The Yard (4 page)

“I am as surprised as you are, sir. If you’d prefer, of course, I’ll tender my resignation immediately.”

Sir Edward waved the suggestion away like a bad odor. “That’s not at all what I’m getting at, Mr Day.”

He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose with remarkable one-handed dexterity, tucked the cloth away, and pointed to an umbrella stand in the corner behind the door.

“The brown ivory one,” Sir Edward said. “See it there? Bring it to me, would you?”

The stand was crowded with umbrellas. Day ran his fingers across the bouquet of handles: smooth mahogany with mother-of-pearl inlays, burnished white ivory, brass and silver and semiprecious stones, tortoiseshell, carved animal heads, and scrollwork. One handle was less ornate than the others. It appeared to be of humble unworked wood, but the surface was smooth and buttery, unlike any wood that Day had seen. He assumed it to be brown ivory, and pulled it from the stand, handing it across the desk.

“Have you seen mammoth ivory before, Mr Day?”

“No, sir, I don’t believe I have.”

“It’s worth far less than the ivory we see from elephant tusks, but I place great value on it nonetheless. This was once the tusk of an animal that is long since extinct, an animal that thundered across the land in great herds, larger and heavier and more impressive than anything it encountered. And it’s now as if that animal had never existed, but for this bit of bone. Neither you nor I will ever see a mammoth, but here is the proof of its life, here in
this simple umbrella handle. An elephant tusk may be worth more on the open market, but I’ve seen elephants, Day, and to hold an elephant tusk in my hand no longer impresses me.”

“Were there many of them in India?”

“What, elephants? There were some, yes.”

“I’ve never seen one.”

Sir Edward nodded. “Thank you. Yes, it’s easy to forget sometimes just how extraordinary that continent is. I do miss the sun, Mr Day. Since I arrived here, the sky has been grey and my nose has become increasingly raw. I appear to have come down with something or other.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

Sir Edward dismissed the sentiment. “I shall improve. Nothing has killed me yet, and a bit of wet weather won’t do the job where bullets, blades, and a scorpion’s sting have failed.”

He smiled and held the furled umbrella up to the light.

“These things, these bones of something that will never be seen again, are dug up by the bushel every day in Siberia. I wonder how many are left under the ice there.”

“I wouldn’t imagine there’s a never-ending supply of them.”

“No, of course there isn’t. So why do we value the elephant ivory so much more?”

“Elephant ivory is a good deal whiter than mammoth ivory, isn’t it, sir?”

“Hmm. Yes, it is.”

He laid the umbrella on the desk between them and leaned forward.

“I value experience, Mr Day.”

“I understand, sir. Inspector March would naturally be of greater value to you than I am. And of greater value to the Yard.”

“You’re not following. Yes, of course Mr March would be of great value to me, but as I said, he’s picked you as his successor. His experience has told him something about you which I have not yet seen. But I must rely on Mr March’s instinct. On his experience. And that means that I must trust you to be up to this job.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You grasp what I’m trying to get at?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Good,” Sir Edward said. “Now, you’re at a decided disadvantage here today.”

“Sir, I hope to have more time to prove myself.”

“So you want to continue on this case?”

“This case?” Day had thought they were still talking in broader terms.

“Yes. This is perhaps more than you should have to shoulder so soon after arriving. The murder of one of your fellow detectives . . . I can assign someone else and there would be no shame in it for you. Blacker or Tiffany can do it. They knew Little better than you did.”

“Sir, with all due respect, and thank you for your generosity, but it could be that not knowing him might make it easier for me to investigate his death. I have no previous attachment to Mr Little.”

“You have the attachment of a fellow officer.”

“Of course, sir. I didn’t mean . . . What I mean to say, sir, is that it might be more difficult for one of the other men to deal with the hard facts of a friend’s murder. I would not be troubled in quite the same way.”

Sir Edward pursed his lips and stared at a corner of the office. Day watched him, growing more nervous by the second. Finally Sir Edward blinked and turned his gaze to Day.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Is there any indication yet, any evidence, pointing to a culprit?”

“Dr Kingsley found needles and thread at the scene, sir. Obviously, they were used to . . . well, to sew Little’s mouth shut. It might be worthwhile to track the manufacturer. And there’s the trunk itself. Kingsley has the body now, and the trunk as well. I’ll be paying him a visit later in the day. Meanwhile, Sergeant Kett and three of the other men are still questioning everyone who was on the platform when the trunk was found.”

“What about the porter who found it?”

“He’s being brought over.”

“Good. Let me know what resources you need. Anything at all. This
takes precedence over everything else you may have going. Every man here is to be considered at your disposal.”

“Sir, that may not sit well with everyone. I haven’t proven myself to be one of them yet.”

“I don’t care whether you’re one of them or you’re a Turkish pasha, they’ll jump when you say jump or they’ll answer to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One more thing…”

Sir Edward hesitated, and Day braced himself for the question he knew was coming, the question that had plagued his own thoughts since he’d stood looking down at Little’s mutilated body.

“Is it him?” Sir Edward said.

“Sir?”

Day knew who
him
was, but he didn’t want to be the one to say it out loud.

“Is it Jack? Is it the Ripper again?”

“No, sir. I don’t believe so. Whoever killed Little … Well, it doesn’t match anything we know about Jack or his methods.”

“Good.”

Sir Edward rummaged in a drawer behind his chunk of a desk.

“I nearly forgot. He left something behind for you. For me to pass on to you.”

“Inspector March did?”

Sir Edward nodded and pushed a small, flat black leather pouch across the desk. Day hesitated before picking up the pouch and unsnapping it. Tucked in against the threadbare velvet lining, a dozen long iron keys were held in place with fabric loops. A single smaller key sat loose on top of the others, clearly added as an afterthought.

“His skeleton keys,” Day said.

“He asked me to tell you that these are the most useful tools he could give to you. They served him well in the line of duty. I’m told he had quite a collection of keys.”

“What’s this smaller key? Is it different?”

“It is. One moment, please.”

Sir Edward turned his head and sneezed. He held up a finger for a moment, then turned back to look at Day.

“Excuse me. I thought I might sneeze twice.”

“God bless you.”

“Thank you. The smaller key is for a unique structure at the southeast corner of Trafalgar Square.”

“I can’t think of what you mean, sir.”

“You’re familiar with the Square?”

“I’ve been through it a time or two now.”

“It goes unnoticed by most who pass it, but there is a stone column there with a miniature door and window. It looks very much like a large lamppost, but there is enough room inside it to fit a man.”

“And to lock him in?”

Day held the small key up so that Sir Edward could see it.

“Yes,” Sir Edward said. “It is the smallest jail cell in the whole of England.”

“But of what possible use is it?”

“I don’t know that it’s ever been used, and Inspector March was apparently the only detective to hold a key to it. My guess is that the key served as a totem for him. He wanted you to have it. Perhaps as nothing more than a keepsake. Or perhaps he thought you might see the same symbolic importance in it that he did.”

“I’m honored.”

Sir Edward turned his head and sneezed again.

“There it was,” he said. “I knew there was another sneeze coming.”

He blew his nose into his handkerchief and wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“It will be my sad duty to visit Inspector Little’s widow this morning,” he said. “She will have questions, and I have no answers for her.”

Day was quiet.

“Go on, then,” Sir Edward said. “Get out there and bring me a murderer.”

“I will, sir.”

“Remember, detective work is as much about logical deduction as it is dogged footwork. Follow your train of thought and see where it takes you. And Day?”

“Sir?”

“If you don’t yet believe in yourself and your abilities, at least believe in Mr March’s opinion of you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Day fumbled with the knob before he managed to get the door open and slid out into the common room. It felt bright and airy compared to the close atmosphere in the commissioner’s heavy mahogany office.

As Day closed Sir Edward’s door behind him, he saw Sergeant Kett entering from the other side of the room, pushing a large man ahead of him. This would be the porter who’d found the trunk on the station platform.

“Got ’im here for you, Inspector,” Kett said.

“Good man, thank you.”

“What’s the fuss about?” Blacker said. He stood up from his desk.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Day said. “I’d appreciate it if you could gather Little’s things for me. I’ll want to sort them after I speak to this man here.”

Blacker squinted. He was shorter than Day, a wiry man with limp ginger hair and a mustache that curled over his upper lip into his mouth.

“What’s happened to Little?”

Day gestured for Kett to take the porter to his desk, and he moved his body so that he could talk in semi-privacy with Blacker.

“He’s been killed.”

“No.”

“I’m afraid so. There’s a strong possibility it had to do with one of his cases.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know. It could be any case, current or old.”

“Who’s working it? You?”

“I am.”

Day braced himself, waiting for an argument, but Blacker nodded.

“Whatever I can do to help, you let me know and I’m on it straightaway. I can’t say Little was my favorite, but he laughed at my jokes often enough.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

“Can’t have them killing us out there. Job’s hard enough as it is.”

Day watched Blacker walk to Little’s desk and open the top drawer; then he turned his attention to the porter and took a deep breath. It was going to be a long afternoon.

I
t was a beautiful afternoon.

The rain had swept out as suddenly as it had swept in, leaving fresh blue skies behind. The bald man had closed up shop for a bit, and now he sat on a bench and watched the children play. St James’s Park was crowded, children and their nannies strolling the paths that circled the canal. The bald man watched the little boy at the water’s edge. His pocket was full of biscuits, and a flock of honking ducks waddled after him. The boy ran this way and that, stopping when he ran out of breath, letting the ducks catch up while he giggled and hiccupped. He tossed a biscuit and the fat ducks ran after it, competing for the crunchy morsel, their bills clacking. Then it was gone and they were after him
again.

The bald man smiled. It was good to see the boy enjoying himself. He looked as he had the first time the man had seen him. So much more pleasant than the boy’s more recent tears and bargaining.

A breeze blew through the lime trees and the bald man tucked his hat down lower on his forehead. An unpleasant odor wafted over from the sheep enclosure, but even that was tolerable on such a fine day.

A carriage rolled down the path between the bald man and the boy he was
watching. One enormous wheel turned up a stone and chucked it into the bark of a tree behind the bench. The bald man looked with alarm at the fresh scar in the tree trunk. So close that the stone might have injured him. When the carriage had passed, the bald man glanced back at the canal and the boy was gone.

He stood, nearly frantic, and scanned the small clutches of Londoners enjoying the fine dry weather. There. The boy was at the far curve of the water’s edge, talking to a little girl. She was dressed in what looked like her Sunday finery, but the lace at the hem of her dress was worn, and the collar was too tight around her pretty throat.

The bald man strolled in their direction, trying to appear calm, forcing himself not to run. His beating heart drowned out the sound of the gravel crunching under his feet. He was still too far away to hear what the boy and the girl were talking about. What was the boy saying?

“Here now,” he said.

He was close enough that his voice carried to the children and the boy looked up at him, his eyes wide. The girl looked up too and followed the boy’s gaze to the imposing man as he finally drew near them.

“What are we on about, then?”

“Nothing, sir,” the boy said.

“He doesn’t know where he lives,” the girl said. “Are you his papa? You should teach him his street.”

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

“I know mine. Wanna hear it?”

The bald man imagined pushing the little girl into the canal and holding her under the water. He could clearly picture her struggling against him, her eyes magnified by the water as they dimmed.

His fingers tingled and his hands shook with the imagined thrill.

Killing the detective had been a necessary evil, not anything he would have considered doing before the accident. But now he thought of it often, relishing the details.

He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the thick needle as it pierced Inspector Little’s lips, the tip of it pressing the skin above the detective’s beard, then thrusting through, a dot of blood following the black thread back through the dead
man’s flesh. He pushed the thought away, took a deep shuddering breath, and glanced around at the clusters of women and children
around him.