The Harvest Man (3 page)

F
iona Kingsley stepped through the front doors of the Marylebone bazaar. She brushed her hair behind her ear and waited for her eyes to adjust to the electric lights, listened to the babble and the bustle of hundreds of people all packed into the passages between stalls. She smiled at a man with a waxed mustache that curled out past his ears, his eyebrows shaped so that they vaulted across his forehead in a single expanse of black fur. He smiled back, but his gaze quickly moved on when it became apparent that she wasn’t there to buy one of the tins of hair care products arranged on the counter in front of him. She pushed past his stall and between two stout old ladies who were marveling at a gramophone on display at the next stall over. A salesman was winding the big handle, and Fiona stopped for a moment to watch as the turning cylinder produced tinkling music out of thin air. The effect was unsettling, and Fiona wondered who bought such things. She felt certain the sound of it would grow tiresome very quickly once the novelty of the thing wore off. She moved on again, pausing here and there to admire the carved handles of Indian parasols or to stroke a length of soft Chinese silk with her knuckles. She finally found what she had come for, on the second floor of the bazaar near a window at the back. A beam of sunshine pointed the way to a small kiosk with a sign that declared it to be Goodpenny’s Finest Stationery, its counter organized like a single place setting. In the center was a letter of introduction from Lord Walpole, engraved on fine letterhead and precisely aligned two inches from the edge of the counter’s polished surface. Next to the paper was a silver letter opener, Her Majesty’s likeness etched on its handle, and above it was a creamy white envelope that rested alongside a tin of sealing wax and a stamp. All of this was artfully suggested to fit within a leather wallet that was open to show off its many compartments and enclosures. Below, a glassed-in cabinet enclosed a range of pocket watches, tiepins, cuff links, and assorted other fine accessories. A small round man with a soupçon of a mustache inscribed across the expanse of his upper lip sat on a stool behind the counter regarding Fiona without any indication that he cared whether she was there to purchase his wares or merely to window-shop. She liked that about him and took it as a sign that he was confident in the quality of his products.

“I would like to purchase a small wallet, please.”

“There’s no need to shout,” the man said. But his voice was low and gentle and he smiled at her.

“I’m sorry,” Fiona said. “I hadn’t realized I was shouting.”

“You weren’t. I was simply advising you that there’s no need. The rumors of my hearing problem are quite erroneous. My ears work just as well as yours do, I’m sure.” He hopped off his stool and stepped toward her, his back straight and his little round tummy curving out ahead of him. “What sort of locket would you like? I have three here, one with a lovely cameo of Her Majesty in silhouette. Please keep in mind I can engrave it for you, but you’ll have to leave it for delivery.”

Fiona put her hand to her mouth to hide a grin. She bit her lip and pointed to a small black card case near the back of the cabinet. “I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “Could I possibly look at a wallet instead?”

“Ah, yes. The ability to change one’s mind is the hallmark of a nimble intellect.” He bent and she saw his hands through the glass as he fumbled blindly about, feeling for the wallet, his line of sight blocked by the frame of the cabinet. At last he drew out the wallet and set it on the counter between them, moving the letter of introduction carefully out of the way.

“Is it the proper size to carry calling cards?”

“No, no, my dear. This is meant to carry calling cards. Just the right size for twenty of them to fit without causing an unsightly bulge in a gentleman’s pocket. It comes with a full complement of plain cards, so you may customize them with your own information as you wish or simply replace these with something you’ve had properly printed.” He opened it to show her a little stack of ivory-colored cards, a small filigree design in one corner, but otherwise blank.

“How much is it?”

The man leaned back and found his stool without taking his eyes off her face. He sat and frowned at her for a moment and then smiled again. “You tell me. What would you pay for such a thing?”

“I have three crowns and tuppence. Is that enough?”

He sniffed. “Did your mistress send you here today?”

Fiona looked down at her dress and boots. Her forehead creased as she looked up and around at the other women on the landing. Even the poorest ladies wore their finest frocks and polished their shoes for a day of shopping at the bazaar, but Fiona had paid no attention at all to her wardrobe before leaving the house. She felt a twinge of sadness. Her father did his best with her, but he had not been able to teach her proper dress and behavior for a lady. She had learned all she could from Claire Day, but of course it wasn’t Claire’s duty to act as her mother.

“No, sir,” she said. She looked down at the counter, suddenly ashamed. “It’s for me.”

“For you? A man’s card case?”

“For a friend of mine, I mean.”

“Well, if he’s mean, you shouldn’t buy him things with your own money.”

She looked up, alarmed. “Oh, no, he’s not mean at all.”

“Then you shouldn’t have said he was. That’s quite misleading and you might injure his reputation.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“That’s better.” He pursed his lips and pushed them in and out, staring at a corner of the ceiling behind her for a long moment. She held her breath, not sure what to say to him or what he might
believe
she’d said if she did say anything. At last his gaze returned to her face and he smiled. “One crown ought to be enough,” he said.

“Oh, are you sure? It looks so much more dear than that.”

“Thank you, young lady. I made it myself. And I’ve decided I want you to have it and I want you to keep some of your money, too. I would feel bad about myself if I took it all from you. You may need to purchase something else for this mean young man you seem so fond of.”

Fiona laughed. “Thank you, sir.”

“He’s a lucky boy.”

Fiona blushed and looked down at the counter again. She busied herself with her change purse and handed over a crown. Goodpenny took it and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket without looking at it. “I’ll wrap this for you,” he said.

“Oh. Would you mind . . . I mean, would it be possible to keep the cards out?”

“If you don’t want the cards, if you’ve got printed cards to use in their place, I can keep them myself and put them to some use.”

“But I do want them. I won’t waste them, I promise.”

“Very well, then. Give me a moment.”

He took the case and walked with it to the back of the stall where there was a giant roll of butcher paper bolted to the wall at eye level. He laid the case against the roll as if measuring how much he’d need to wrap it, then yanked and tore off a length of paper, which he brought back to the counter. He laid the paper down and creased it at the edge of the wood and tore it into two neat pieces, one smaller than the other. His fingers moved quickly and confidently, and in a moment the card case was wrapped twice over in the larger piece of paper. He bent and came up with a spool of bright green ribbon from behind the counter, which he wound around the little bundle, then he scraped the ribbon with his thumbnail until it curled around itself. He tapped the stack of blank cards together and wrapped them all up in the smaller piece of paper, and handed both packages over to Fiona with a flourish.

“May I ask your name?”

“Kingsley. I’m Fiona Kingsley.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Tinsley. I am Alastair Goodpenny.” He pointed to the sign above that carried his name. “I hope you’ll call on me again if you’ve a need for stationery or fine jewelry. Ask for me if I’m not at my post here.”

“I will.”

“And please bring your young man around sometime so that I may inform him of his very good fortune in having earned your admiration.”

“I’m sure I’d be the lucky one, if he only knew that I existed, Mr Goodpenny.”

“Ah,” he said. “Well, it is better to have good fortune and not realize it than to have no fortune at all.”

Fiona nodded. But it occurred to her that the young man they were discussing had perhaps the worst fortune of anyone she had ever met.

She looked at the little parcels in her hands. “Perhaps this will serve as a charm for him.”

“It most assuredly will,” Mr Goodpenny said. “All of the items I sell are good luck for someone.”

Fiona waved good-bye to him and made her winding way back to the stairs and down, and out by the front doors of the bazaar. She took a deep breath when the sunlight hit her face and she closed her eyes and wished that Mr Goodpenny might be right and that Nevil Hammersmith would be safe from harm. For once in his unlucky life.

T
he warder hurried to open the gate, and Nevil Hammersmith stepped into the courtyard of HM Prison Bridewell. He stood and waited as the gate was closed behind him and then shook hands with the warder.

“Morning, Bill,” he said. “I appreciate this.”

“Of course,” Bill said. “I still owe you. Just keep it quiet. Don’t want to lose my position.”

He jerked his head at the high stone walls behind them and led the way up the winding path and through a thick iron door. It, too, closed behind Hammersmith, who breathed in the cool dry air and stuck his hands in his pockets. He was wearing a thin black overcoat with an unfashionably large collar and cotton trousers that were a bit too short. His shoes were scratched and worn, buffed to a blue sheen around the heels, but dirty grey at the toes. His mop of uncombed hair fell into his eyes, but he hardly seemed to notice.

The warder glanced up at him and motioned for Hammersmith to turn and follow a wide hall around the corner. The walls were thick and soundproofed to increase the prisoners’ sense of isolation, to impress upon the men a need for contemplation and regard. One wing of the prison had been destroyed by a runaway locomotive and was being rebuilt. Hammersmith could hear the men working, their voices echoing faintly down the halls. They walked silently through a large room filled with battered wooden tables and chairs, through several more doors, and finally stopped outside a cell at the end of a long corridor.

“He’s in there. On the floor at the back.”

Hammersmith looked up and down the empty hall and stepped inside the cell. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light from a high window, barely four inches across and five feet off the ground, through which a pale shaft of light shone. Against the wall to Hammersmith’s left hand was a narrow cot, metal slats with a hard straw mat and a blanket. The only other furnishing was a wooden bucket on the floor in the far corner. Hammersmith didn’t need to be told what the bucket was for. A man’s naked body lay across the cot, his knees on the floor and his arms stretched out so that his knuckles touched the wall behind the slats. His face was buried in the grey blanket. Three of his toes had been broken and were splayed out at different angles. Something glinted in the dim light and Hammersmith narrowed his eyes, saw a pair of spectacles in the dark at the intersection of the wall and the floor beneath the cot.

“You’re sure it’s him?”

“It’s him,” Bill said. “It’s Adrian March, all right.”

March had been Walter Day’s mentor, had introduced him to the Yard and got him his position as an inspector. But Adrian March had also belonged to a secret society of torturers and murderers. Day had been forced to arrest his mentor, his old friend. Hammersmith suspected that Day was still punishing himself for what he had been forced to do.

“Did he fall?”

“Roll him over, you’ll see.”

“What will I see?”

“His tongue.”

“Nothing else? Only his tongue?”

“It were enough. He choked on it.”

“Self-inflicted?”

“Not judging by the expression on his face, it weren’t. He saw something bad, something that frightened him. My guess? Whoever or whatever that was . . . that’s what kilt him.”

Hammersmith winced and looked away from the body. Across from the cot on the opposite wall was an odd configuration of blue lines on the stone. Hammersmith stared at the lines until they made sense to him, formed a symbol he’d seen before: a faint chalk outline in the shape of a circle. Under the circle was a crude arrow that pointed down. A giant number zero pointing roughly in the direction of Adrian March’s body. Hammersmith drew in a quick involuntary breath and turned to the warder.

“He wasn’t cut?”

“Not a bit,” Bill said. “Someone came in here while I was at my meal and shoved his tongue down his throat. Didn’t touch one other hair on his head and left again before I returned. Like a ghost.”

“Very much like a ghost.”

“You think it was one? An actual ghost?”

“I think it was someone most people think is dead and gone. Better he should have stayed that way.”

“Whoever it was, it looks to me like Inspector March put up a fight. You can see he thrashed around some, maybe while he was choking, maybe before that. Broke his toes and one of his fingers. You can’t see the finger from here. It’s around the other side of him, but it’s broke.”

“What about his eyes?”

“They’re bulging straight out of his head like they might pop, but they’re still in there. Like I said, roll him over.”

“No. I’ve seen what I came to see.”

Hammersmith turned and pushed past the warder and down the hall. He called back over his shoulder. “Do I need you to let me back out with that key?”

“Can’t get out of a prison without a key, Nevil.”

“Then hurry up. Let me out.”

Bill hustled and passed him and got to the iron door first. He inserted his key, turned it, and swung the door open, gesturing for Hammersmith to walk ahead.

“Once I’m away,” Hammersmith said, “raise the alarm.”

“They’ll only call you right back here to investigate the bloody thing.”

They went through the front door and down the path to the gate. Bill lingered there and Hammersmith looked away from him, through the opening in the fence.

“They won’t call me out this time,” he said. “Not anymore. I’ve been sacked.”

“Sacked? You didn’t tell me you got the empty. What’re you doing here if you ain’t a policeman no more?”

“Not a thing, Bill. I was never here.” Hammersmith raised a finger to his lips.

“Damnedest thing,” Bill said. “You’re the last one I’d expect would get the sack.”

Hammersmith patted the warder on his shoulder and crammed his hands back in his pockets and walked away from the prison. He listened for the echo of the metal gates as they closed behind him.