The Yard (46 page)

Next, the coachman went round to the tailor’s shop, but it appeared to be empty as well. Just to be sure, the coachman felt along the top of the door frame where he knew Cinderhouse kept a key. He unlocked the door and went inside. He almost locked the door behind him, but decided that he’d only be there for a minute. The shop was clearly deserted.

The tailor’s white cat rubbed against his leg. It dropped something at his feet and sat back, looked up at him, and purred. The coachman bent to look at the object and recoiled when he realized it was a dead rat. He kicked at the cat and missed, and the damned thing trotted away, its tail in the air.

The coachman ignored the rat at his feet and tried to focus. He couldn’t think where the tailor might be. Surely he wouldn’t take a walk in the rain with the boy. Of course he could have hired another carriage, but it wasn’t the sort of day for an outing, was it?

The coachman had just decided to give up and head back to his own home and a nice warm cuppa when he heard something, a faint and faraway noise. He cocked his head and listened and heard it again.

It sounded like someone yelling for help.

The coachman poked his head out the front door, but heard nothing outside over the rushing sound of the rain. Inside again, he wandered about the shop, keeping his ears open, aware that the sound might be nothing
more than the mewling of the white cat. But again and again he heard the small, muffled voice shouting for help.

The coachman opened closet doors and toppled mannequins over, ripped curtains from the walls and pulled drawers out of the wardrobes. Finally, he pried off a rusted padlock and opened the cupboard doors beneath the long counter in the middle of the room.

There, in the floor of the cupboard, was a large square hole. He guessed that it was the entrance to some abandoned root cellar. It was possible that the tailor’s shop had once been a residence, and when it had been converted to a business, the cellar had been covered over and finally forgotten.

The coachman stuck his head inside the cupboard and yelled, “Hallo! Is someone down there?”

There was a moment of silence, and then a small voice. “Please help me! My foot is stuck!”

It was the boy.

The coachman smiled. It was his lucky day. The child had been left there alone.

“I’ll have you out in a jiffy, boy. Hold tight and I’ll be back.”

“Don’t leave me,” the boy said. “There’s rats here and I’m afraid they’re hungry.”

“They might be at that. Don’t you move now.”

The coachman searched the shop and, when he didn’t find any rope, tore part of a bolt of linen into long strips. He tied the strips together and secured one end around the sewing machine that was bolted to the counter. He tossed the other end down the hole in the floor.

“Ready or not, here I come,” he said.

He lowered himself into the coal-black cellar.

M
rs Flanders looked up from her book. She’d been so absorbed in the story she was reading that she couldn’t be sure she’d heard anything at all. She listened carefully. Just as she gave up and returned to the story, there came a strangled cry and a thump from the flat next door.

She waited several moments, but heard nothing more.

She clucked her tongue at the wall.
Boys will be boys,
she thought. But she would have to ask Mr Hammersmith to hold his police meetings elsewhere. Hers was a respectable building, and she couldn’t have riffraff traipsing in and out and horsing about making noise, even if they weren’t really riffraff but were actually policemen in disguise. The neighbors didn’t know that.

She shook her head and turned her attention back to the new penny novel she was reading. It told the story of a raffish gentleman thief and murderer and it was absolutely thrilling, even if it wasn’t particularly true to life.

I
nside the hansom cab was dark and dry, and Hammersmith came gradually awake feeling refreshed and more completely himself than he had in the past two days. His mouth was dry and tasted like dirt.

Blacker wasn’t in the cab with him. Hammersmith assumed the detective
had decided to let him sleep. He pulled the curtain aside and felt immediately disoriented. The rain had picked up and visibility was low, but he could see well enough and the Shaw brownstone was nowhere in evidence. Nor was the willow tree or the stone wall across the street from the Shaw home. Whichever direction the cab faced, Hammersmith felt he ought to see something familiar.

He opened the door and stepped out into the storm. He was immediately soaked to the bone. He turned his face to the sky and opened his mouth, swished the rainwater around, and spat it out in the street. His mouth felt and tasted marginally better.

He was in front of the tailor’s shop. He’d been here with Pringle many times before. How long had he been asleep? Had Blacker finished the interview with Penelope Shaw and moved on?

He tried the door and it swung open. Inside the shop he shook his overcoat out and ran a hand through his hair to stop the water running into his eyes. The place appeared to be empty. Blacker was nowhere to be seen. Hammersmith couldn’t see many places a grown man might hide in the little shop. He felt something at his ankle and looked down to see a cat rubbing against him. He stooped to pet it.

The cat was white and fluffy, and some of its hair clung to his wet fingers. There was a small hard nugget in the cat’s coat and Hammersmith prodded at it while the cat undulated and purred. When he plucked the speck from its fur, the cat yowled. It grabbed his hand between its paws and bit down on the web between his thumb and index finger. He yanked his hand away and the cat ran off.

Hammersmith frowned at the tiny bead he was holding. It was dark brown and there were cat hairs stuck to it. He was certain it was blood.

Day had said something about cat hairs. Something about Pringle’s trousers.

He let the crumb of dried blood fall to the floor and stood, wiping his fingers on the leg of his trousers. The stillness of the shop felt eerie to him now. At his feet, the tangle of white fur bound in blood might well have been an omen. And now the shop came into focus for him, wardrobes flung
open, drawers pulled from cabinets, something tied to the sewing machine on the counter.

He approached the sewing machine. A homemade rope of knotted linen was wrapped around its base. He ran his finger under it and traced it across the countertop and to the other side, where it disappeared through a trapdoor inside a cabinet. He knelt by the opening and listened. Nothing.

“Hello?” he said.

Still nothing.

He looked around, but he was alone.

Inspector Blacker had apparently abandoned him in a cab at the curb. There was no sign of Blacker now, nor were there any traces of the coachman or the tailor whose shop this was. Something had clearly happened while Hammersmith slept, and the only clue he had was this makeshift rope and a trapdoor in the floor. It was entirely possible that Blacker was somewhere below, possibly injured. Possibly worse.

Without another thought, Hammersmith slung his leg over the side of the hole and began to lower himself down.

The coachman’s hand was clamped tight over Fenn’s mouth and it partially covered his nostrils. He was having trouble breathing and the hand smelled of horses and meat pies and grease.

Above them, Fenn could hear footsteps on the floor of the tailor’s shop. He listened, wide-eyed, as someone stomped about the shop and finally came to the trapdoor in the cupboard.

“Hello?” someone said.

The voice echoed down and around the cave under the floor. It wasn’t the tailor’s voice.

The coachman hissed in Fenn’s ear. “I got a knife here. You make a sound, any sound at all, and I’ll cut you ear to ear.”

After a moment, what little light filtered through the cellar entrance was blocked and Fenn heard someone thumping against the wooden floor above.

Fenn knew that whatever the coachman’s plans for him, Fenn wouldn’t like them. If he had a chance at rescue or escape, that chance would disappear if he waited. He stuck his tongue out and licked the coachman’s hand. The coachman reacted, shifting position just a hair, but it was enough that Fenn was able to get a fold of the man’s palm between his teeth. He bit down as hard as he could. Flesh rolled and crunched between his teeth, and the coachman screamed.

When the hand was yanked away, Fenn shouted as loud as he could, “He’s got a knife!”

The coachman’s other hand covered his mouth again and Fenn couldn’t say anything more. He hoped he had been heard and understood.

There was the sound of someone dropping to the ground and the vague outline of a man against the dim grey light from the shop above. And then the man moved to the side and disappeared in the shadows without a word.

Fenn felt the coachman’s lips against his ear. “I’m gonna take care of him and then I’ll be back for you,” the driver said. “You’re gonna be sorry you done what you did, boy. I’ll get my money for you and then we’ll see what’s what.”

And Fenn was alone again, his leg still trapped under the stones of the collapsed wall, too scared to call out, unable to do anything except wait.

T
he dancing man was clinging to Inspector Day and he wouldn’t stop shouting, his voice echoing in the enclosed men’s ward of Hobgate.

“Stop him! Stop the messenger!”

Men had begun to crawl out of their tiny rooms all along the hall, responding to the noise. Day caught a brief glimpse of the man Henry called
“the messenger” before he melted back through an empty doorway at the end of the hall.

“Take Henry to safety,” Day said.

Kingsley nodded and grabbed the dancing man’s arm. He led him quickly down the dark hall, away from Day and away from the messenger. They were quickly swallowed by shadows.

Day raced in the opposite direction, dodging past men in their nightshirts. He ducked through the hole the messenger had gone into. A man with one ear and a slit for a nose was sitting up on his bunk, his eyes wide. On seeing Day, he pointed at the door in the opposite wall. Day nodded and darted through into a hallway that was identical to the one he’d just left. He heard the clatter of running footsteps and held the lantern up. He saw the swirl of a dark cloak, a tall hat, and then the messenger passed beyond the reach of the lamp’s light.

Day found his whistle and blew a warning note that echoed down the hall, gathering in volume. The sound brought men to add to the swelling mob in the hall. Day rushed forward, elbowing his way down the narrow hall, and caught glimpses of the messenger moving ahead of him, weaving through the crowd.

Someone shouted “I got ’im!” and there was a shriek.

The milling men moved aside and Day stopped suddenly, a dark shape on the floor at his feet. He held his lantern up. A bleeding man was slumped against the wall. He was pale and silent, trembling. He looked at Day, his eyes wide and darting.

“Are you all right?” Day said.

The man nodded.

“Let me see it.”

The man held out his arm. There was a deep puncture wound through his forearm. Blood trickled out, but it didn’t gush. It wasn’t a fatal injury.

“Put your other hand here where mine is. Hold it there. You”—Day pointed at one of the other men who stood watching—“help him. Take your shirt off and press down on the wound.”

He moved aside and let the man kneel next to his peer.

“There’s a doctor on the premises,” Day said. “Somewhere here. I’m going to find him and send him back here to help. Just wait until he gets here.”

The bleeding man nodded again and Day stood.

“You others, spread the word. Everybody needs to stay in their rooms. Don’t crowd the halls. I know you want to help, but you’ll only be underfoot. This man is armed with a sharp weapon and he will use it.”

There was a murmur of assent, but nobody moved. Day shook his head.

“Did anyone see which way he went?”

Several men pointed at one of the many interchangeable dark openings in the wall. Day crouched and moved through the hole into a room. It was empty. There was yet another hole in the opposite wall, and beyond that, darkness.

He realized he was completely lost now, turned around in the labyrinthine interior of the workhouse. There was nothing to do but move forward. He crossed the tiny room and edged out into the darkness of the second hallway beyond.

H
ammersmith heard someone shouting. A woman—or was it a boy?—yelled, “He’s got a knife!” There was a scuffling sound and silence.

Hammersmith dropped from the linen rope and moved sideways into the darkness of what seemed to be an abandoned root cellar. There were at least two people in the cellar with him. He pulled the nightstick from his belt and held it down at his side. He squatted against the stone wall, making as small a target of his body as he could, and he listened.

He heard scuffling across the dirt floor, but before he could pinpoint the
direction of the sound he felt something furry brush against his ankle. In an instant he was little Nevil Hammersmith again, miles underground in a tunnel, surrounded by rats and by the never-ending dark.

He drew his knees up to his chest and held them against his body. The furry thing rubbed against him, doubled back, and rubbed against him again. He reached out for it.

The cat pressed up against his hand and purred. He rubbed its back and felt its tail coil around his hand as it turned in circles. He listened for the cart coming down the tunnel with its load of coal. He would need to open the trapdoor when it arrived.

Instead he heard the scuffling sound again and it brought him back to the present. He was a policeman in the biggest city in the world. He had realized his childhood dream of escape and would never have to enter a coal mine again in his life. He shook his head, willing the past away along with the last lingering effects of sleeplessness and poison.

The cat would give away his position. He picked it up and stroked its head by way of apology, then threw it across the cave. He heard it land and scamper away, and he hoped that his unseen opponent had heard it, too.