Lost and Gone Forever

by Alex Grecian

  “What are you doing here?” His breath reeked of gin.

  “Well,” Hatty said, “what are you doing here?”

  “I live here.”

  “I thought you’d be in the city, at work.”

  “I took some well-deserved time away from my practice,” Hargreave said. “I find I have too much on my mind at the moment.” He turned and walked away, leaving the door open. “Might as well come in, you made it this far.”

  Hatty stepped over the threshold and looked around. It was a small cottage with no hallways, each room leading to another, and she guessed she was in some sort of sitting room doing double duty as a study. She held a finger up to her nose to help mask the odor in the room and hoped Hargreave wouldn’t notice or take offense. The windows were shuttered, and the single lamp at the back of the room didn’t illuminate much, a sharp contrast to the delicious sunlight outside. Green wallpaper was peeling away at the corners, and a lazy cobweb drifted in Hargreave’s wake as he showed her in. There were three deeply cushioned chairs in the room and a table that was heaped with dirty dishes. Newspapers littered the floor beside one of the chairs. Hargreave bent and tore a piece from one of them, used it as a bookmark. He set Venus in Furs on the arm of the chair and looked around, as if seeing the place for the first time.

  “Let the staff go a week ago now,” he said. “I think they were stealing from us.”

  “I see.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to find someone to come in and clean, though, won’t I?”

  “That might not be a bad idea.”

  “Well, have a seat, if you like.” He waved a limp hand in the direction of the other two chairs. Hatty examined the nearest one and flicked a few crumbs away before sitting down. “Got no tea and no coffee, but if you want gin I have that. Maybe some rye. And there’s milk, I think, but I wouldn’t touch that if I were you. Smelled a bit off yesterday, and I doubt it’s got better overnight.”

  “I’m fine,” Hatty said. “Thank you.”

  “So, you thought maybe Joseph had gone on holiday and forgotten to tell me,” Hargreave said. “Is that it? Forgot to tell Mr Plumm, too, hadn’t he? Just shimmered off to the sea and not a care in the world, eh?”

  “I thought . . .” Hatty said. She cleared her throat and started again. “Mr Hammersmith suggested I come have a look round here.”

  “Ah. So Hammersmith’s handling the likely stuff and leaving the odd tidbits for you.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Has he got any clues yet? No, I suppose not, or you wouldn’t be nosing round here, where you’re not needed, would you?”

  Hatty smiled. “You say you’ve spoken to Mr Plumm?”

  “Told him I’d be forced to take legal action if he sacked Joseph. My brother’s not been gone so very long, has he? No reason to replace him just yet. Let the detective do his work, I say. And he says back to me that the store’s got work of their own needs to be done and no worker to do it, has they? And I say, ‘Well then, you’ll be hearing from my solicitor unless you’re willing to give the matter more time to sort itself.’ And Plumm says, ‘Very well.’ Just like that. ‘Very well, Dr Hargreave, I’ve got solicitors of my own, don’t you know?’ And before I have a chance to say anything else, the door’s hitting me on the backside and I’m out in the street without so much as a fare-thee-well. Is that right? Does that sound right to you?”

  “It sounds rather uncaring,” Hatty said. “I’m sorry.”

  Hargreave took a small shuddering breath and smacked his lips and looked down at the book on the arm of his chair. He frowned and turned it over so that Hatty could no longer see the title. “I might eat,” he said. “Would you care for anything? I think I’ve got half a pudding, maybe the butt of a roast. Almost certainly there’s a cheese, if it hasn’t turned.”

  Hatty hesitated. She was hungry, but suspicious of anything that might be found in Hargreave’s pantry. Still, she wanted to take a look round the place, and a detective’s work wasn’t always meant to be easy, was it? “Yes, please,” she said.

  “Well, come along, then, and let us see what there is to see.” He led the way through a door at the back of the room, which Hatty discovered led to a dining room. The table was heaped with financial papers. Through another door and she found herself in a grubby kitchen. Food-encrusted crockery filled the basin and every surface in the room was covered with butcher’s paper, shriveled ends of sausages, puddles of beer and gin and clotted cream, half an apple, brown and withered, a bowl with something that had formed a skin, a knife embedded upright in a hard barm cake. A cloud of insects, tiny pinpricks in the air, hovered over some sort of gelatinous substance on the wall. Hatty’s heart sank.

  “This isn’t all my own mess,” Hargreave said. He seemed embarrassed, which Hatty took as a good sign. It was the sort of room that called for embarrassment. “As I say, we let the servants go, and Joseph and I forgot to clean up after ourselves last weekend. Besides, there’s dishes here I know we didn’t use. They must have snuck back in here while we were in the city and helped themselves to our provisions.” He drew himself up in a pose of indignity. “They bloody well deserved the sack, didn’t they?”

  “Do you have a broom?”

  While Hargreave looked for a broom, an activity that involved standing in the middle of his kitchen and turning slowly round and round while peering at the skirting board, Hatty found an apron hanging on a hook inside the pantry door and put it on. She decided to tackle the goo on the wall first and rinsed a rag in a pitcher of water that was only slightly yellow. She discovered that the goo had cleaned the wallpaper beneath it, so that once she had wiped it all away there was a bright spot on the wall, but she wasn’t committed enough to the task to keep going. The bright spot would have to remain isolated there until Hargreave spilled more of whatever the goo was and dealt with it himself.

  Hatty was reasonably certain that housekeeping and cooking weren’t in the average detective’s job description, but she wasn’t the average detective. Besides, she was still hungry and she wasn’t about to eat anything that came out of Hargreave’s kitchen until the place was properly cleaned.

  After the muck was washed off the wall, she tackled the dishes, wiping them down with more rags and leaving the pots and pans to soak in more yellowish water. She gathered the garbage in a pile on the counter and caught Hargreave’s attention.

  “Where’s your rubbish?”

  “My rubbish?”

  “I need to toss all this or you’ll have more bugs and other vermin even nastier.”

  “Oh, the bin is . . . um, I think right outside the door there. At least, I think it is.” He pointed at an outside door next to the pantry, and Hatty unlocked it, stepped out, and took a deep breath of clean sea air. Sure enough, there was a big bin, swarming with flies, resting against the back wall of the cottage. She would have to cart the leftover food out to it, rather than bringing it in.

  She stepped inside and realized how bad Hargreave’s home smelled. She decided she must have grown used to the odor, but the cool breeze outside beckoned her, and she decided she’d much rather find a vendor and buy a meat pie on the way home than try to cook something edible in that particular kitchen. She would get the old food out of the house and then be done with it all. Richard Hargreave hadn’t hired her to clean his house, he had hired her to find his missing brother.

  She scowled at him as she walked back past, but he didn’t seem to notice. Nor did he help her gather the garbage and take it out. So she didn’t bother to try to salvage the dirty knife or the bowl. She tossed them along with the rest of it.

  The bowl was heavy, though, and it sank quickly to the bottom of the bin, causing layers of refuse to topple in on top of it, upsetting whatever delicate ecosystem had begun to form. Something grey and pink and strange caught Hatty’s eye as it was uncovered in the process. She held her breath and l
eaned in for a closer view, then ran back inside the kitchen for a rag. She took it to the bin and reached down inside, wrapped it around the pinkish grey thing, careful not to touch anything with her fingers, and fished it out.

  Dragged into the light it wasn’t nearly as odd-looking, but still she stared at it, trying to understand what it might be. It seemed harmless, if disgusting: wilted and tough, but not like any cut of meat she had seen before. She brought it closer to her face and licked her lower lip while she thought, then thought about the fact that she was licking her lip and suddenly recognized the thing wrapped in the rag. She dropped it in the dirt.

  She leaned against the house and waited until she was calm again. Back inside, she stalked through the kitchen, leaving the back door open, and sat down at the dining room table. She found a pencil and used the back of one of the financial documents to take notes. (She was going to have to remember to carry round one of those little notebooks Mr Hammersmith always used.) When Hargreave followed her into the room, she indicated that he should sit across from her.

  “Are you going to finish cleaning in there?”

  “No,” Hatty said.

  “Well, it needs cleaning.”

  “Then hire someone whose job it is to clean. Or do it yourself. Meanwhile, I’d like some information from you.”

  “What sort of information? I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “I want you to remember exactly when you let the household staff go and when you and your brother were last here.”

  “I can try to remember, but I’m not sure—”

  “Just do your best, sir. Anything you can tell me might be of help.”

  “Well—”

  “And when we’re done here, I’m going to have to head back to London to share this information with Mr Hammersmith, but I want you to fetch the thing on the ground beside the rubbish bin, if you would be so kind, and keep it safe here until the Brighton police arrive.”

  “The police are coming?”

  “They will be as soon as I alert them.”

  “Alert them? Alert them to what?”

  “I believe you had a human tongue in your bin. It’s entirely possible there are other bits of your brother in there, too. Now, let’s focus on that timetable.”

  Of course, Hatty had no evidence that the tongue had ever belonged in Joseph Hargreave’s head, but it gave her great satisfaction to shock Richard Hargreave and it made her feel very much like she imagined a detective ought to feel. The best part was that Hargreave became immediately cooperative and gave her no more arguments.

  19

  Day woke and sat up. His hair was damp, his collar limp with sweat, and his mouth tasted stale. For a moment he thought he was back in his cell, but then he felt a wave of relief as he recalled his experiences of the past weeks. The relief was tinged with a sense of dread. He would be meeting Jack again today, and Jack might take him back to that cell.

  But Day no longer wanted to return to his little cot with its rough grey blanket, or to his tiny window that looked out on stones and snow.

  He struggled to his feet in the cramped space and cracked open the door to the storeroom. People bustled this way and that, but nobody looked his way. He glanced back at Ambrose. The boy was sprawled in what seemed to Day to be a very uncomfortable position, his neck bent awkwardly, his mouth wide open. But his chest was rising and falling steadily. Day left him there in the dark, where he was safe for the time being, and stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

  He was on the main floor of the department store, all shining wood and glass and a black spiral staircase that ran up through the center of the room to the gallery, where he and Esther had sipped their tea and eaten their seedcakes and looked down on the other shoppers. The whole place smelled of perfumes and talcum, mixed with wood polish and body odor.

  Day drew his watch (another gift from Esther) from his pocket and was astonished to see that it was already half past eleven. He had slept for three hours on the floor of the storeroom. Did he still have time to get back to the draper’s shop and change his collar, comb his hair, splash a little water on his face? There was certainly no time to nose around the store, as he’d wanted to, to try to find some advantage over Jack before their meeting, but he at least wanted to look presentable, to seem confident. Jack sniffed out weakness in other men and exploited it. And he knew all of Day’s weaknesses, had already exploited every one of them.

  On thinking about it, Day decided a fresh collar probably wouldn’t change anything. All he could do was brace himself and face whatever was coming his way, whatever Jack had planned for him.

  As if on cue, Day looked up and saw the man himself at the gallery rail. Jack smiled and waved at him, gestured for him to come up.

  No time anymore to do anything except climb those steps. His decisions were all made for him. He put his watch away and trudged to the spiral stairs and went up. His leg suddenly hurt, and he had to use his cane to push himself off each step. Along the way he passed several shoppers, all of whom gave him nervous glances and sidled as far to the other side of the steps as they could. He thought he must reek of doom.

  Jack was waiting for him at the top and took his arm.

  “You’re early,” Jack said. “How lovely.” He led him to a little table with a lacy cloth draped over it and he pulled out a chair for him.

  • • •

  “IT’S INCREDIBLE.”

  Fiona Kingsley had been available to accompany the Day clan on their outing to Plumm’s. She had brought a sketch pad and a small case of pencils, paints, brushes, and charcoals. Everything there seemed false to her, designed to evoke some feeling or response, but she still felt a little thrill as she looked round at it all.

  There was a giant globe in a box above her being glassed in by men who reminded her of busy ants.

  “It is very big,” Claire said. “And there’re so many things. How can they sell all these things?”

  “Who would buy some of them?” Fiona was looking at a brooch shaped like a butterfly, with mother-of-pearl inlays and antennae made of thin wire with beads on the ends.

  “You could illustrate some of it,” Claire said.

  “I think they’d expect me to buy something if I tried to draw it. But I’ll do a quick sketch of some wooden things to help the book if we find anything new or different. Do you think we ought to try the furniture department or the— Oh, Claire, we should look in the books department and see if they have yours.”

  “Do you think they do?”

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “Surrounded by all of this? That would be . . .”

  “It would be incredible.”

  “That is the word.”

  “Miss Tinsley!”

  Fiona jumped and turned. A small round fellow was hurrying toward them. Fiona blinked and tried to remember where she had seen him before, but he was on them before she could place him.

  “You remember me,” the man said. He was perhaps fifty years old, and his face was red all over and beaming with pleasure. She could not help herself and broke out into a huge smile despite herself.

  “It’s me,” the little man said. “Alastair Goodpenny. You do remember me?” He stopped short and his face changed; his smile disappeared and his forehead creased with wrinkles.

  She did remember him. She had consulted with him the previous year on a case her father and Hammersmith had been involved in. He was the proprietor of a kiosk in the Marylebone bazaar and had advised her on a pair of cufflinks that had been owned by a murderer.

  “Her name is Miss Kingsley, not Tinsley,” one of the boys said. She thought it was Robert, but she didn’t turn round to see.

  “There’s no need to shout,” Goodpenny said. “I can hear you. Miss Tinsley and I have known each other longer than you’ve been alive.” He softened then and bent down, and Fiona tu
rned to see which of the boys he was talking to. It was Simon. “What’s your name, little boy?”

  “My name is Simon.”

  “How unusual. Jemima is commonly a girl’s name. From the Bible, isn’t it?”

  “Simon. My name is Simon.”

  “Just so. And you should be proud. Though you might also want to strengthen your upper body. With that name you’ll be forced to defend yourself often enough, I should think.” Goodpenny straightened back up and beamed at Fiona. “How are you, Miss Tinsley? How is that boy you were so fond of? Mr Angerschmid?”

  “Thank you, Mr Goodpenny. I believe Nevil is fine, although I don’t see much of him these days.”

  “Oh, what a shame. He seemed in need of a woman’s attention, don’t you think?”

  Fiona blushed. “Have you met my friend? Mr Goodpenny, this is Mrs Day.”

  Claire offered her hand, and Goodpenny leaned over it, his manner courtly and endearing. “My great pleasure, Mrs Dew.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” Claire said. She gave Fiona a knowing smile that Mr Goodpenny failed to notice.

  “What are you doing here, Mr Goodpenny? Are you shopping?”

  “No, no, Miss Tinsley. I’m employed here now. They need good people who know how to judge a piece of silver and who understand what a man needs in the way of accessories. You’re not after such a thing today, are you?”

  “No, thank you. We’re here to look for things made of wood.”

  “Of course I would. You have only to tell me what you need.”

  Fiona glanced round at Claire, who looked puzzled, and whispered, “He can’t hear a thing.” Claire hid a smile behind her hand.

  “Shall I give you the grand tour? We’ve only been open a short while, and I’m still learning the place myself.” Mr Goodpenny seemed proud and happy, and Fiona felt glad for him.