Lost and Gone Forever (12 page)

E
sther Paxton was worried. She had taken down the wire from across her front window and folded and put away the display clothes. She had shuttered the windows, but she’d left the globe above the door lit. She had not seen Walter all day. Normally he would have returned before she closed up the shop. He would have walked her home, and perhaps they would have shared a light supper along the way. Then he would go back and lock up the shop and get busy rolling cigarettes and cigars for the following day’s business. He was unfailing in his routine. But today he had been gone before she arrived and there was still no sign of him.

Of course, he was free to leave, to find another place to live, though Esther would miss the extra income. But surely he would have told her, would have given her proper notice, would have been more considerate than to simply disappear. There were unresolved issues between them, at least she felt there were, and Walter would not have left her alone without warning.

She had just resolved to stroll about the neighborhood and look for him when there was a knock at the door. She peeked out the
small inset window and saw a tall man with dark wavy hair smiling back at her. He was quite handsome, but there was something unusual about his smile, like it had been painted on, like he was a mannequin made up to look human. She banished the thought and silently chided herself for being so ridiculous. She was just worried about Walter, that was all.

“I’m afraid I’m closed for today,” she said, loudly enough to be heard through the door. “Please come back in the morning.”

“Oh,” the stranger said, “but I have a message from Walter Day for you.”

“Walter Day?” (Was that Walter’s full name?) “A message?”

“It’s a note from him. He’s sorry to be so late this evening, but wondered if you’d wait for him. There’s more, but he wanted me to give it to you myself.”

“Please slide it under the door.” That mannequin smile still bothered her. She was watching the man through the window, and his mouth barely moved as he spoke. He was like a puppet being worked by invisible strings and rods.

“There’s also a small box here,” from the unmoving grin. “I’m afraid it won’t all fit.”

“Oh, very well,” Esther said. She threw the bolt and opened the door.

The man stepped across the threshold and removed his hat. He was carrying Walter’s cane, with the bright brass knob at the top. He bowed to her, too low and too formal, making a show of it. “Thank you, madam.”

“Where is it? The box?”

“Oh, that.” The man turned and shut the door behind him. “I’m afraid I lied about the box. But I do have a message for you from
Walter Day. Or rather, it’s about Walter Day. He didn’t send it personally.”

“Who are you?”

“Didn’t I introduce myself? Please, call me Jack.”

He raised Walter’s walking stick high above his head and brought it down in a glimmering arc.

L
eland Carlyle woke in the wee hours with a dreadful realization that felt physical, like some enormous toad sitting on his chest, crushing him, sucking the breath out of him. The girl at the coffeehouse, the one with the apron, she had heard everything. Carlyle couldn’t remember what he’d said, what the Parkers had said. He had been careful, hadn’t hinted at any impropriety while the girl had been within earshot, but now he felt convinced that she had listened in. Why wouldn’t she? Carlyle was clearly a gentleman of means, and girls like that were always trying to better themselves. She would have listened to their conversation. She might, even now, be planning to blackmail him, might be writing a note to his wife or to the authorities. He should have known, should have been more careful.

He snorted and rubbed his eyes. They were tearing up, and he felt a lump in his throat. It was so hard to be strong, to remain resolute in all situations, all day every day. Sometimes a man struggled to bear up under it all. Especially when there were so many people around him who would take advantage if he showed weakness, who were waiting for an opportunity to turn things around, to work against him.

He had been strong once, much stronger than he was now, but a year of being hunted like a damn fox had begun to wear him down. He jumped at every shadow now, distrusted every new person he met. It was impossible to be too careful when Jack was lurking somewhere nearby.

If the girl had heard anything—had she? He felt certain, but he’d also felt certain he was being careful—if she had heard him use specific names or heard him mention the killing specifically, then she was a danger to him and to the entire Karstphanomen. The thought of disappointing those worthy men was somehow worse than his fear of Jack.

He turned over onto his side and stared at the wall, glad Mrs Carlyle slept in another room. Perhaps the girl hadn’t heard him order a murder. And perhaps, if she had heard, she would applaud him for hiring the murder of Jack the Ripper. Surely nobody wanted that madman running around free.

But if she had heard, and no matter what she thought of it, she could implicate Leland Carlyle, she could ruin him.

He would have to do something about her.

Perhaps he could add her to the task he’d given the Parkers. One more body would be nothing to them. They could dispatch her easily. But, of course, in doing so they would have a certain power over him. They would know that he was frightened of a girl. And what would they charge him for it? Whatever the amount, it would be difficult to hide any more money from his accountant. No, he couldn’t ask them to take care of any more than they already were.

He would have to do it himself.

And, satisfied that he had arrived at the proper conclusion, Leland Carlyle turned onto his back again and fell instantly asleep. Within moments he was snoring.

A
t the back of the Whistle and Flute, in a corner where there were no lamps and the light from the street failed to reach, was a large round table with four chairs. Blackleg was not always to be found sitting at this table, but when he was gone nobody else sat there. It was his table. And anyone who had the second chair, across from him, should be bearing good news if he wished to be seen anywhere again.

Hammersmith entered the pub and waited for his eyes to adjust.
How strange,
he thought,
that the gas lamps outside are so much brighter than the light inside.
The table in the corner was occupied. The chair opposite Blackleg was empty. The burly criminal was reading a newspaper, and there were two glasses of beer in front of him. Sometimes Hammersmith had seen men pull chairs over from neighboring tables and play games of Happy Families with the powerful criminal, but this was not one of those times. Hammersmith snaked his way around the other tables, which were set about in no discernible pattern, and pulled out the empty chair. Blackleg folded his newspaper and slid one of the two glasses across to Hammersmith.

“You’re on time,” Blackleg said.

“I always am.”

“I took the liberty of ordering for you.”

“Thanks.” Hammersmith raised the glass and drained half of the murky liquid, then wiped his lips on his sleeve. He noticed a suspicious yellow stain on his cuff and frowned at it. He couldn’t remember eating or drinking anything yellow recently.

“This about your missing mate again?” Blackleg gestured for another two glasses, and a woman across the room nodded to show she’d seen him.

“It is,” Hammersmith said.

“I been lookin’. Like I told you I would. And had my girls lookin’. Everybody else, too.”

“You know what he looked like?”

Blackleg smiled. He knew whatever he wanted to know. He had started as a common criminal, crossing picket lines at the docks, but had worked his way to the center of certain crime rings in London. He controlled all the illegal activities that his warped moral code told him were necessary to society, which meant in practical terms that he avoided anything that might harm children. And unnecessary murders.

What he considered “unnecessary” seemed to change from moment to moment.

“And there’s no sign of him in any of your . . .” Hammersmith broke off, not sure how to phrase the rest of the question.

“Naw, none of my people have seen anything,” Blackleg said.

Hammersmith took another pull from the glass and stared off at the back wall of the pub, which was streaked liberally with rust and mildew.

“Don’t take it bad,” Blackleg said. “One good thing is there’s no sign of any bodies or nuthin’, either.”

Hammersmith turned his gaze on the criminal and scowled.

“What I mean,” Blackleg said, “is I done questioned everybody I know might’ve done your friend bodily harm, might’ve had it in for a peeler and taken matters in their own hands, so to speak. Nobody knows nuthin’.”

“Nothing they’re telling you.”

Blackleg sat back and smiled. The woman appeared and set down two more glasses, foam sloshing over her hands and across the tabletop. She flicked her fingers at the wall and hurried away.

“They’d tell me,” Blackleg said. “The one thing, the
one
thing, is they don’t lie to me. Most other problems I can help with or forgive, but lying destroys trust, and without trust . . . well, what do we have?” He spread his hands wide, then clapped them together and lifted his glass.

“So there’s no body,” Hammersmith said. “No body after a year of looking. Then someone hid his body very well, don’t you think?”

“No. No, I don’t just mean there ain’t a corpse. I mean nobody kilt him.”

“I mean no offense, but isn’t it possible someone else harmed him, someone you don’t know or doesn’t work for you?”

“No, it’s not possible without my knowing. A body’s a big thing, it is, if it’s a grown man. You can chop it up, you can melt it with certain things, but then you’ve got pieces or chemicals, you’ve got evidence. That’s the sort of evidence you lot, you police, look for. But that’s the evidence the rest of us hide from you, and I know about hidin’ better than you or anybody you know. Nuthin’ stays hidden from me if I want it found.”

Hammersmith frowned and sipped his beer.

Blackleg leaned forward and clasped his hands atop his folded
newspaper. “Sumpin’s odd about all this, I’ll grant you that,” he said. “But what I’m givin’ you here’s good news. If he’s dead, he died in another city, maybe a different country entire. But he didn’t die here. Not in my city.”

Hammersmith nodded. He had inquired in other cities, other countries, spent time in Paris, in America and Canada. All of those places were dead ends.

“We been lookin’ for Jack, too, you know,” Blackleg said. “Made it hard for him to operate, hard to get about easy. If he’s still in the city, he’s had to go to ground somewheres. Like a rat in a hole. Ol’ Blackleg’s been a busy man lately.”

“It sounds like it.”

“Just so long’s you know I’m doin’ what I can. We’ll find one or the other, and we’ll do it soon. And if I don’t, you will. Then Jack’ll lead us to your mate or he’ll lead us to Jack. And then we can go on about our business like old times.”

“I hope you’re right.” Hammersmith finished his second beer and set the glass down, took a deep breath, and stood. “Thank you.”

“You owe me now,” Blackleg said. “And you know I won’t ask nothin’ bad, like, but you’d best be ready to pay if I do ask it.”

Hammersmith felt his scalp tingle, but he nodded. “I know.” He had gone to the Devil for a favor and had been well aware of the price when he did it. There had been nothing else he could do.

“You’re a good man, Nevil.” Hammersmith wasn’t sure how to take the compliment coming, as it did, from the worst criminal in London. “If anybody can find this bloke, it’s you. Keep at it.”

Of course he would keep at it. What else was he going to do? He’d opened an agency for the express purpose of keeping at it. He had employees now who depended on him to keep at it. And, of
course, his closest friend was out there somewhere, probably in terrible trouble, and counting on Nevil Hammersmith to keep at it.

He left the pub and stepped outside. The air was cool and wet, and he coughed, a deep booming sound that cleared his lungs and surprised him. He stepped off the curb and sat down and rested his arms on his knees. He stared out into the dark street. It stretched in both directions away from him, disappearing into the fog.

Which way to go? Was there anywhere he hadn’t already looked for Walter Day?

Hammersmith put his head down on his arms and closed his eyes. If only he had Day there to help him look for Day. He was only one half of a team, after all. It shouldn’t all be on his shoulders.

“Oi! Are you Mr Hammersmith?” Hammersmith looked up to see a boy on a bicycle approaching him. The boy stopped against the curb and stood there with one foot on the ground and his head tilted, breathing hard and blinking at him. “I said, are you Hammersmith, sir? Do you know him?”

“Um. Yes, I’m Hammersmith. But what—”

“Oh, thank God, sir. I been all over since this afternoon. Practically all night. To your flat, to Scotland Yard, to your office. Everywhere. Your lady at the agency opened up and said you might be here, and thank God again, ’cause you are and now I can go have a rest. My legs are done and gone.”

“What is it? Do you have a message for me?”

“Right.” The boy patted his jacket pockets and found a folded piece of notepaper. He handed it over.

“Who sent this?” Hammersmith took the note and stood, angling the paper so it caught the dim gaslight from a globe above him.

“’Nother lady name of Day, sir.”

“Claire.” Hammersmith opened the note and dropped it. He bent and picked it up, wiped it on his trousers, and read it again.

“Sir? Is it good news?”

Hammersmith looked up at the boy, who was holding out his hand for a coin. He smiled. “It’s the best news,” Hammersmith said. “Walter’s
alive!”