley and the others that he would return to the Carlyles’ cottage, but something was bothering him and he turned the opposite way from the cottage after leaving the house. Day might have accidentally dropped his flask, but he would have returned for it. He was fond of the flask and used it frequently. And it wasn’t as if the two houses were far from each other. Even if he’d made it halfway across the park, surely he would have turned back.

But what if Day had been distracted or had found something else at the house? After all, why had Henry taken the baby? Had someone manipulated him? If so, who? And why? Henry wasn’t a madman. There were too many questions and it occurred to Hammersmith that Day might have come up with an answer or two while searching his abandoned house. If he had a new idea, he might have tried to reason out where Henry would be now.

Day didn’t know his baby had been found, but he knew that Hammersmith was searching the canal for Winnie. He knew that Kingsley was looking for the baby at Trafalgar Square. Other logical places to look might include Kingsley’s office or laboratory, but University College Hospital was well staffed and Henry was known there. Someone would question why he was carrying a baby around. It was unlikely Henry would go there. The giant was a creature of habit and there were no other places he frequented. At least, no other places Hammersmith could think of. But what if Henry had been seeking help? Who would he have turned to? Dr Kingsley, of course, but Henry knew that Kingsley was working a murder scene. So maybe he would have sought out the baby’s father, Walter Day. Walter Day, who would also be working a murder scene if he hadn’t got the news about Winnie’s kidnapping.

If, instead of returning to his home in the lamppost, Henry had tried to find the two men he trusted most in the world, he would have taken the baby to a crime scene. And, if that same thought had entered Walter Day’s mind, he might have gone back there, too, hoping to find Henry and Winnie there.

It was all Hammersmith could think of. He saw a boy loitering near the edge of the park and tipped him a penny to run across to the cottage.

“Find a doctor there named Kingsley. Tell him that Day may have returned to the house where the spider was. Tell him Hammersmith has gone there to look for him.”

“I can’t remember all that for a penny.”

Hammersmith snorted and gave the boy another penny, watched him run off into the dusk and disappear into the trees. Then he turned and hailed a passing cab. Walter Day had certainly not walked away from 184 Regent’s Park Road and Hammersmith didn’t want to fall even further behind if he could help it.

I
nspector James Tiffany woke up confused and groggy, thinking he had heard something, someone yelling nearby. He felt mildly embarrassed to have napped in a chair while on duty, but it had been days since he’d had a proper night’s sleep. He shouldn’t have sat down at all, should have known he might doze off. He tried to sit forward, but something held him back. He blinked and looked down. He was tied to the chair, lengths of rope wrapped round and round his torso and legs, his arms pinned to his sides.

Alarmed, he looked around the room, but he was alone. He couldn’t feel his fingers or toes and he worried that the circulation had been cut off from his limbs for too long. He tried to arch his back and, when he couldn’t do that, thrashed his upper body from side to side. But he only moved a fraction of an inch at a time. He was bound too tightly.

He forced himself to be still then and listen. From somewhere above him, he heard a woman scream. It was the same sound that had awakened him. It sounded like poor Hatty Pitt, who had already survived so much. It was obvious to Tiffany what had happened. The Harvest Man must have come back for Hatty, must have followed her to this house. A third scream was cut off and the house went silent.

Tiffany looked for something he could use to cut the ropes, but the closest thing was a fireplace poker and it was halfway across the room. There was no way to get it and no way to hold it. He was helpless.

He closed his eyes and thought of his loved ones. Then he opened his eyes and cursed Day and Hammersmith for leaving him here. He wondered where Constable Bentley was. Was he still guarding the other house? Was he close enough to have heard Hatty scream? Or were there other neighbors who had heard and would come to investigate? Probably not. That woman who lived here, Eugenia Something-or-Other, was a performer. No doubt there was enough high drama that the neighbors simply ignored unusual sounds.

Still. There was nothing else to do.

“Help! I’m a police officer! Help!”

He stopped and listened again. Footsteps on the stairs. Tiffany’s breath caught in his throat and he bit his lip. A moment later, something very much like a man entered the room, but he was the size of a child and his grinning face was colored gold. Lamplight from the window caught the planes of the face and shone brightly, cast the creature’s cheeks and brow in shadow. The grinning thing moved quickly across the room toward him—it scampered, loose-limbed and nimble.

Up close, he could see the Harvest Man’s sparkling eyes behind the gold mask. Pure madness. Tiffany opened his mouth to scream, but the Harvest Man stuffed a wad of fabric into his mouth. It tasted like paint and rancid oil. Tiffany gagged and closed his eyes, tried to work it out with his tongue, but the Harvest Man was pushing against it and Tiffany fought the urge to vomit. If he threw up, he knew, he would choke to death.

He felt something brush against his cheek and he opened his eyes again. The Harvest Man was petting him, stroking his fingertips up and down Tiffany’s face. Tiffany concentrated on breathing evenly through his nose. The creature’s body odor was nearly a solid substance. Like invisible jelly.

The Harvest Man cleared his throat and began to sing as it fondled him. Tiffany was surprised that his voice was so pleasant:

He comes this way;

Yes! ’Tis the night watch!

Yes! ’Tis the night watch his glim’ring lamp I see!

Hush! ’Tis the night watch, softly he comes,

Hush, ’Tis the night watch, softly he comes,

Hush ’Tis the night watch, softly he comes!

Hush! Hush!

And then Tiffany saw the straight razor in the Harvest Man’s other hand.

No, by heaven! No, by heav’n! I am not mad.

Oh, release me! Oh, release me!

No, by heaven! No, by heav’n, I am not mad.

The razor came down with a flash of lamplight as the Harvest Man began to cut.

C
onstable Bentley was still idling outside the murder scene, leaning against the garden gate and whistling something tuneless, so Hammersmith instructed the driver not to stop. They rolled past and turned the corner and went another five streets over. If Day had gone inside the Pitt house, Hammersmith felt certain Bentley would have followed him in, if only to relieve the boredom that came with guarding a crime scene. The only other likely possibility was that Day had gone to confer with Tiffany. Perhaps some new idea had occurred to him. Hammersmith hopped out and paid the driver and approached the door with its unhappy face hung above the lintel, a deserted golden twin. The house was dark, but as Hammersmith raised his hand to knock he heard a man singing somewhere within the house. The voice was fine, but had a stilted quality about it that sent shivers up and down Hammersmith’s spine. He pulled Day’s revolver from his belt and turned the knob. The door swung open and the lyrics of the song became clear.

I loved her sincerely,

I loved her too dearly,

I loved her in sorrow,

In joy, and in pain;

But my heart is forbidden,

Yes it never will waken.

Hammersmith stepped forward into the dark vestibule, its high chandelier tossing lamplight sparks against the walls. He recognized the song. It was called “The Maniac” and he had heard it many times in various pubs. He didn’t much care for it.

The mem’ry of bliss will ne’er come again;

Oh, this poor heart is broken!

Oh, this poor heart is broken!

He could hear something else now, a low whimpering, softer and almost drowned out by the singer. Hammersmith followed the voices to the front room and flattened himself against the wall outside. He crouched in the hallway and peered around the doorjamb. Inside the room, a small man was standing with his back to the door, bent over a person sitting in a chair. He was wearing something over his face—Hammersmith could see the strap at the back of his head—and seemed intent on whatever he was doing. Hammersmith took a closer look at the chair and recognized Inspector James Tiffany. At the same moment, Tiffany’s eyes rolled to the side and he saw Hammersmith. Their eyes locked and Tiffany grunted. A rag had been stuffed into his mouth and the Harvest Man, for that was clearly who the small man must be, was carving Tiffany’s cheek with a blade. Hammersmith gasped. The Harvest Man stopped singing and turned around. He was wearing the missing comedy mask and the grinning mouth didn’t remind Hammersmith of anything happy or joyous. The killer’s razor dragged across Tiffany’s upper lip as he turned and the inspector let out a stifled scream around the wad of fabric in his mouth, his cheeks puffing out with the effort.

Hammersmith tumbled into the room, still in a crouching position, the revolver raised aimlessly. “Jimmy!”

Tiffany tried to respond, but Hammersmith couldn’t understand anything he was shouting. The Harvest Man changed his grip on the razor and rushed at Hammersmith, swinging it like a scythe. Hammersmith pulled the trigger and the recoil knocked him off his toes onto his back. Plaster dust sifted from the ceiling, but the flash and bang were enough to startle the Harvest Man, who hesitated. Hammersmith tumbled back toward the door, but the Harvest Man was moving again, coming at him fast. Hammersmith got his feet under him and stood, but a loud noise distracted him. He looked around to see that Tiffany had managed to knock himself over sideways and was now trapped half under the chair. When Hammersmith looked back at the killer, the Harvest Man was directly in front of him. The immobile smiling face thrust itself at Hammersmith, and the blade came down in an arc at Hammersmith’s chest. Hammersmith raised the gun, but too late. He heard his jacket rip and felt the impact of the heavy razor directly over the scar in his chest. He fell backward against the wall and the Harvest Man ran past him into the hallway. A moment later, Hammersmith heard footsteps on the stairs.

He felt the front of his shirt for blood, but he was dry. He put the gun back in his belt and opened his shirt. Day’s flask now had a deep furrow in it, metal shavings curled around a groove where the flask had deflected the Harvest Man’s razor blade away from his heart. Hammersmith took a shaky breath, uncorked the flask, and swallowed a mouthful of brandy. It burned all the way down his throat. He put the flask down and hurried to where the inspector lay, still trapped beneath the overturned chair. He removed the rag and Tiffany gulped air through his mouth. Hammersmith worked at the knot in the rope behind the chair.

“Never mind me,” Tiffany said.

“You’re bleeding,” Hammersmith said. “He cut you.”

“The women are upstairs. Get going, Sergeant.”

Hammersmith left the knot half untangled. He ran out of the room, down the hallway, and leaped up the stairs, taking the revolver back out of his belt as he went. At the landing he was confronted with a series of doorways on both sides of a long passage, but only one door was closed and he made a beeline for it. He checked his grip on Day’s gun and turned the knob, threw the door open, and stepped into the room. Two women were tied to a bed against the far wall. As Hammersmith entered, the Harvest Man turned toward him, his stiff grinning mask slightly askew. Hammersmith took in the scene as he raised the gun. Both women appeared to be alive and reasonably well, though frightened. The Harvest Man stood perfectly still by the side of the bed, the razor held down at his side.

“Put it down,” Hammersmith said. “Let it drop and show me your hands. I don’t want to kill you if I don’t have to.”

The Harvest Man said nothing, but he slowly raised his hands and put them out at his sides.

“Drop the razor,” Hammersmith said again.

The Harvest Man took a step back and crouched as if he might sit on the edge of the bed. Then he vaulted forward, bringing the blade up over his head, and Hammersmith pulled the trigger. The Harvest Man stopped in midstride. The smiling mask split in two and half of it fell away. The killer took another step toward Hammersmith, then sank to his knees. He set the razor down on the floor between them and collapsed sideways. He put his hands up under his cheek and lay still, like a sleeping child. Under the mask, contrasting the half smile left there, his mouth was open wide, white tendrils of spit connecting his lips, comedy and tragedy reunited. Tears streamed across his face in two directions, falling off the end of his nose and pooling in the hollows of his gnarled ear.

Hammersmith stepped forward and kicked the razor blade away. He went down on one knee and checked the Harvest Man’s neck for a pulse, then lifted the remaining half of the mask over the killer’s head and tossed it away. The Harvest Man’s eyes rolled up and stared at Hammersmith. His lips moved and Hammersmith bent down closer so he could hear.

Oh, release me!

Oh, release me!

She heeds me not,

Yes, by heaven,

Yes, by heaven,

They’ve driven me mad.

A small hole in the Harvest Man’s forehead suddenly released a trickle of blood and the little murderer relaxed, dead at last.