The Harvest Man (24 page)

L
eland Carlyle had to eat his plate of eggs standing up against a wall in the kitchen. Afterward, he wandered into his rented parlor in a daze, the previous evening’s newspaper tucked under his arm. He preferred privacy in the morning, but so far had been unable to find a room that wasn’t already filled with people. He had opened his door for his daughter because he loved her, and for her babies because, well, they were babies and couldn’t fend for themselves. His son-in-law had come along with Claire and the twins, which was to be expected, but the Day family had also brought with them an entire collection of hangers-on who had been in and out of the place all night long and all morning: an earnest young girl, a former policeman who didn’t seem able to dress himself properly, those members of the new staff who hadn’t been shunted off to the local inn, a couple of little boys who were always in whatever chair Leland chose for himself.

He had given up trying to remember everyone’s names.

Fortunately, he had received good news from his solicitor. A house had just come open in Clapham. It was the right size and the price was acceptable. Leland was prepared to make an immediate offer. With any luck, he’d be able to pack Claire and her entire retinue off to a safe new home within the fortnight. Then he planned to sit wherever he liked and read the paper in relative peace.

Maybe Claire would even take Eleanor with her when she moved out. But that would be too much to hope for.

As expected, the two little boys were occupying the big armchair this morning. He hesitated in the doorway. He didn’t want to wake them up, but he didn’t know where else to go. There was no other room where someone wasn’t asleep. The boys’ dirty bare feet stuck out from beneath a throw: tiny pink toes, mud caked under their ankles. Leland was reminded of Claire as a child, always trekking in mud from the fields. He felt a swell of nostalgia for his daughter, for when she had belonged only to him, and he smiled. All she’d needed was the illusion of a simple life, the privilege of pleasant ignorance. She had been a happy child, strong and confident, and he was proud of the woman she had become. Even if he didn’t understand all the choices she had made.

The boys woke up then and they both looked at him. Leland grimaced at them and took a step backward.

“Hullo, Mr Day,” the smallest one said.

“Yes, hello,” Leland said. “You’re David, right? And Peter?”

“I’m Robert, sir,” the bigger one said. “And this is Simon.”

“Ah. Well, I’m Mr Carlyle. Not Mr Day.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Quite all right.” Though it was not, of course, all right. Leland did not want to be confused, even by children, with his son-in-law. He nodded at them and gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He didn’t remember why they were in his house, why Claire had taken them under her wing, but it seemed to him something awful had happened to them.

“Did you sleep well?”

The boys both nodded at him, but their eyes were ringed with deep purple bruises. It was clear to him that their sleep had been interrupted by nightmares and that they had been crying.

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Well, I’ll be off, then. I expect you’ll want something to eat. No hurry, though. Cook’s in the kitchen preparing breakfasts one at a time, as everybody wakes up. It’s an unusual morning.”

“Are you eating breakfast now, Mr Carlyle?”

“Me? No. No, I’m off to look at a house. Thought I’d relax for a minute first, but it’s clear that won’t happen. I’d better get this taken care of.”

“Do you fix houses?” This from the small one, Simon.

“Oh my, no. I’m going to invest in a house for my daughter.”
And,
he thought,
try to sell off the house at 184 Regent’s Park Road.
God willing, he might even turn a profit. Eventually.

“Mrs Day is going to move to the house you’re going to now?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Will we go with her?”

“Hush, Simon,” Robert said.

“Um,” Leland said. “I really don’t know.” He doubted it very much. As far as he could recollect, these boys were destined for the orphanage. But it wasn’t his place to break the news. Why ruin their morning before they’d even had their eggs and sausages?

“It will have to be a big house,” Simon said. “If we’re to go with her.”

“I’m sure the house will be big enough.”

“Have you seen it? Does it have a garden?”

“I haven’t seen it,” Leland said. “I’ve just been told about it.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Robert said. “It doesn’t matter if it has a garden or not. Be quiet now, Simon.”

Leland could see anger and shame in Robert’s eyes. The boy knew his fate, even if his brother did not. Leland looked away from the older boy’s steady gaze and he recalled once more his daughter at their age. These boys had lost every chance to enjoy that pleasant ignorance all children needed.

“I’m sure it does have a garden, Simon,” Leland said. “And it’s near quite a lot of wide-open spaces. It’s just the place for children to run and play, if my solicitor is to be believed.”

Robert threw the cover off them and scooted forward in the chair, stood up, and turned his back on Leland. Clearly, he felt Leland was teasing them. And Leland knew that he was, but he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t bring himself to shatter Simon’s daydreams. The boy needed something to cling to.

Leland spoke again without thinking and he immediately regretted it. “Would you like to come along and see the house?”

Robert turned around. A deep frown creased his face. “Why?”

“To see if you like it. I could use your advice.”

“Yes,” Simon said. “We’d very much like to see it, Mr Carlyle.”

Robert turned his frown on his brother, but didn’t hush him this time.

“Good,” Leland said. “Then it’s settled. Get yourselves dressed and go eat something.”

“You’ll wait for us?”

“I’ll wait thirty minutes. No more, no less, so don’t dawdle.”

“Yes, sir.” Simon jumped down off the chair and ran from the room. He smiled at Leland as he passed him in the doorway. Robert followed more slowly and did not even look at Leland. But the frown had begun to fade from his face, even if the deep furrows of worry were still etched across his forehead.

Leland went to the chair and sat. It was still warm. He opened his newspaper, but didn’t read. He couldn’t concentrate on the words. He had felt the need to be kind to those poor orphaned children and had given them a sense of hope, but he knew hope was a cruel gift. In the end, Robert and Simon no longer belonged anywhere with anyone and they were destined for many disappointments.

The eggs he had eaten no longer seemed to be agreeing with him.

C
onstable Bentley stood guard outside the house where the Harvest Man had killed John Charles Pitt. He nodded at Day as they approached, but ignored Hammersmith. A length of rope was strung from one side of the open garden gate to the other. A small hand-lettered sign hung from the center of the rope.

“Bentley,” Day said. “What’s this?”

“Tiffany put it there, sir. Something new. Keeps the riffraff out.”

“The riffraff?” Day bent and peered at the little sign. It read:
POLICE BISINES. KEP OUT.
“What kind of riffraff?”

“Keeps boot prints and the like from ruining things before the doctor can come have a look at the place.”

“Hasn’t Dr Kingsley been here yet?”

“Came and went. Had the body took out already, but said he had other business to take care of. He’ll be back, though. And when he does come back . . .” Bentley pointed at the sign. “Everything will be just like he left it.”

“Is anyone in there now? Did Tiffany beat us here?”

“He was here a few minutes ago. Showed me a drawing. Said it’s the Harvest Man hisself. But then he went off again to show the thing to everybody else so they can keep their eyes peeled. If the picture really does look like him.”

“We’ll find out if it does when we catch him.”

“Damn right,” Bentley said. “Anyway, this place is empty right now.”

“Which way did Tiffany go? We’d like to help with the hunt.”

“Not sure. Guessing he’s gonna want to check on the witness now she’s out of hospital?”

“Where is she?”

Bentley waved his hand in a loose circle. “Nearby somewheres. Can’t miss the place. There’s a scary sad face right on the front.”

“A face?”

“Sculpture, like,” Bentley said. “Art or something, I suppose.”

Day looked at Hammersmith and shrugged. Hammersmith shook his head.

“I think I’d like to have a look inside anyway,” Day said. “Only take a moment, but we’ll have to remove your rope to get in there.” He pointed at his leg, which made jumping over the rope or ducking under it impossible.

“’At’s all right,” Bentley said. “I’ll put it back up. You can go on in, Inspector. But you . . .” He pointed at Hammersmith. “You ain’t a sergeant no more. You ain’t nuthin’. You stay here with me while he goes in.”

“He’s with me,” Day said.

“Tiffany’s orders. You’d have to take it up with him. I just do as I’m told. And I’m told nobody gets in what doesn’t belong.”

Hammersmith put a hand on Day’s arm and shook his head. “I don’t need to see it,” he said. “And Bentley’s right, I’ve got no reason to be here anymore. You go ahead and I’ll wait.”

“I don’t guess I need to see it, either,” Day said. “There’s nobody in there to talk to. The only evidence right now is for Dr Kingsley to see, not me.”

“Might be something anyway.”

Day nodded, tired. It was easier to take a look at the place than discuss it any further. Bentley lifted the rope and Day limped up the garden path and into the house. It was dim inside and quiet. Day stepped carefully around a pattern of small red dots that led to the door from the hallway. Blood. There was some of it on the stairs as well, but Day didn’t particularly feel like dealing with steps. Instead he followed the trail to where it ended in a small congealing pool halfway down the hall. A curved knife lay against the skirting. There was a boot print at the edge of the puddle of blood, but judging by what Bentley had said, Day guessed it was the Harvest Man’s boot, not that of a policeman or witness. That rope at the garden gate was simplicity itself, and it might actually come in handy for weeding out the actual clues from the detritus of investigation.

A small brown ball rested in the corner between the floor and the wall. It was misshapen and surrounded by crumbs. Day squinted at it and got down on his knees to sniff it. It smelled sweet. If he had to guess, he’d say it was a gob of chewed-up chocolate biscuit. He pulled himself up to his feet again, leaning on his new cane, and made his way along the back half of the passage to the kitchen. Sure enough, there was a tray half full of biscuits in the center of the table. There were two place settings and two of the chairs had been moved. One was on its back wedged against a cabinet behind it, the other had been pulled out into the room. Day could see traces of blood in the seat of the second chair. The plate that appeared to have corresponded to that chair held a single uneaten biscuit. The plate across from it was empty except for a ring of crumbs on and around it. Dried chunks of mud littered the floor under the table on that side. A plague mask rested against the leg of the table, propped up on its long beak, its leather straps hanging loose.

Day wondered what Tiffany had made of the scene. He guessed the Harvest Man had been sitting eating biscuits. This was apparently the creature’s custom, killing a married couple, then living with their corpses for a day or two, eating with them before moving on. Day imagined the parody of family life being lived out in those sad empty houses and he shuddered. So the killer had sat across from his victim, but then had stood up in a hurry. It was possible the person across from him at the table had still been alive, had tried to escape, and the Harvest Man had reacted quickly. But that didn’t quite fit what they knew about his methods. Inspector Tiffany had a witness somewhere, so it was most likely that person had stumbled across the scene in the kitchen and had run off. The Harvest Man had stood up in a hurry, knocking over his chair. Day looked at the upended chair, then turned and peered down the long hallway, at the wad of chewed-up biscuit and the blood trail. Whoever the witness was, she was lucky to be alive.

The victim had been carted off to Kingsley’s laboratory, but Day doubted the doctor would discover anything they didn’t already know. He contemplated the long climb to the attic, but dismissed the thought immediately. Any evidence up there would have been discovered by Tiffany and his men, and Day’s leg had had enough already.

He bent and picked up the plague mask. Was there another reason the Harvest Man wore it, something beyond protecting himself from ether fumes? Day put the mask up to his face and snorted, pulled it back away. An assertive stench of old sweat and body odor had permeated the leather and become part of the thing. Day shook his head and blew air out through his nose, then took a deep breath through his mouth and held it. He put the mask on again and looked around the kitchen through the scratched and dirty lenses. Everything was overlaid with a brownish tint when viewed through the goggles: the sepia tones of a photograph. Day was reminded of the pictures of dead relatives that some families kept on their mantels. This was how the Harvest Man saw the world around him. Dead relatives, dead couples. Dead mothers and fathers across the kitchen table. Sad family meals and silent brown acceptance.

He pulled the mask off and breathed heavily, took out his flask, and poured brandy into his open mouth, let it dribble off his chin and splash on the floor, let the scent of it waft up his nostrils.

He put the flask away and limped back down the passage—deep in thought but still careful to avoid the blood trail—and out of the house to where Hammersmith waited.

“He won’t have gone far,” Day said when the rope at the garden gate had been lifted and replaced. “He’s left his mask.”

“Will he come back for it?”

“I don’t think so, Nevil. But I do think this whole thing is about masks. It’s about changing identity. Cutting these people up the way he does, he’s putting masks on them. Or maybe taking them off. I don’t know which. But I think he only feels he’s himself when he’s wearing a mask. So he can pass for a human being on the street, but I don’t think he’ll kill again unless he finds something else to put over his face, to hide himself from the people he’s hurting and killing.”

“Right, he disguises himself so he can sneak up on people,” Hammersmith said.

“More to it than that, I think. He doesn’t need to sneak up on anyone. He’s already waiting until they’re asleep. No, he wants to reveal himself, but he’s afraid. Or he’s waiting to do it. Whatever he needs from his victims, he’s been frustrated every time so far. He doesn’t want them to see his features until he’s ready. He took off the mask in here, but he had it nearby. I think he was just eating at the table, not trying to play out the final act of whatever drama he thinks he’s a part of.”

“Why do these people, these murderers, have to be so complicated? I long for the days when women killed their husbands for stepping out on them, and brothers killed each other for a little extra pocket money. Those are crimes I can at least understand.”

“There are still plenty of those, but they don’t need us for them. Even Bentley could solve a murder like that.”

“Hey!”

“My apologies, Constable Bentley,” Day said. “I thought you were out of earshot.”

“I heard my name. Don’t guess you had something nice to say.”

“I was only telling Mr Hammersmith that you’re very good at the basics of your job.”

“Very well, then,” Bentley said. He went back to leaning against the gate and regarding his fingernails, which were apparently long enough for him to bite off.

Hammersmith chuckled. “So where would our nutter get a new mask?”

“Any shops that might sell them would be located many streets over, too far for a fugitive to safely travel. So he would look for a mask inside a house. But who would own a mask and have it near to hand?” When the answer came to Day, he reacted physically, as if he’d been struck by an electric current. “Tableau vivant!”

“Playacting?”

“Of course,” Day said. “If this is a typical neighborhood, there may be one house that acts as the center for the evenings’ entertainment. The people there would have costumes and some sort of crude stage, perhaps. And they would have masks.”

“Then to find him, we only have to find that house,” Hammersmith said. “If we wait there, he’ll come to us. Let’s have another look at him.”

Day found the drawing Fiona had made for them. He held it out so that both of them could examine it.

“He’s a queer one,” Hammersmith said. “Ought to be easy to spot.”

“He’s not gone far yet. He may be watching us right now.”

Alarmed, Hammersmith looked all around, at the shrubbery and the fences, the sun-dappled corners of the gardens that surrounded them. “If so, he could be anywhere.”

Day looked up at the attic window. He imagined a sad little boy with a long beak gazing back at him through the faraway glass. Something nagged at him, soft lips brushing against his memory.

A black dot separated itself from the sky above the house and grew larger, came into focus. A bird swooped down and flew at Day. He started to duck, but the bird curved around behind him and landed on his shoulder, its claws digging into him through the fabric of his jacket.

“Oliver?”

“That is Oliver,” Hammersmith said. “What’s he doing here?”

The duotone bird swiveled its head, looking back and forth between Day and Hammersmith. It flapped its wings and dug its talons deeper into Day’s flesh and squawked at Hammersmith, lowering its head and thrusting out its beak as if the former sergeant were prey.

“He’s upset,” Day said. “Something’s got him agitated.”

“He’s a mess,” Hammersmith said. “Look how ruffled he is.”

“Perhaps he’s lost.”

“Or Henry’s nearby.”

“Where’s Henry, Oliver?”

The bird screeched and flapped upward, then settled back down. Day noticed that Oliver’s talons had torn two small holes in his jacket. Claire was going to be unhappy with him when he got home.

“Is Henry in trouble?”

The bird shook itself. It sat for a moment, preening its feathers, then it beat its wings and took off. It flew back over the murder house, looped once around, and was gone.

“Crazy bird,” Constable Bentley said.

“Something’s wrong,” Day said. “I’m worried for Henry.”

“What do you want to do?”

“We can’t abandon the search for the Harvest Man right now.” Day was certain he’d been on the verge of an idea before Oliver had interrupted his train of thought. “We’ll have to trust that Henry can take care of himself for a bit longer.”

“We don’t even know that he’s in any trouble,” Hammersmith said. “He’s a big man. It’s hard to imagine anyone hurting him.”

“Yes, but he’s like a child, really.” Day steeled himself and nodded. “Still, you’re right. I’m sure he must be all right, probably out looking for his bird right now. But let’s find the Harvest Man quickly.”

“You say that like it’s an easy thing. Everyone’s been looking for him for weeks now with no luck.”

“But we haven’t looked yet,” Day said. “Our attention’s been divided, hasn’t it?”

“A bit, yes.”

“Well, now that Day and Hammersmith are on the job, the Harvest Man hasn’t a chance.”

He smiled at his former sergeant, but his thoughts were still on the agitated magpie. What had happened? The sky was clear now, no sign of Oliver. He shook his head and did his best to put it out of his mind. After all, it was only a bird and Day was not a superstitious man. He gave Bentley a cursory wave of his hand and hobbled down the street after Hammersmith.