by Alex Grecian
“But I have. I’ve done it all along, only you didn’t hear me properly when I talked to you about those cases and you didn’t know what I was doing, Mr Hammersmith. But I’ve never hidden the truth, not precisely. And I’m really quite capable. You’ll see.”
“A client ought to be able to expect a certain level of—”
“How old are you, Mr Hammersmith?”
“I have no idea.” (He really didn’t have any idea.)
“Well, you look quite young to me. And how many years did you work as a detective for the Yard?”
“Well, none, I suppose. But I—”
“You were a sergeant, and I know all about that, but you weren’t a sergeant for a terribly long time, were you?”
“I don’t know. A few months, perhaps?”
“And before that you were a constable. How long was that?”
“Two years, perhaps?”
“So before opening this agency, you had no detective experience and virtually no experience beyond that of a common bobby.”
“There’s no such thing as a common bobby. It’s a very hard job, and those men put their lives at risk for the safety of their fellow Londoners.”
She went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “But people like this Dr Hargreave, all our clients, believe you’re up to the task, and why?”
“Because—”
“Because you’re a man.” She stopped, and her shoulders sagged. She suddenly looked tired. Hammersmith wondered where she lived and whether she had anyone to take care of her.
“I’m sure it’s not only that,” he said. She opened her mouth, but he put up a hand to stop her. “You’ve had your say. Now let me talk. Yes, I’m a man, and there are certain responsibilities that go along with that. But I’m not the sort who thinks women aren’t as smart as men. That’s ridiculous. Only I don’t like to see you put yourself in any sort of danger, that’s all.”
“Asking questions here and there won’t cause any danger.”
“That’s precisely what does cause danger. Be quiet and let me think.”
He looked again at the Walter Day case files, none of which contained anything useful. He wondered what might become of him if Hatty Pitt left. He would be alone in this office every day, obsessing further and deeper over an unsolvable mystery, caring less and less about everything else in the world. The fog would drift in through the doors and the windows and would envelop him. And he would disappear as surely as Walter had, only his body would still inhabit this office and he would still shuffle about as if he were actually contributing something to society. With no one to interact with him, to contradict him and challenge him, he might very well go mad.
“All right. Take the case.” He held up a finger to cut off her excited response. “But every day, at the end of the day, you and I will discuss this case of yours, along with any other case you decide to take into your own hands, and I will be involved in all ways I deem appropriate. You will take no action that is not approved by me. Is that agreeable enough?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He scowled at her. “Well, go on, then.”
She turned and went, but stopped in the doorway and looked back. “Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
“And I promise I won’t be in any danger.”
“That’s not a thing you can promise. Just say you will try to keep yourself out of danger.”
“I will.”
“Then it’s settled.”
“You’re very kind to care about my well-being.”
He blinked at her, unsure of what to say.
“But,” she said, “you would be much more attractive if you’d cut your hair back away from your eyes.”
She left, and Hammersmith stared, confused, at the door. What did his hair have to do with anything?
14
Esther Paxton pressed Walter’s suit, and she picked out the finest merchandise from her shop window for herself. She would be careful with the dress and put it back in the window when they returned from Plumm’s.
It had taken a great deal of persuasion on Walter’s part to get her to visit the department store, but he had finally won her over by suggesting it might be a good thing for her to be seen there. She would be an ambassador of sorts, welcoming Plumm’s in its new glory back to her neighborhood. Far from seeming weak or frightened by the competition, she would be perceived as a confident merchant making a goodwill appearance.
Privately, Day was worried about Esther’s financial future. It occurred to him that she might be better off relocating to some smaller shop farther away from the massive competition.
And the midnight visit from Ambrose had left him shaken. Was it possible that Jack was at Plumm’s? Did he work there or had he broken in? If it even was Jack. Perhaps Day was inclined to see Jack’s hand in everything. But he remained nervous about taking Esther there, and his concern was only ameliorated by the fact that it was broad daylight. Or the closest thing London had seen to broad daylight in the past month.
As the weather grew warmer and the slush evaporated from the streets, fog continued to swirl in, rolling down the roads and pooling in low-lying areas. Esther took Walter’s elbow, and he escorted her up Throgmorton Street, listening for oncoming traffic and steering her around puddles in the path ahead. Plumm’s seemed to rush at them, pushing its bulk through the fog, and they paused to admire its immensity. In the lower windows, a family of mannequins was picnicking by a stream made of shimmering blue fabric. A gentleman offered a lady a parasol under the light of a gas globe that was meant to evoke the moon. A stuffed horse trotted through a fabulous wood constructed of coatracks and armoires. Above them, in the windows of the next floor up, an Egyptian queen glared down from a throne that was decorated with costume jewelry. Cat-headed mannequin servants ranged outward from the throne, each holding some different item from Plumm’s many specialty departments.
“So much glass,” Esther said, her voice muffled by the fog and so soft that Day barely heard her.
“The windows?”
“Imagine,” she said. “Imagine the expense. Why would anyone be so ostentatious?”
“It attracts people,” Walter said.
“But what sort of people? My clients are more tasteful than this.” She looked up at him and squeezed his arm. “Aren’t they?”
“Vastly,” he said. “Shall we?”
She squeezed his arm again (he felt uncomfortable with the intimacy, but couldn’t bring himself to tell her so), and he led her across the street. A man with white gloves held the door for them and they entered. Inside, the spectacle of so much sheet glass was dwarfed by even more glass set into the wooden frames of counter after counter, by hanging displays and live models and walkways that led away in every direction through a labyrinth of wares. Esther gasped and turned to leave, but Walter held her there.
“It’s no wonder,” she said. “Of course my clients would rather shop here.”
“Not all of them. Not everyone is so easily won over by this sort of shallow display. Your clients know the difference. They understand the value of quality and of tradition.”
“Not all of them. Not enough of them.”
“Don’t be silly. This is a fad. This sort of thing will never survive. It can’t. It’ll collapse under its own weight.”
She smiled up at him, but he could tell she wasn’t convinced. They walked on, past a tea shop and past racks of ready-made dresses, past the shelves full of shoes and the cabinets full of crockery.
“Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea,” Walter said.
“No, you were right. I needed to see this. I ought to know what the future looks like.”
“You could incorporate some of this into your own business.”
“How? Look at this.”
They were on the gallery now, high abo
ve the sales floor. The framework of an enormous cube was perched atop a pole. Wires ran from beneath it in a thickly braided cord, and workmen scurried about, constructing a globe that was apparently meant to fit inside the cube. Day guessed the sides of the box would be glassed in to represent the store itself and the wires might make the globe revolve. “Plumm’s Brings the World to You” or some such puffery.
Walter grimaced. “Just emphasize what makes you different, Esther.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at it all. It’s impressive, I grant you, but it’s impersonal and, really, it’s a bit much, isn’t it? They might fit me for a suit, but they don’t know my name.”
“I don’t know your name, either.”
“I mean to say that you know your clients, you understand them. That’s a commodity.”
“Do you think they understand that?”
“They might. If you do.”
“You mean if I make them understand.”
“You have to believe it first.”
She nodded, and he let the subject drop. But it seemed to him that she perked up a bit. At one point she took his arm and guided him quickly away down another aisle, and he shot her a questioning glance.
“A client. I didn’t want her to see me.”
“She should see you. She’d be ashamed.”
“And?”
“And she should feel guilty.”
“No, if she feels guilty and ashamed, she’ll never come back to me.”
He smiled. “Ah. Human nature. That ugly beast.”
They continued, touring the various departments, though Esther paid more attention to the fabric selections than anything else. After two or three hours, Walter suggested they have tea at one of the many shops throughout the store. They settled on the smallest tea shop on the first-floor landing, and they took a table near the window so they could look out through the grey at the street below.
“I don’t really think this is so bad,” Walter said. “I think this place does something completely different from what you do, and you could easily capitalize on that difference.”
“I agree,” she said. Day saw that the sparkle was back in Esther’s eye. “It’s completely different, as you say. I think I could change a thing or two, bring in some new fabrics, some new patterns, and my clients will be satisfied. They want modern things, but they don’t necessarily want substantial changes.”
But Walter had stopped listening. Across the room a man had entered the shop and he stood there now, watching them with a puzzled expression. Esther had her back to the man and didn’t see, but Day felt chills up and down his spine. The man caught the arm of a staff member and whispered something in her ear. He handed the shopgirl a slip of paper that was folded in half, nodded to Walter, and left. A moment later, the girl brought the slip of paper to Day’s table.
“Are you Walter Day?”
“I don’t . . .”
“Walter Day?” Esther leaned forward over the table. “Is that your name?”
“I’m not . . .”
“If that’s you, I’m supposed to give you this,” the girl said.
Walter reached out his hand and took the note from her. It felt very heavy. He unfolded the paper and read.
MET ME HERE TOMORROW. NOONE. BRING THE WOMAN IF YOUVE GROAN TIRD OF HER.
“What does it say?” Esther reached for the note, but Day pulled it away.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just something about a special price they have on clocks.”
“Clocks?”
“Something like that. Timepieces of some sort. We should leave.”
Esther looked round the room, but it was empty of anything menacing, only a handful of customers and white-gloved staff going about their business. “What’s going on? Is Walter Day your name?”
“It’s not. I don’t know. Can we leave now?”
“If you want to.”
“I do.”
They abandoned their tea and their seedcakes. Walter dropped a few coins on the table and they left. Day watched the crowds in Plumm’s, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He propelled Esther down the stairs and out by the front door. An attendant saluted them and invited them to come again, but Day didn’t hear him. Pushing Esther ahead of him, he rushed out into the fog and didn’t slow his pace until they had turned the corner and were on their way back to Drapers’ Gardens.
Esther stopped walking and, when she had caught her breath, scowled at him. “Walter, will you please tell me what’s going on? Who was it in there, and how do you know those people?”
“Not people. One person. If you can call him a person.”
“Who? What’s his name?”
“I don’t know his real name,” Day said, “but he calls himself Jack.”
He shrugged off her further questions and lapsed into a brown study until they had returned to the shop. Once there, he hurried up the stairs and locked his door and refused to answer when Esther knocked later in the day.
I should never have gone out in anyone’s company, Day thought. I should never have allowed myself to be seen with someone.
He curled up in the corner of his room with his back to the wall and watched the shadows move across the ceiling until night came and the room was plunged into darkness. Even then sleep didn’t come for a long time. He kept his eyes open and listened for footsteps on the stairs until the sun came up again.
He knew he would have to return to Plumm’s at noon. Otherwise Jack would find him and would hurt him. Worse, Jack would hurt Esther. Day felt trapped and alone, with nobody to turn to and no recourse. His life would never be his own as long as Jack was free in the city.
15
Hammersmith paused in the open door of a large room. He recognized many elements of the Murder Squad as he had known it: the sprawl and bustle, the men huddled in twos or threes, their heads down, murmuring to one another, occasional words like dismembered and mutilated echoing off the high ceiling and differentiating the atmosphere from that of a gentlemen’s club. But there was more of it, more of everything. In the year that had passed since Hammersmith had last worked with these men, the squad had doubled in size. Their desks filled a room that would once have seemed cavernous. Hammersmith recognized Michael Blacker, Tom Wiggins, and one or two other of the inspectors, their jackets hung along the wall below their hats, their shirtsleeves rolled up and their braces let down. But there were many new faces, too.
Sergeant Kett was working behind the desk at the door and he waved. He got up and came around and shook Hammersmith’s hand, but he wasn’t smiling. Above his bristling red mustache his expression was somber and his clear blue eyes were watery.
“What brings you today, Nevil?”
Kett was the center of the entire Murder Squad, coordinating the movements of his constables and facilitating all communications between the detectives. Hammersmith was certain that without Kett, the Yard would long since have fallen into disarray. When Hammersmith was a constable, Kett had taken special interest in him, had paired him with Day in hopes that they would complement each other’s strengths. Hammersmith had always thought of the burly sergeant as a mentor.
“I’m still not used to the new building,” Hammersmith said. “It’s . . . Well, it’s imposing.”
“It’s already too small,” Kett said.
“And the Murder Squad? How is everyone?”
“We’ve expanded. Twenty detectives now.”
“Twenty?” Hammersmith sighed. “At least I still see a man or two I know. I thought it might be worth checking in again to see if there’s been progress. Any clues or . . . well, anything at all.”
“Don’t you think we would’ve sent for you?”
“I know everybody’s busy. It’s possible there’s been some small thing and nobody’s had time to send for me.”
Kett sighe
d and put a hand on Hammersmith’s shoulder. “Aye. Everybody’s busy. Listen, son, it’s time.”
“Time?”
“Time to move on, put this thing behind you. I admire the way you’ve stuck to it, but Walter Day is lost. He’s gone, maybe gone for good. And no amount of runnin’ round on your part’s gonna get him found again.” Hammersmith shook his head, but Kett squeezed his shoulder. “Nevil, he’s gone. He’s gone.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to talk to Tiffany, or maybe Blacker. Maybe they’ve found something they haven’t passed along to you.”
“You know better than that. Anyway, I can’t let you in. Tiffany’s got three new cases today all by himself, not to mention what everybody else has to deal with. You’ll stir things up and keep ’em from workin’.”
Hammersmith looked away, out at the room of busy men. Blacker looked up and nodded to him, but he didn’t stop what he was doing, didn’t come over for a chat.
“Right,” Hammersmith said. “Very well. I’ll go.”
“One of these days we’ll hoist a pint and tell stories about Inspector Day. We’ll do it soon.”
“Sure we will.”
“We will,” Kett said. But his attention had already wandered. Hammersmith saw the sergeant’s gaze returning to the work waiting for him at his desk. He shook Kett’s hand again and turned back to the door.
Outside, he glanced up at the invisible sky. “Walter, where are you?” Hammersmith was completely isolated. He might be the last man on Earth, standing there in front of the Yard, surrounded by layers of nothingness. “Walter, I’m losing you, man. Do something to get their attention or I won’t be able to help you. Reach out if you can.”
As if in answer, a stranger unfolded from the blanket of grey and passed by within inches of Hammersmith. “Talkin’ to yourself? You’ll go mad doin’ that, you know.” The man chuckled and then was gone, swallowed back up by the fog.
Hammersmith stuck his hands deep in his pockets and walked away in the opposite direction. “Wasn’t talking to myself,” he said. “Not my fault if nobody was listening.”