The Harvest Man (29 page)

G
ood riddance, I say.” Tiffany had freed himself and followed Hammersmith upstairs. Now he stood over the Harvest Man’s body, looking down on him. Tiffany held a sodden rag against his jaw, but his upper lip bled freely. “To think this little fellow killed so many people.”

Hammersmith didn’t respond. He had the Harvest Man’s folding razor and was sawing through the women’s ropes. In a few minutes, they were able to sit up and Hatty threw her arms around Hammersmith. He hugged her and patted her on the back.

“You’re safe now,” he said.

Hatty pulled back and surprised him by kissing him on the lips.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “But I wish you had let me kill him myself.”

“I honestly didn’t mean to kill him at all.” Hammersmith slipped out of Hatty’s arms and moved around to Eugenia Merrilow’s side of the bed. He began working on the ropes there. “I would rather have taken him in. I wonder what was wrong with him to make him murder the way he did.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tiffany said. “All that matters is he’s dead and no more worries from that quarter.”

“Think of what people will say,” Eugenia said. She was able to swing her legs over the side of the bed now and she stood up. “Imagine a tableau of this very scene!”

Hammersmith shuddered and didn’t respond. Eugenia went on talking, but Hammersmith ignored her and left the room. Tiffany joined him a moment later on the landing.

“You did good work tonight,” Tiffany said. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing his cuff with blood.

Hammersmith handed him the killer’s razor. “Evidence.”

Tiffany nodded and folded it up with his own blood still streaked across the blade. He put it away in his pocket.

“I only came here looking for Inspector Day,” Hammersmith said. “Haven’t you seen him?”

“Not since the two of you left together. Has his daughter been found, I hope?”

“She has. She’s safe and sound. If you do see Walter, would you tell him that?”

“Of course,” Tiffany said. “I’m going to recommend that Sir Edward reinstate you, Sergeant.”

Hammersmith shook his head. “I’m not a sergeant anymore.” He reached into his pocket and drew out the small leather case Fiona Kingsley had given him. He took out a card and stared at it before handing it over to Tiffany. Tiffany read it, then looked up at Hammersmith with a scowl.

“Private detective? Why would you wanna go and do that? Nobody likes a private detective.”

“Nobody likes an official detective, either,” Hammersmith said. He walked away from Tiffany and down the stairs.

B
lackleg led a small group of five medical students through the alley to the broken-out window of the abandoned textile factory. One enterprising young man found a back door and together they cleared away the old looms, broken sewing machines, and other debris and managed to get it open. Then they carried their lanterns to the underground burial chamber. They covered Alice, Little Betty, and the unknown woman in clean white cloths and moved the bodies to stretchers. One at a time, they took them up and out of the building into the sunlight and set them in the back of a nondescript wagon. They did not re-barricade the back door, but left it open so that the building might be more accessible to the homeless of the neighborhood.

The bodies were carried to an undeveloped plot of land behind St John of God Church. Three graves had been dug there and all arrangements had been made with a sympathetic priest. He had been made aware that the women were murder victims without families, but knew nothing of their lives before.

The graves were quietly filled and small stones were erected above them.

For years after, until the stones had broken and the bodies had long since decayed, those three unremarkable graves were visited by men and women, in twos and threes, often very late at night. Chief among them was a burly man with a black beard and sad eyes.

I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day,

I never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play.

And now at last the sun is going down behind the wood,

And I am very happy, for I know that I’ve been good.

My bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair,

And I must be off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer.

I know that, till to-morrow I shall see the sun arise,

No ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly sight my eyes.

But slumber hold me tightly till I waken in the dawn,

And hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs round the lawn.

—R
OBERT
L
OUIS
S
TEVENSON
, “A G
OOD
B
OY
,”
A Child’s Garden of Verses
(
1885
)

H
ammersmith stopped and checked the address before knocking. He already missed the old blue door at the top of the porch steps. Too much was changing and he didn’t like any of it. He waited, looking around him at the wide unfamiliar street, until the door opened and a housekeeper beckoned him in and took his hat. Claire met him at the bottom of the stairs and directed him to a front room that was arranged much as it had been at 184 Regent’s Park. The furniture was all the same, but the window at the front was bigger and sunlight gave the place a lemon-yellow hue. He started to sit, but straightened back up when he saw that Claire was too anxious to join him. She paced back and forth, picking at her cuticles. He could hardly blame her. It had been weeks since she had last seen her husband.

“Have you found anything?”

“Very little,” Hammersmith said. “I’m sorry.”

“But he—” Claire was interrupted by Robert and Simon, who bounded into the room with Henry at their heels. Simon ran to Hammersmith and stood smiling up at him.

Hammersmith leaned down. “Good morning, Simon. I wasn’t sure if I’d get to see you this morning.”

“We live here now.”

“We have our own room,” Robert said. “We never had our own room before.”

“I’m glad.” Hammersmith smiled. “It’s good to see you, too, Henry.”

“You, too, Mr Nevil.”

“Henry has been helping with the boys,” Claire said. “Nanny has her hands full with the twins, and after all that’s happened I feel more comfortable with a man around the house.”

Hammersmith nodded. He and Claire exchanged a look. He knew it hadn’t been easy for her to forgive Henry and he was proud of her, happy to see his friends patching up their differences.

Something caught his eye and Hammersmith looked away out the window, where a magpie had landed on the sill. “I wish I had good news to deliver,” he said. “The police haven’t given up and neither have I, but there’s been no luck. Someone saw Walter get into a carriage at the old house, but it hasn’t been spotted again. There’s nothing to grab hold of.” The bird cocked its head to the side and looked in at him. Hammersmith thought it resembled Oliver and he wondered what had become of that loyal bird. It hopped to one side, pecked at the glass, and flew away.

“You’ll find him,” Claire said. Hammersmith wasn’t sure if it was a question or a show of faith in his abilities. Either way, he felt he ought to answer her.

“I don’t know that I will. I’m not the detective Walter was. I mean, he
is
the detective. I’m only his sergeant.”

“But you
are
a detective,” Simon said. “Miss Fiona says so.”

“Is she about? Fiona, I mean? I wanted to say good-bye.”

“She was here earlier,” Claire said. “I’m afraid you’ve only just missed her. A shame. She would have liked to see you.” Claire gave him a look he didn’t understand. “But what do you mean you wanted to say good-bye to her?”

“I’ve accepted a position,” he said. “And I’m afraid I won’t get much chance to come round in the future.”

“What? Where are you going?”

“It’s not important.”

“Nevil, what position have you taken?”

“I’m to be a dustman. Beginning Saturday.”

“No!”

“It’s honest work.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

Hammersmith went to the door and looked into the hall, wondering where the housekeeper had taken his hat. He turned back. “It’s done already. I’ve run out of funds and I need the work.”

“If you stop looking for Walter . . . If you stop, he’ll be lost forever. I know it.”

“Claire . . .” He looked down at his boots. He noticed that they were coming apart at the toes. He hoped Claire hadn’t seen them. He didn’t want her to know how bad things were for him, but he was going to lose his flat. He couldn’t seem to find anyone to share it and Mrs Flanders had reluctantly given him notice. “Mrs Day, my circumstances have changed somewhat. But you must know that I’m going to keep looking for Walter. I would never give up on him.”

“No, sir,” Henry said. “You don’t give up on anything, Mr Nevil. You never do.”

“Henry, please take the boys to the kitchen and ask Cook to get them something to eat,” Claire said. “I have something I want to say to Mr Hammersmith.”

Henry took the boys by their hands and led them from the room. Robert looked back over his shoulder with a worried expression. Hammersmith couldn’t blame him. He was worried, too, and he hadn’t been through half what the brothers had.

“Now for you,” Claire said.

Hammersmith held up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“I have money,” Claire said. “Or rather, my father has money and he has promised me whatever I need.”

“I won’t take your money. Or your father’s money.”

“You must. I know private detectives don’t work for free.”

“This again? I never said I was any kind of detective.”

“Do you not have calling cards that say otherwise?”

“I do, yes, but I think I’ve been quite clear about—”

“So Fiona Kingsley has lied about you?”

“Well, no, that’s not what I—”

“Do you really wish to be a dustman for the rest of your life?”

“Of course not.” He didn’t want to be a dustman at all, going house to house, carting loads of refuse, but he had no choice if he didn’t want to live on the street. Or worse, the poorhouse or prison. He’d had his shot at his dream job and he’d lost it. He bit his lip and took a deep breath.

“Well, then?”

“Claire, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I can’t let you. I don’t want charity, no matter how it’s disguised and no matter how well-intentioned it is.”

“I’m not proposing charity, you bloody idiot. Will you look past your pride for even a minute? I want my husband back. Who will look for him if not you?”

“The police will. Walter isn’t some clockmaker who disappeared on holiday. The Yard will never stop looking for him.”

“How many other crimes must they deal with every day? As time passes, Walter will be pushed further and further down the list of priorities. They think they’ll keep searching. Jimmy Tiffany’s been round here nearly every day telling me that very thing. But he’s only looking for Walter in his spare time because his work hours are so full. People won’t bloody well stop murdering each other long enough to let the police look for Walter.” She finally sat on the edge of the red chair that had once been the centerpiece of her husband’s study. “I’m not offering you charity, Nevil. I’m asking you to work for me, because I know that you’re as dogged and stubborn as a mule and you’ll never give up until Walter’s been found. He’s your friend and I know he’s counting on you. He needs the help of a single-minded policeman, not a bloody dustman. Please forgive my language. I didn’t intend to let myself get so—” She broke off and her gaze went to the window. There was nothing to see there.

Hammersmith went and stood in front of her. He found the wallet in his breast pocket and took a card from it. He looked at it before handing it over to her. Fiona Kingsley’s handwriting was as precise as printed text.

Claire took the card from him and closed her fist around it. She looked up at him and her eyes were rimmed with tears. “Does this mean you’ll do it?”

Hammersmith held out his hand. “Nevil Hammersmith, private detective, at your service, ma’am.”

Over the borders, a sin without pardon,

Breaking the branches and crawling below,

Out through the breach in the wall of the garden,

Down by the banks of the river, we go.

Here is a mill with the humming of thunder,

Here is the weir with the wonder of foam,

Here is the sluice with the race running under—

Marvellous places, though handy to home!

Sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller,

Stiller the note of the birds on the hill;

Dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller,

Deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill.

Years may go by, and the wheel in the river

Wheel as it wheels for us, children, to-day,

Wheel and keep roaring and foaming for ever

Long after all of the boys are away.

Home from the Indies and home from the ocean,

Heroes and soldiers we all shall come home;

Still we shall find the old mill wheel in motion,

Turning and churning that river to foam.

You with the bean that I gave when we quarrelled,

I with your marble of Saturday last,

Honoured and old and all gaily apparelled,

Here we shall meet and remember the past.

—R
OBERT
L
OUIS
S
TEVENSON
, “K
EEPSAKE
M
ILL
,”
A Child’s Garden of Verses
(
1885
)

A
telephone had been installed in Sir Edward Bradford’s new office on the Victoria Embankment, but he had only used it twice in a year. It sat on the edge of his desk and he did his best to simply ignore it. He didn’t trust the thing. When he talked to someone, he liked to look him in the eye. So much of a conversation was about body language. Sir Edward still used runners to deliver most of his messages. He liked the idea that some of the boys might grow up to join the Metropolitan Police, even become inspectors someday, but he could see that the old system would soon fade away. There would be no need to employ runners or nurture future generations of policemen. Time marches on and technology leads the parade.

So when the virtually unused telephone rang early one Tuesday afternoon, he jumped and upset his tea all over his lap. He stood and brushed the liquid off his trousers and sighed. He was reminded of poor Sergeant Hammersmith with his stained and soiled clothing. Sir Edward wondered what Hammersmith was up to lately. He hadn’t seen the man in months.

The telephone rang again and Sir Edward grabbed the receiver.

“Stop it,” he said.

“I’m sorry?” The voice on the other end sounded timid. “Is this Colonel Sir Edward Bradford?”

“Of course it’s me. Who else would answer this thing? It’s in my office.”

“Sir, this is Sarah at the exchange. You have an incoming call.”

“Oh. What do I need to do?”

“Please hold, sir, and I’ll connect you.”

“Well, do it, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a long pause during which Sir Edward could hear the shrill echo of machinery and multiple female voices, like ducks on a faraway pond. Then there was a click and he heard another voice.

“Hello,” the voice said. It was low and flat, almost a whisper, but Sir Edward recognized it immediately.

“Walter? Is this Walter Day on the line?”

“Please help me.”

Sir Edward’s eyes widened. He could barely breathe. “Where are you, Walter? Tell me where I can find you.”

There was no answer. After a moment, Sarah came back on. “I’m sorry, sir. The other party has disconnected.”

Sir Edward set the receiver down on his desktop. He went to his office door and was surprised when it opened on a long dark corridor. For some reason he had expected to see the Murder Squad desks, all in their rows, as they had been in the summer of 1890. He rushed down the passage and grabbed the first runner he came across, a boy idling at the bottom of a staircase. He was probably the only runner in the whole building, there just in case the commissioner had a message.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Gregory Little, sir.”

“Get me Inspector Tiffany,” Sir Edward said to him. “Of the Murder Squad.”

“Inspector Tiffany,” Gregory said. “Right away, sir. What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him . . .” Sir Edward paused and ran a hand over his long white beard. “Tell him I’ve just heard from Day. Tell him . . . tell him that our friend Walter Day is alive somewhere.”

“Yes, sir!” Gregory turned and ran.

Sir Edward watched him until he was out of sight. He put his hand on his chest and felt his heart pounding. He waited a moment to catch his breath and he nodded at the empty hallway.

“You carry on, Mr Day,” he said. “We’ll find you yet.”