The Yard (47 page)

Crouching, he crept toward where he’d heard the cat land. He kept his hands out in front of him, moving them slowly back and forth, sliding his feet forward an inch at a time so that he wouldn’t trip over anything. He concentrated on breathing, quietly, deliberately. He was a shadow among shadows.

After what seemed an eternity his hand brushed against something solid, and he pulled back just in time. He heard a person turn and felt a breeze beside him as something whistled by, missing him by a fraction of an inch.

He struck out and hit nothing but air. Off balance, he stumbled forward and caught himself before he fell. He grunted as his knee came down hard on the packed dirt.

Immediately he felt the breeze again. It was followed by a burning sensation in his forearm. Something warm and wet ran down his arm. He was cut.

He rolled to the side and stayed low, crawling as quietly as he could around and back to where he’d been. He swept the area near him with one foot, keeping his center of balance low and stable. Nothing. He moved to his right and tried again. This time his foot hit something solid. There was a cry and someone hit the ground hard.

Hammersmith was on the other man immediately. Here was a torso, and Hammersmith quickly found the man’s arms, pinning them to the ground with one forearm before the knife could cut him again. The man grunted and tried to roll away. Hammersmith jabbed down as hard as he could with his free elbow and felt ribs give way beneath him. The other man cried out, and Hammersmith aimed his fist at the sound, hitting something solid enough to be a skull. There was another grunt.

From his semi-sitting position, Hammersmith sprang up and came back down on the man’s body. He heard a crack and a cry of pain and lashed out at the man’s head again. This time, he felt his own knuckle break, but the other man’s skull snapped back and he went silent.

Hammersmith found the man’s throat and felt for a pulse. It was strong. He sat back against the stone wall and caught his breath. He kept his good hand on the unconscious man to make sure he didn’t move. His other hand felt like it was on fire and his arm throbbed, but he was alive, and when he checked his wound he found that it had already stopped bleeding.

“Is someone there?” he said. “I know there’s someone else down here.”

He waited, but there was only silence. When his own breathing had calmed, he listened and heard someone else’s breath there in the cave.

“I can hear you,” Hammersmith said. “The man with the knife is unconscious. He can’t hurt anybody. You’re safe now.”

“I’ll be good,” came a small voice from the other side of the cellar. It sounded like a young boy. “Don’t hurt me.”

“I won’t hurt you. I promise. I’m a policeman and I’m here to help you. What’s your name?”

“Fennimore.”

“Fennimore, do you know the name of the man with the knife?”

“No.”

“Was he threatening you?”

“I won’t run anymore. You can tell him.”

“He can’t hear us. He’s asleep.”

“Not him. Tell the other one, the bald man. Tell him he can be my father forever if he wants.”

“Fennimore, were you being kept down here?”

“No. I ran down here and now I’m stuck.”

Hammersmith removed his shirt and used it to tie the unconscious man’s hands together. It occurred to him that he was running out of shirts. It also occurred to him that he was beneath a tailor’s shop. There would be more shirts above. He ought to be able to make himself presentable again once he left the cellar. It wouldn’t do to be seen in his undershirt.

He patted the ground in widening circles, searching for the knife that had dropped during the scuffle. When his fingers touched cold metal, he found the handle, picked the knife up, and stuck it in the waistband of his trousers, against his back.

He crawled toward the sound of the boy’s steady breathing. When he touched what felt like the boy’s shoulder, there was a cry of fear.

“It’s all right, Fennimore. Do your friends call you Fennimore?”

“They call me Fenn.”

“Is it all right if I call you Fenn, too?”

“Yes.”

“Just now you said that the bald man could be your father. Do you know the bald man’s name?”

“It’s Cinderhouse, sir. His name is Cinderhouse.”

“The tailor?”

“Yes, sir. Please tell him I won’t run away anymore.”

“Is he your father?”

“He can be. It’s okay now.”

Hammersmith hesitated. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he didn’t like the sound of it.

“Are you tied up, Fenn?”

“No, sir. My leg’s stuck under some rocks.”

“Is it all right if I touch your leg and try to free it from the rocks?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hammersmith nodded, though he knew the boy couldn’t see him. Fenn’s ankle was lodged under a small landslide of rocks and dirt. It would take some effort, but the stones were loose and Hammersmith began to work at them, moving them aside one at a time.

“Do you have another father, Fenn? Someone before Cinderhouse?”

“Yes, but I’m not supposed to talk about him. Or about my mother, neither.”

“Fenn, did they sell you to the tailor?”

“No, sir. He took me in the street.”

Hammersmith sighed and worked harder on the stones trapping the boy.

“Fenn, that was a bad thing to do. When I get you free from here, we’re going to find your father, your
real
father, and your mother, too, and return you to them.”

The boy sat perfectly still. He began to breathe faster.

“And we’re going to put Mr Cinderhouse in jail. He won’t bother you again.”

“He won’t get out of jail?”

“I won’t let him get out.”

“Are you really a policeman?”

“Yes, I am.”

“The other policemen didn’t help me. But the fat one tried to. Mr Little tried to help me before Mr Cinderhouse done him.”

“Did you say Mr Little?”

The stones were coming loose faster, now that he’d moved the largest of them out of the way.

“Yes, sir. It’s my fault; I didn’t tell him about Mr Cinderhouse. Don’t let Mr Cinderhouse stab you, too.”

“I won’t, Fenn. Mr Cinderhouse won’t ever hurt anyone again. Sit still and I’ll have you free in another moment, and then we’ll get out of here.”

The boy wiggled his ankle and dirt sifted away from his leg.

“I’m almost free already,” Fenn said.

“We’ll have you back with your parents in no time at all,” Hammersmith said.

He took a deep breath and yanked another stone loose.

I
know you,” the dancing man said.

“Yes,” Kingsley said. “We’ve met on several occasions now.”

They were wandering down a dark hallway in Hobgate workhouse. Kingsley held the lantern up and watched ahead of them as shadows played up the walls and disappeared into the dark hollows of low open doorways that led into too-small rooms. Kingsley had allowed himself to get turned around and had no idea where the exit was or how long they had been zigzagging through the makeshift tunnels of Hobgate. They had seen occasional faces peering out from the open doors, furtive men who disappeared immediately back into darkness. The great crowds of men had scurried into their rat holes as soon as word spread that police were on the premises.

“Did I dance for you?”

“No,” Kingsley said. “You haven’t danced for me. Why do you dance?”

“Because I have to help. Dancing helps make people happy.”

“You want to be of use? Is that it?”

“Helping, yes.”

“Henry … May I call you Henry? Henry, you were once very good to me. You showed me a small but significant kindness when I came to the morgue, or rather to where the morgue used to be. My wife had only just passed of consumption, and I was very sad. Do you remember that?”

“I remember the dead people.”

“Yes, one of them was my Catherine.”

“That was a bad place. The people had no room. There was no room for dancing there.”

“I agree with you. The dead are in a new place now, a place where I help their families find them and perhaps find some justice, too.”

“That’s good. I do remember you. Your lady wanted a flower.”

Kingsley smiled. “Yes, you gave her a sprig of ivy and you covered her with a blanket.”

“That made you happy.”

“It did.”

Kingsley cleared his throat, unsure of how to proceed. Henry Mayhew was a large man, but his mind was that of a child. Kingsley wanted to make him an offer, but he wasn’t sure if Mayhew would understand what was being given, and he wasn’t even sure it was a good idea to make the offer in the first place.

He opened his mouth to speak and was interrupted by a gunshot somewhere behind them. Henry jumped and clung to the wall. Kingsley spun around and held up the lantern, but could see nothing. Two more shots echoed through the workhouse and Kingsley turned again. He took Henry by the elbow and guided him down the hall as quickly as they could move.

Kingsley was holding his black bag and his lantern in the same hand, and the bag was causing the lantern to swing back and forth, creating treacherous shadows and knocking the bag back into his ribs with each step. He had just come to the conclusion that he didn’t need to guide Henry Mayhew down the hall and could free that hand up to carry one thing or the other when he tripped over something and dropped the lantern.

The something he had tripped over hollered and he realized it was a man, sprawled out on the floor. Kingsley reached for the lantern, which was miraculously still lit.

“You should be in your room,” he said. “There’s a madman on the loose here.”

“Heh. Yeah, there’s a lot of madmen on the loose here, mister. One of ’em got me already.”

Kingsley held the lantern up and let the pale light wash over the man on the floor. He was young and burly and unkempt, and lying in a small pool of black liquid that Kingsley took to be blood.

“What’s happened?” he said. He was already on one knee in front of the young man, his black bag open. He rummaged through it, setting one thing after another on the floor between them.

“Mad bloke stabbed me with a scissors and ran off. The policeman gave chase after helpin’ me a bit. After a while, everybody sort of wandered off and left me here to bleed. Don’t blame ’em. Not too interestin’ to watch a man bleed after the first few minutes.”

“That policeman is my friend. Was he all right? Was he stabbed, too?”

“Don’t think so. I was tryin’ to help him out, what got me stabbed.”

Kingsley washed out the puncture wound and dressed it.

“The wound is deep,” he said, “but you haven’t lost too much blood.”

“You a doctor?”

“You’d better hope I am.”

“How bad is it?”

“You’re lucky inasmuch as the instrument used, the shears used to stab you, seem to have been reasonably clean of dirt or rust, so that may help with your recovery. And it was sharp enough that you may avoid getting lockjaw.”

“Lockjaw?”

“Yes. A dull weapon may sometimes bruise a nerve and cause excruciating death. We call this lockjaw.”

“But I ain’t gonna get that?”

“We’ll know soon enough. It’s imperative that we get you back to my hospital so I can dress that wound properly. It needs a poultice. For now, the detective did a good job of stanching the blood and this wrap will keep it from bleeding too badly.”

“You gonna leave me here?”

“Certainly not. Let’s get you to your feet.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“The injury wasn’t to your legs. You can stand and walk.”

“Mister doctor?” Henry said. “I can carry him.”

Henry bent and lifted the injured man as if he were an empty suit. The man yelped and sucked in a quick lungful of air.

“Careful with him, Henry. I’d like to keep this one alive.”

Henry nodded and stood waiting. The man put his uninjured arm around Henry’s thick neck while Kingsley repacked his bag. He lifted the bag and the lantern and, with a nod to Henry, turned and led the way down the hall, this time with renewed purpose. There was an injured man relying on him to find a way out of the workhouse.

In moments they came to a low door. The door was bolted and the bolt had been padlocked. It was the first true door Kingsley had seen since they’d entered Hobgate, since the entrances to the men’s rooms were nothing but open holes in the walls.

“If this isn’t an exit, we’ve reached a dead end,” he said. “So I’m going to assume for the sake of sanity that it’s an exit. But I’m afraid we’ll have to turn back anyway.”

Without a word, Henry set the injured man down and grabbed the bolt with both hands. He braced his feet against the jamb on either side of the door and pulled. There was a low groaning noise that reverberated through the walls and down the hallway behind them.

“I think it’s too strong for you,” Kingsley said.

Henry looked at him and grinned. He tensed his shoulders, set his feet again, and heaved backward, his entire upper body pitched out into the hall so that he was nearly horizontal with the floor. The bolt wrenched away from the door with a terrific rasp and a crack and a shower of splinters.

Henry stumbled, but didn’t fall. He tossed the fractured bolt into the darkness behind them and stopped to pick the injured man back up. Kingsley threw the door open and smiled at the grey-filtered sunlight and the spattering rain outside.

“Look what you did,” he said. He turned, blocking the exit. He wanted to say the thing he’d come here to say before he lost his nerve. “Henry, I’d like to put you to work.”

“I’m at the workhouse already and I don’t like it.”

“No, I don’t see how anyone could like it here. But I don’t mean the workhouse. I mean that I’d like you to come to my laboratory. There are things I could have you do there.”

“Would I dance?”

“If you wanted to. But there are more substantial things you could do, too. You showed respect for the dead on that day I visited you. That kind of respect isn’t something I see in most people.”

“Can they sleep at your laboratory? The dead, I mean. Can they sleep? There wasn’t enough room for them at the morgue place and they couldn’t rest.”

Kingsley remembered the short tables and the breeze moving through the open shed where the bodies were stored. He remembered the cold, pale legs hanging down in the central aisle, moving in the wind, running in place.