The Yard (34 page)

“Someone needs to find Hammersmith and tell ’im what’s happened here. He’ll wanna know Mr Pringle’s gone and got hisself killed.”

C
laire Day waited for her husband to arrive for dinner, anxious to tell him about her strange visitor, Inspector Bentley. She sat by the fire and nodded off and when she woke it was late and the house was quiet. Walter had not come home. She paced back and forth, glancing at the door, biting her fingernails. Finally she put on her gloves and hat and left, locking the front door behind her. She hopped onto an omnibus three blocks from the house and a kind gentleman yielded his seat to her.

Whoever the man was who had visited her, she was deeply suspicious of him. He had thought himself cunning, but his eyes were furtive and there was something in his bearing that suggested a weak man. He reminded her of that long-ago acquaintance Percy Erwood, who had received daily beatings
from his father. Percy had told her in confidence, because he thought they were to be married, that he feared his father and secretly wished he could … well, what Percy said was between the two of them and she would never tell anyone, not even dear Walter.

It was clear that this Bentley character had set himself against Walter. She had no intention of getting underfoot or embarrassing him, but her husband needed to be armed with all the information he could get if he was going to succeed at his new career.

She settled back on the bus, listened to the horses clop along the street, and did her best to ignore her rising gorge.

She would reach the Yard soon enough, and regardless of what happened after, it would at least be a relief to see her husband.

H
e sat back and looked at his handiwork. The note was poorly written, of course. He had carefully considered his misspellings to be sure they were still decipherable, but would lead the detectives to believe that the writer was illiterate. He chuckled at his last sentence: “… the wurst will hapinn.”
,
Ridiculous.

Still, the message was clear: If Day continued to investigate the murders, he would be endangering everything dear to him.

Cinderhouse leaned forward again and stopped with his pen poised above the paper. Should he sign the thing? Not with his real name, of course, but it rankled to send it off without claiming any credit. It would be a simple matter to sign some pseudonym, something that would sail over the heads of the police, but would serve as a private amusement for the tailor. The Ripper had claimed credit for his deeds in just such a fashion and look how famous, and how feared, he had become.

Saucy Jack.

No. He set the pen aside and stood up. Cinderhouse wasn’t after infamy. As nice as it would be to feel that glow of ownership for his clever plans, he really did want to be left alone. His cat-and-mouse game with Inspector Day was satisfying in its way, but there was a boy to be raised properly and a shop to look after. The tailor had his hands full. Drawing extra attention wasn’t necessary.

He fetched the handkerchief he’d brought from Day’s house and put it in an envelope along with the note. He took the entire package out to the waiting coachman to have it posted. Then he went to check on his son.

H
ammersmith stepped off the omnibus and waited for the horses to huff past him before he crossed the road and leaned against the wall outside his flat. The sun was setting and the light had turned purple. He thought that he might vomit there in the street, but the feeling passed and he was able to pull himself upright again.

He gazed through the large picture window at cakes and chocolate truffles, caramel apples and fudge and dainty flowers made of sugar, all arrayed under a gaslight on a tiered counter for passersby to see. He smiled to think that he smelled like chocolate and wondered why nobody had pointed it out to him before.

He found his key and entered through the unmarked green door next to the beckoning chocolates. Up the narrow staircase, past the landlady’s flat, and finally to his own front door. All was dark and still in the flat. Hammersmith lit a lamp by the door and went to the mantel. The tea box was nearly empty, only enough left for one or two cups. Which meant that Pringle had neglected to do the shopping. Hammersmith had no money for tea—he had given all the money he had on him to Blackleg—and
anyway, he didn’t want to leave the flat again. Better, he decided, to save the remaining tea for later.

Pringle’s bedroom door stood open. Hammersmith assumed that his friend was finishing his shift or entertaining a lady friend somewhere, but the flat felt hollow and it seemed to Hammersmith that his footsteps echoed louder than usual.

Hammersmith’s own room was spartan. There was a narrow bed, a single straight-backed wooden chair, and a nubbly round rug that had been there when he moved in. Nothing on the walls, and two changes of uniform hanging in the closet alongside a single pair of civilian trousers and three white shirts. A lamp rested on the windowsill above the head of the bed, but Hammersmith didn’t need it. He knew the room in the dark.

He kicked off his boots and stripped off Charles Shaw’s white shirt, draped it over the back of the chair. He would find a way to return it tomorrow without revisiting the Shaws’ home. He remembered that Penelope Shaw still had Dr Kingsley’s shirt. He had no idea how to get that back from her, but he knew he’d need to find a way. He couldn’t afford to buy the doctor a new shirt. At least not this month. He wasn’t sure he’d even be able to eat for the rest of the month unless Pringle came through with groceries for them both.

Hammersmith wondered if he could live for a month on nothing but recycled copper-tasting tea.

He fell into bed without removing his trousers and followed the darkness down into sleep.

C
harles Shaw waited until Hammersmith got off the bus and it started rolling again. When Hammersmith had crossed the road, Shaw hollered at the driver and hopped down before the horses had stopped moving. Hammersmith didn’t turn around, but Shaw had to wait in the shadows of an awning while his quarry stared into a shop window across the street from him. He didn’t know if Hammersmith could see him reflected in the glass, but he felt reasonably secure in the dying light of the day.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Shaw turned to see two women standing behind him. Their dresses were shabby and had been inexpertly dyed in bright Easter colors. Their faces were thickly painted and their hair hung in ropes from loose buns at the backs of their heads. The taller one had a scar across her face.

“Not interested,” he said. “Get along now.”

“Weren’t asking.”

“What is it, then? I’m very busy.”

“Well, obviously, sir. Any time we sees a man standing about on the street, we know right away there’s big business afoot, right?”

“Ah, sarcasm,” Shaw said. “The lowest form of humor unless you count limericks.”

“Well, I like a good limerick,” one of the ladies said.

“Of course you do.”

He turned back in time to see Hammersmith enter through a green door across the road.

“We was just wondering about that lovely beard you’ve got, sir.”

“My beard?”

“Yes, sir. It’s impressive, is all we wanted to say.”

Shaw turned and smiled. He had Hammersmith cornered. There was time enough to be polite.

“It is impressive, isn’t it?” he said.

“Oh, very. It must take you some time to get those beautiful curls just so.”

“Would you believe it takes me four hours? Four hours, twice a week.”

“Cor, I don’t doubt it, but what an awful gob of time to spend,” the first lady said.

“Not that it ain’t worth every minute,” said the other.

“Oh, of course, of course,” the first one said.

“Well, I’m glad you appreciate it.”

“You wouldn’t let us touch it, would you?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m sure you understand.”

The second, friendlier whore frowned and sighed. She reached out and touched his chest with her fingertips.

“Well, of course we understand. Just disappointin’, is all.”

“There’s other things we might touch,” the first one said. She winked at him.

“Wouldn’t cost a thing for a man with a beard like that one neither, would it, Esme?”

The second one, whose name was apparently Esme, moved her hand down Shaw’s chest and stomach.

“Not a thing,” she said. “For either one of us. Or both at once, if the gentleman prefers.”

Shaw felt his face redden and he swallowed hard. He glanced once more at the green door across from him and then back at the ladies. They looked more attractive than he’d first thought, and he wondered whether he’d misjudged them or if it was merely a trick of the shadows.

“Where do you live?” Esme said.

“I’m afraid I’m rather far from home at the moment.”

“Well, that’s no problem for us. We know a place.”

“Unless he ain’t interested.”

“Oh, no, I’m … I assure you, I’m interested.”

“Of course you are, aren’t you?” Esme said. “I’ve got the evidence in my hand.”

She did. Shaw looked around, up and down the street, but few people were about and nobody was looking their way.

“Come with us,” Esme said.

Charles Shaw allowed himself to be led away.

H
ello, Sergeant,” Claire said.

It took a moment for Constable Jones to look up, but when he did he smiled at her and stood up from his seat behind the desk.

“Ma’am,” he said. “Thank you, but Sergeant Kett’s out tonight and I’m sittin’ the desk for a bit. I’m Jones.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Jones, I should have realized. My husband’s only just started on the Murder Squad and I haven’t had a chance to meet everyone yet.”

“You’d be Mrs Day, then? If you’re here to see yer mister, I’m afraid he’s out and about, same as Sergeant Kett. It’s been a bit of a day round here but I’ll tell him you stopped in.”

“Please do. But, if I may impose, I’d like to ask a question of you.”

“It’s no imposition at all.”

“Is there, by chance, an Inspector Bentley working with my husband?”

Jones frowned. “Bentley, did you say?”

“Yes, Inspector Richard Bentley.”

“No, ma’am, there’s no Bentley here. Never since I been here.”

“I see.”

Claire felt the hairs at the back of her neck rise and pinpricks of sweat
bead her upper lip. So the friendly bald man who had come to the house was not a detective at all. He’d been playacting. But why?

“There’s a Benton, though,” Jones said, “if that’s who you mean.”

“Is he a part of the Murder Squad?”

“No, ma’am, he’s helping keep the peace on the docks. Good fellow. I can see if he’s in.”

“Oh, would you?”

Jones nodded and smiled and walked away down the short passageway behind him. He turned to his right and passed out of Claire’s line of sight.

Perhaps, Claire thought, she’d been mistaken about his name. Perhaps he’d said
Benton
and she’d heard
Bentley
, and all that time cooped up in the house with nothing to do and nobody to talk to had made her suspicious and fidgety. Now Constable Jones would tell Walter that she’d come visiting and he would worry about her.

She skirted the desk and hurried down the hall. She just needed a glimpse of Inspector Benton to be able to tell if he was the same man. If he was, then she would apologize and be on her way.

And if he wasn’t? What then?

She saw Jones at the other side of a massive room, talking to an old man with a long droopy handlebar mustache and a fringe of grey hair at the back of his head. Jones turned and came to her. “That’s him. You can go on over if you like.”

Claire shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ve changed my mind.”

The old man was not her visitor. Claire’s stomach turned over and her vision blurred. She stumbled against the rail behind her and through a cloud of bright floating specks she saw the young constable rush toward her.

“Ma’am? Mrs Day, are you all right?”

She waved him off. “Of course, thank you. I’ll be fine, Mr Jones. Just a momentary spell.”

“Constable!”

A tall man stood up from a desk behind Claire, in the area behind the railing where she knew Walter worked. The man was square-jawed, handsome in a vague way, with an impressive mane of dark hair.

“Constable Jones,” he said, “can we please have some peace in here? We can’t accomplish anything with the public coming through on these asinine tours and banging into the fixtures.”

“I beg your pardon,” Claire said. “I can’t have disturbed you as much as all that.”

“Inspector Tiffany, sir,” Jones said, “may I introduce Inspector Day’s lovely wife.”

Inspector Tiffany sniffed and smoothed his necktie. “Ah,” he said. “I hadn’t realized. I’m a bit distracted with work, I suppose.”

“That’s hardly an apology,” Claire said. “You’ve been quite rude.”

Tiffany raised an eyebrow at her and almost smiled. “Then I do apologize.”

“Apology accepted, Mr Tiffany. I’m sure I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She held out her hand and he stepped to the rail and took it.

“And I yours,” he said. “Please, call me James. But I’m afraid if you’re here to see your husband he’s stepped out. It’s just me and Boring here right now.”

He gestured to a fat detective, who raised a hand in greeting without turning around.

“Thank you. No, I came to report a suspicious man.”

“That’d be for one of the others to hear about,” Jones said. “Inspector Tiffany and the other Murder Squad detectives isn’t to deal with nothin’ but murders. Instructions from the commissioner hisself.”

“It’s all right,” Tiffany said. “I can hear the lady, Constable.”

“Sir Edward won’t like it none.”

Tiffany smirked. “I suppose he won’t, will he?”

Jones shrugged. “Then it’s you who’ll get an earful from ’im. I done my duty. Mrs Day, it’s a real pleasure to meet you.”

Jones hurried away in the direction of his temporary post in the back hall.

Tiffany gestured for Claire to follow him through the gate and into the squad room. He pulled a chair over from another desk for her to sit and took his own seat across from her.