The Yard (25 page)

“No, Mr Hammersmith, thank you.”

She lowered her eyes and walked slowly out of the room. Hammersmith pulled out a chair and sat and watched her go. He was not a patient man, but he was resolute.

T
he corpse on the table grinned at the ceiling. His expression changed to a grimace, then a smile, then a grimace again as Kingsley manipulated his features. The incision under the corpse’s chin ran from ear to ear, and Kingsley worked his hands up under the skin and along the skull, loosening connective tissue as he went. The corpse had once been named Thomas, and Kingsley spoke to him quietly as he worked, as if reassuring a nervous patient.

“There we go now, nothing to it, old boy.”

But he didn’t look at Thomas’s eyes.

He kept Fiona out of the room for this stage of the autopsy, and for this stage of every autopsy he performed. Although she seemed to handle everything with the same quiet concentration, the dead were so very vulnerable, and Kingsley felt they deserved privacy and respect. In this room they were as naked as anyone would ever be.

Thomas’s jawbone was now fully visible, streaked pink with blood.

Kingsley pushed his fingers farther up, tearing thin dense layers of muscle away from Thomas’s cheekbones. A little pressure from beneath and the top of Thomas’s nose broke, the narrow peninsula of cartilage snapping away from the skull, an arrowhead cavern exposed in the middle of the corpse’s face.

“I’m sorry about this, Thomas,” he said.

His voice was barely audible, trace echoes beating back at him from the close walls of the laboratory.

Thomas’s ears shifted and the flesh tore loose around his eye sockets. Kingsley removed his hands from under the corpse’s face and grasped the ragged whiskered skin that had once sagged under Thomas’s jaw but was now stretched across the middle of his head. He flipped the skin over onto itself and pulled toward the top of the corpse’s skull, and Thomas’s face
turned inside out. Now it lay like a hood at the back of the corpse’s head, its expression hidden from view.

Someday, Kingsley knew, it would be him on the table, maybe this same table. He hoped he would be treated with respect.

Kingsley picked up a small straight saw from the table beside him and scored a careful circle around the top of the corpse’s skull. He sawed back and forth, around and around. He set the saw down and fitted a chisel into the shallow ridge he had made above Thomas’s brow. He held the chisel steady and struck it hard with a hammer. He moved the chisel and tapped it again. And again. All round the top of the skull he went, deepening the groove left by the saw.

Sweat dripped from the end of Kingsley’s nose onto Thomas’s naked skull. He wiped it off with his sleeve.

Kingsley had always imagined that his own death would come as an embarrassment, a sudden interruption as he went about some other task. He would have no opportunity to make plans, or to make his peace, would not suffer the long wasting disease that had taken his wife. The dark angel would come upon him without warning and he would feel an instant of shame, a loss of control. It was that loss and no other that he feared.

He assumed that Fiona would be the one to find his body. He had spent years acclimatizing her to the many forms of death so that she would not suffer the loss of him as she had her mother. By then, if there was any mercy, he would be just another corpse in her eyes.

One final whack with the hammer. He held the cap in place and tapped it, gently now, again, again a little harder. Finally it came free and he eased the bone off, exposing Thomas’s brain. Fluid ran off the end of the table and spattered Kingsley’s shoes.

“Doctor?”

Kingsley turned to see a one-armed man approaching him. He recognized Colonel Sir Edward Bradford, commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

“Sir Edward, my nurse didn’t tell me—”

“Your daughter let me in, sir. She assured me it would be all right.”

Sir Edward caught sight of the body and blanched. Kingsley grimaced and moved himself between the commissioner and the corpse. He stamped the liquid off his shoes and held out his hand. Sir Edward looked at it.

“Generally,” Sir Edward said, “I try to be carrying something so that I can gracefully avoid this very situation. I hope you understand, but I couldn’t possibly shake your hand.”

Kingsley looked down at his hands. They were covered in gore. He nodded and crossed the room, dipped his hands in a basin of reasonably clean water and rubbed as much of Thomas off them as he could.

“Terribly sorry, Sir Edward. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Of course not. I apologize for intruding. I’ve meant to visit your morgue, but I’m afraid I haven’t had the opportunity.”

“Shall I show you round?”

“Your daughter, what was her name?”

“Fiona, sir.”

“Yes, Fiona was kind enough to show me much of the facility. I take it this room is where the most … in-depth work takes place.”

“You might say that. This is where our victims give up their secrets to me.”

“Our victims?”

“We’re still alive, after all, and they are not.”

“And we must claim some responsibility for that, I suppose?”

“If we choose.”

“How poetic, Doctor.”

“It’s often a lonely occupation and my mind travels to strange places.”

Sir Edward nodded and glanced around the room, taking in the long tables and the instruments and the drain hole in the center of the floor.

“You’ve been helping the police with these matters for how long now?” he said.

“Nearly two years, sir.”

“Commissioner Warren appointed you?”

“No, sir, I took this work upon myself.”

“You’re a busy man, Doctor. I’ve seen your laboratory and the classrooms. Why would you choose more work for yourself?”

“I would rather not speak ill of anyone.”

“Ah, you leave that to me, then. Am I to assume that the previous facility was not up to your high standards?”

“One might say that.”

“And so you simply stepped in, took over, and nobody challenged you?”

“Until this moment.”

“This is no challenge, Doctor. I’m here about a different matter. You have never drawn a salary from the Metropolitan Police. I checked.”

“You seem to be well informed.”

“I am endeavoring to manage a great many things that have gone untended. A great many things that escaped the notice of my predecessors.”

“I’m sure they were busy men.”

“I’ve no doubt. Did you know that one of my detectives left the Yard before I arrived in London? He has disappeared somewhere in the Midlands, and there was no notice taken at all.”

“He’s disappeared?”

“I’m being dramatic. He apparently retired. My men have continued the farce that Inspector Gilchrist is still on the job. It’s humorous, I suppose.”

“A joke?”

“In its way.”

“You’ve let them continue with it?”

“There’s no harm in it. Perhaps it boosts the men’s morale. I don’t know.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to replace the man and ease their workloads?”

“Of course. And I will, but I’ll do it without exposing their prank.”

“I see.”

“My point, Doctor, is that I intend to do things differently than they have been done before, and that includes the Yard’s relationship with you, sir. It’s one thing to take this extra work on yourself, but why not receive payment for it?”

“I don’t need the additional income, and I thought it might be put to better use. Perhaps helping to prevent this sort of thing in the first place.” He gestured at Thomas.

Sir Edward glanced at the cavity where the top of Thomas’s head had been.

“What happened to him?”

“He was mugged.”

“Is it necessary to do…” Sir Edward waved his hand, taking in the body, the tray of instruments, and the exposed brain, mottled and shiny under the lights. “To do all of this? If we already know that he was mugged, I mean.”

“There’s still more that he might tell us. His brain has swollen with the impact of some blunt tool, but the question is, where on the brain did the swelling take place in relation to the site of impact? Had he been hit at a different point on his skull, might he have survived? Thomas is teaching me things.”

“Is he a good teacher?”

“I find that if you’re a good student, the teacher hardly matters.”

“Very good. I’ll leave it to you, then.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Sir Edward smiled and turned to leave. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned back.

“These things you learn, they’re for the benefit of the police force, are they not?”

“Of course. For the benefit of us all, but primarily for gathering evidence.”

“You shall draw a salary from this day forward. I’ll have a check sent round.”

“That’s not necessary, sir.”

“Doctor, I can’t have you gallivanting about a crime scene and engaging in police business if you are not a proper member of the Yard. And the Yard does not pay its people well, but we do pay them.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“No, Dr Kingsley, thank you. And in the future I would greatly appreciate it if you shared the things you learn here with me.”

“You have but to ask.”

“And now I have asked. I’ll let you get back to it, but I hope to see you again soon. Thank you for your time, Doctor. And for everything else.”

With that, Sir Edward stepped through the door and pulled it shut behind him.

Kingsley drew in a deep breath and blew it slowly back out. For two years he had dreaded such a visit, and now that it had finally occurred he felt relieved and even excited. He ran his hands through his wild thatch of grey hair and belatedly wondered whether he had got all of Thomas’s cranial fluid off his fingers. He made a mental note to wash his hair, then promptly forgot when he returned to work on Thomas’s corpse.

With long-handled scissors, bent near the tip, he reached in past the brain and snipped blindly but expertly, and the brain slid into his hand and he drew it out. He held it up like a newborn for Thomas to see, the corpse’s eyes still set in the grinning skull.

The brain went into a small basin, a damp cloth to cover it. Kingsley filled Thomas’s empty brainpan with cotton and set the skullcap back in place with a bead of thick glue. He maneuvered the corpse’s skin back up over the top of the head and down. It was a tight fit. He smoothed it over the skull, popping the teardrop of cartilage back in place over the nose. He stitched the skin shut at Thomas’s throat using one of the upholsterer’s thick curved needles and made a mental note to order more of the needles for the lab. They were ideally suited for this type of work. When the flesh was joined again, he moved his expert fingers over the corpse’s face, pushing here, pressing there, realigning the features so that the dead man looked like himself once more.

“See there,” he said. “Good as new. No one need ever know you haven’t a brain in your head.”

He smiled.

The door of the laboratory opened again, barely a crack, and Fiona’s soft voice floated in.

“Tea’s ready, Father.”

“I’ll be there directly.”

The door closed again with a sigh and a click.

Kingsley rinsed his bloody hands in a bowl of water, wiped them on a clean towel, and left the room. Before he closed the door, he looked back at the dead man. Kingsley followed Thomas’s empty gaze to the laboratory’s ceiling.

“I hope it’s all worth it,” he said.

He closed the door, leaving Thomas to sort it out for himself.

M
r Pringle was smaller than Inspector Little had been, and he fit more naturally inside a steamer trunk. Cinderhouse, the bald man, had only two trunks left in his possession, and one of them was a hat trunk, cube-shaped and half the size of his only remaining steamer. Pringle wasn’t
that
small
.

Cinderhouse locked the shop door and took Fenn home. He bolted the boy in a downstairs closet with a sandwich and a jug of water and then returned to the shop. He took a hatchet with him.

Pringle’s arms were separated from his torso. This was easily accomplished, but there was a suspenseful moment when Cinderhouse’s foot slipped from where it anchored Pringle’s weight and the body rolled to one side. The bald man almost lost a toe.

But without arms, Pringle was easier to pick up and maneuver into the trunk. Inspector Little had been a nightmare. The tailor liked to think that he learned from his mistakes. He had given more thought to the disposal of this second body.

Pringle’s legs were folded up against his body and tied there with a length of stout twine. The arms were thrown in on top of the rest of the mess and the trunk closed over it all, removing it from sight and memory.

Cinderhouse wrapped the bloody shears in a length of black crepe and put them
in his pocket. He would dispose of them later, anywhere so long as they were far away from the scene of the crime.

He mopped the floor and scrubbed it with an ammonia solution until it glowed.

The coachman was summoned, and for a shilling, he helped Cinderhouse lift Pringle’s trunk up into the hansom. The tailor climbed onto the board next to the coachman and with a snap of the whip and a “Haw!” the three of them set out toward the train station.

I
hope you don’t mind my saying so … Your shirt is ridiculous.”

Hammersmith took the cup from Penelope Shaw and smiled. “It’s not mine.”

“Of course it isn’t yours. It doesn’t fit you.”

“A friend was kind enough to lend me his shirt. Mine was ruined.”

“How was it ruined?”

“I spilled something on it.”

“Spilled something?”

“Blood.”

“Oh, my.”

Penelope took a step back and reached for the wall behind her. Hammersmith rose from the chair and reached out toward her, but she waved him away.

“You didn’t say what happened to you. You killed someone, did you?”

“It was my own blood. I apologize for troubling you.”

“You haven’t troubled me in the least. I lost my balance for a bare instant, that’s all.”