The Yard (43 page)

Inspector Day locked eyes with Constable Hammersmith, who nodded back at him. Hammersmith stood and motioned for Blacker to follow. Blacker raised an eyebrow but allowed himself to be led to the far end of the Murder Squad room.

Day cleared his throat. “As I said, I meant no disrespect toward your brother.”

Mayhew folded a clump of dried blood into the handkerchief and slipped the cloth back into his pocket. He wiped his face with a filthy paw and sighed.

“I know he’s a strange one, sir. But he’s a good kid. I been lookin’ after ’im
a long time now, since our mama died on us, and I’m here to tell ya he’s got a sweet heart, a big heart, goes along with that big body a his.”

“I will admit to being fond of him. Despite his best efforts to alienate me and everyone else.”

“He don’t mean to do that. He loves people. Wants to make ’em happy. Just don’t like to be touched or pushed around none.”

“He’s made that clear on at least one occasion.”

“Sure he has.”

“Frank, I’m afraid I don’t know why you’re here. Your brother has been taken to the workhouse, where qualified people will care for him and help him reenter society as a productive citizen. It’s entirely out of my hands.”

Mayhew leveled his gaze at Day, and for a moment, his eyes cleared. Behind the blood and tears, there was the angry twinkle of wit.

“You believe a word yer sayin’?”

“About the workhouse?”

“Aye. ’Bout that.”

Day hesitated, then shook his head. “No. No, of course I don’t.”

“Then let’s you an’ me be honest, each with t’other. Henry stays in that workhouse, he ain’t comin’ back out alive. They treat ’em rough in there, and he ain’t equipped noways to deal with those folk. Nor with the work they’d be puttin’ him to.”

“I don’t disagree with you, but as I said, it’s out of my hands. I have no jurisdiction over the workhouse. Whatever meager authority I have is strictly tied to the investigation of crime and not at all to the welfare of … well, not to social inequities, at any rate.”

“That don’t mean nothin’ to me. A policeman goes in there and takes him out, nobody’s gonna stop ’im. ’Specially a policeman’s got no uniform, in a posh suit like you got.”

“There’s nothing posh about—”

“I’m sayin’ you could help Henry if you put your mind to doin’ it.”

“But why?” Day was impatient now. He sat on the edge of his desk and leaned forward, breathing through his mouth. Frank Mayhew smelled like death. “Why should I do that, Mr Mayhew? Your brother…”

He broke off, unsure of how to point out the obvious without insulting the dancing man’s brother. Frank looked away, at the piles of paperwork on Day’s desk, all the unsolved cases.

“I know it. I understand about my brother. I know he don’t contribute much of nothin’ and he don’t know how to relate to folk and he don’t make much sense when he do try to relate. But that don’t make him a bad person. He deserves better’n he’s got.”

“So many people deserve better, Mr Mayhew,” Day said. He spoke quietly. “This city is full to the brim with people who deserve better.”

Day held the other man’s stare until the spark went out of Mayhew’s eyes, leaving them once again watery and grey. Mayhew closed them and hung his head.

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Mr Mayhew. Truly I am.”

“It was a rubbish idea anyhow. Police don’t do nothin’ for nobody ain’t got two to rub together.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Ain’t fair, but ’tis true. I’ll clear outten your way now.”

Mayhew coughed as he rose. He turned, stumbled, and then fell, toppling over the chair, but keeping his feet. He tripped forward again, trying to catch his balance, dragging the chair under him as it banged back into him. His gaunt body finally crumpled and he lay still beside Inspector Tiffany’s desk.

Tiffany stood and grabbed Mayhew around the waist. He yanked him to his feet.

“Suspect or witness?” Tiffany said.

“Neither,” Day said. “A concerned citizen.”

Tiffany’s expression softened and he set Mayhew on his feet. Mayhew staggered, but stayed upright.

“Are you all right?” Day said.

Mayhew held up his hands, palms out, and nodded. “Be right as rain. Need a moment’s all.”

He coughed again. And again. And then his body shook with convulsions
as he barked and hacked, pitching forward and rocking back. Tiffany jumped out of the way as a thick clot of gore spewed from Frank Mayhew’s mouth. Blood, black as tar, spattered the floor. Hammersmith and Blacker rushed from the other side of the room, but Tiffany held them back, giving Mayhew room. Constables and sergeants queued up on the other side of the rail and watched Mayhew work, coughing his life up and out.

Finally Frank Mayhew straightened. He stood quietly with his back to the detectives and took the handkerchief from his pocket again. He wiped his lips.

“You have consumption,” Day said.

“I do.”

“You’re dying.”

“Not too long now.”

“Let me take you to hospital.”

“So I can die there?”

“They can make you comfortable.”

“You know better’n ’at.”

Mayhew turned to face him. The front of his shirt glistened, and Day realized that what he had taken for dirt was actually layer upon layer of dried blood.

“What you said. There’s too many deservin’ of help in this city? That’s true enough. But you could maybe help just one of them that’s deservin’ and that’s somethin’ and that’s true enough, too.”

Day was quiet.

“I can’t look after my brother no more. And I know you can’t, neither. But you can maybe get ’im outta that place and give ’im a fightin’ chance on the street where he can breathe some air and do a dance again. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little dancin’, Mr Police, sir.”

Mayhew nodded at him, sniffed, and turned. He walked away through the gate, and the uniformed men on the other side of the railing moved to let him pass. Mayhew disappeared down the back hallway. He would, Day knew, be swallowed up by the city and he would die in an alley or under a building somewhere within the week.

“Well, this is quite a mess,” Tiffany said.

“It is.”

“We’ll get someone to clean it.”

“Thank you.”

“Day?”

“Yes?”

“If you try to handle more than you can, you’ll drive yourself mad. My advice to you is to concentrate on the job. Anything else will only get in the way of that.”

Day nodded, but said nothing. After a moment, Tiffany clapped him on the shoulder and went to open the gate for a boy who was lugging a bucket of suds and a mop. Day stepped back and let the boy get to work scrubbing the floor.

“What now, old man?” Blacker said.

“I believe I’ll let you and Mr Hammersmith handle the interview with Penelope Shaw by yourselves, if you don’t mind.”

“What Tiffany said just now—”

“No. He’s right, of course, but that’s not the way I’m made.”

“So you’re headed round the workhouse, then?”

“Of course I am. I’ll check in on the tailor first. It’s on the way.”

“Sir Edward wants us to stay together.”

“This isn’t precisely in the line of duty. We can’t lose valuable time on the case while I run a fool’s errand. I’ll catch up to you at the Shaw house as soon as I’m able.”

“With any luck we’ll see you there soon.”

O
ur Mr Day has taken the last wagon.”

“Considerate of him.”

“Fancy a walk?”

“That’s a long walk.”

“Aye.” Inspector Blacker sighed and looked at the sky. “More rain today, I think.”

“Even better news.”

“Aye.”

“I’ve forgotten my hat,” Hammersmith said. “Wait for me?”

“Of course.”

Blacker watched Hammersmith duck past a pair of bobbies and disappear through the back door of 4 Whitehall Place. When Blacker turned around, a black hansom was pulling up to the curb.

“Well, that’s a stroke of luck,” Blacker said.

The two bobbies looked at him expectantly and he waved them on.

“Talking to myself,” he said. “It’ll be the nuthouse for me next.”

They smiled and nodded and moved down the sidewalk as the hansom’s coachman alighted and reached into the cab for something. He emerged with a short stack of books and approached Blacker.

“Pardon me, sir,” the coachman said. “I’m to deliver these to an Inspector Day.”

“I’m afraid you’ve just missed him,” Blacker said. “What have you got?”

“Catalogues from Mr Cinderhouse.”

“The man’s name pops up at every turn. Tell you what: Take those in to Sergeant Kett. He’ll be right inside there. Tell him that Inspector Day needs them left on his desk and he’ll take care of you.”

“I’ll need a receipt of some sort.”

“Kett’s your man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I say, when you’ve done with that, I don’t suppose you’re up for giving me a ride?”

“A ride, sir?”

“It’s a short distance. Can your employer spare you the few minutes?”

“I’m sure he’d be happy if I was of service to you.”

“Excellent. Hurry yourself, then. Remember, Sergeant Kett’s the fellow you’re looking for.”

The coachman tipped his hat and carried the stack of catalogues into the Yard, passing Hammersmith, who emerged from number four with his hat in his hands. Hammersmith scowled at the sky. Heavy clouds were rolling in, the color and texture of boiled spinach.

“I’m too tired to be wet today,” he said.

“There’s good news in that department, old man. I’ve arranged a ride for us in this shiny beast of a cab.”

“That
is
good news. I don’t believe I’d have made it halfway there on foot.”

“Then hop in and we’ll be talking to this Shaw woman in mere moments.”

Hammersmith climbed into the cab and shut the door behind him. Blacker stood on the curb until the coachman came back out.

“Did the sergeant fix you up, then?”

“He did. Thank you, sir.”

“Then we’re off.”

“My pleasure. Where to, sir?”

“Here.”

Blacker wrote the address in pencil on the back of a calling card. He handed it to the coachman, who squinted at it.

“It’s not far,” Blacker said.

“Not at all. No trouble, sir.”

“Good man.”

Blacker clapped the coachman on the shoulder and clambered into
the cab. He felt the hansom shift as the coachman settled into position above. There was the sound of reins snapping and the cab lurched into motion.

Blacker looked over at Hammersmith. The constable had pulled his hat down over his eyes and was snoring softly. Blacker smiled and pulled the curtains closed over the windows. In the darkness he leaned his shoulder against the wall of the cab and shut his eyes. Within moments, the gentle rocking of the hansom had lulled him to sleep as well.

S
ergeant Kett was so buried in his paperwork that he didn’t notice when the postman rapped twice on the doorjamb. The mail sat in its box for more than an hour before Kett’s internal clock reminded him that the post was overdue.

He fetched the mail to his desk and looked through it, quickly sorting it into piles for the runners to deliver about the building. He always looked through the messages to the Murder Squad room himself, though, to be sure there wasn’t anything that might disturb his detectives. The Ripper fiasco had led to a fair amount of hate mail and even, once, a letter bomb.

There was an envelope addressed to Inspector Day. No return address. Kett slit it open. Inside was a lady’s handkerchief and a note. The handkerchief had the initials
CC
embroidered on one corner. Kett opened the note. It said:

Inspektor Day, you no who this belongs to & I can get at her agin. Stop what your duing and declare it insolvible or the wurst will hapinn.

The note wasn’t signed.

Kett read it again. It was nonsense, clearly meant as a threat, but so vague as to be pointless. Just one more crazy Londoner.

He tossed the envelope, note, and handkerchief in the rubbish can next to his desk. His duty was to serve and protect the detectives who in turn served and protected the great city. Inspector Day didn’t need to be heckled by anonymous citizens.

Kett bundled up the remainder of the mail for the runners and returned to his paperwork.

I
t had been a long morning and he had barely slept the night before, but there was work to be done, and so he locked up the house and took the boy to the shop with him.

He had just entered the shop when he heard a carriage roll slowly down the street and stop outside the door. But he wasn’t expecting clients today. He pointed at the boy and Fenn nodded. Fenn moved to the back wall of the shop and stood still, waiting. Cinderhouse watched him with pride. The boy was learning.

Cinderhouse quietly turned the bolt on the front door, easing it into its casing in the jamb, and watched through the smeary picture window as Inspector Day alighted from the carriage and approached the shop. Cinderhouse noticed an oily handprint on the glass, no doubt left there by Constable Pringle the previous day. He cursed under his breath and pulled back into the shadows.

What was the detective doing here now? Had he already received the note? How could he know who sent it? Unless he’d talked to his wife. She was entirely too smart for her own good. Or maybe there was a question about the shears. Maybe they had somehow been traced back to Cinderhouse. Had his driver talked? Why would the coachman betray him? More money?

There were too many questions.

He could slip the bolt, open the door, and welcome the detective, show him in, maybe even serve tea. If luck was with him, he might learn more from Day than the detective learned from him. But Fenn was here and the situation would be tense. Suppose the boy spoke up?

Day tried the front door, and when it didn’t open for him, he peered in through the window, past Pringle’s handprint, shading the glass with his own hands. Cinderhouse froze in the shadows. From the corner of his eye he watched Fenn. If the boy moved or called out now, Cinderhouse would have to take drastic action again. He wasn’t sure he could overpower the policeman, but he could move fast enough to reach Fenn and make sure that his son wasn’t taken from him. If he couldn’t keep the boy, he would make sure that nobody else would,
either.