by Alex Grecian
“But aren’t you at all fascinated by how similar we are, one to another, but how many invisible differences we have?”
“It does make one wonder.”
Pinch opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment a boy pelted into the kitchen, followed by a frustrated constable.
“I’m looking for Dr Kingsley,” the boy said.
“Apologies, Doctor,” the constable said. “The boy got past me at the door.”
“It’s all right.”
“I know how you like a place to be undisturbed and whatnot.”
“I said it’s all right. Let’s hear what the young man has to say.”
“You Dr Kingsley then?”
“I am. What’s your name?”
“Jerome, sir.”
“Jerome, you have a message for me?”
“It’s from Walter Day, sir. I rang the hospital like he told me, and they said you was here, so I came straight over, I did.”
“Walter Day? Did you say you’ve got a message from Walter Day?”
“It’s what the gentleman said, sir. I never knowed him by that name, but it’s what he said.”
“Well? What did he say?”
“You’re to go to the Paxton place, the draper’s. It’s in the gardens. Someone’s hurt, and he needs you quick as you can get there. You coulda got there quicker, too, if I hadn’t taken so much time to find you.” The boy scowled and kicked the floor.
“Not your fault, lad. But I don’t know this place you’re speaking of. Can you lead me there?”
“You know I can, sir! Let’s go!” And with that, the boy ran from the room.
“Wait!” Kingsley turned and grabbed his bag, shoving his tape measure, magnifying lens, and tweezers back into it in a jumble. He snapped it closed and turned to Pinch. “You can finish up here, Timothy? Get the fingerprints and compare them to those on the parchment?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Prepare the bodies for transport. It seems I’ve been left behind. I’d better see if I can catch up. Good Lord, Walter Day himself. After all this time.”
He stuck his hat on his head and, holding it there, ran from the kitchen.
35
There was a knock on the wall next to the open door, and Sergeant Fawkes stuck his head into the office.
“Sir?”
Sir Edward looked up from his book and smiled. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
“The door was open.”
“Indeed. And you have rescued me from this.” He took off his spectacles and waved them at the book. “Slow going, but our Dr Kingsley seems to feel it would be good for me to read it.”
“Medical whatnot?”
“Of a sort. Forensic case studies from France, of all places. The good doctor is catholic in his choices.”
“I see, sir.”
“Was there something you needed, Fawkes?”
“There’s a gentleman says he wants to talk to you and won’t have no truck with anybody else.”
“A police matter or something personal?”
“Says it’s a bit of both. His name’s Carlyle.”
“Leland Carlyle? Well, send him in, then. I’d best put this away.” Sergeant Fawkes disappeared from the doorway and Sir Edward scanned the desk for a bookmark, then shook his head and closed the book, unmarked, and hid it from sight in a drawer. He folded his spectacles against his chest and slipped them into his breast pocket.
A moment later, Carlyle hove into sight and bustled into the office, all nervous energy and breathless arrogance. He turned and shut the door and sat across from Sir Edward before the commissioner could invite him to do so.
“Did she tell you I saw him?”
“Ah,” Sir Edward said. “You’re here about Inspector Day. Yes, it’s exciting news, and we’re acting with all haste.”
“But you talked to Claire. Did she tell you I actually saw Walter the other day?”
“She did not tell me that. But it’s good news. Between that and the telephone call, I’d say we’re just round the corner from finding him at last.”
“That’s exactly what I’m here to talk about. It really is a matter of time. And that could be a problem, depending on what he’s learned during the past year.”
“What are you afraid he’s learned?” Sir Edward slumped back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“The membership.”
“The membership?”
“Of the Karstphanomen. He might know who we are.”
“You mean who you are.”
“You can’t deny you were once—”
“I am not a member of your cult, Mr Carlyle.”
“Cult?”
“I don’t care what you call yourselves.”
Carlyle looked down and shook his head. “We’ve been over this time and time again. Let’s not repeat ourselves now. This is a matter that requires serious attention or there will be dire consequences.”
“How do you think Walter’s learned your membership rolls?”
“Jack knows.”
“Jack?”
“Jack the Ripper.”
“Oh, piffle.” Sir Edward fished his spectacles from his pocket and, ignoring Carlyle, found his book again. He thumbed through the pages until he found the spot he wanted and began to read. Carlyle watched him all the while without saying a word. After a moment, Sir Edward looked up and frowned. “You’re still here?”
“You’re not going to help?”
“Help with what? Good God, man, you’ve gone completely round the bend. Jack the Ripper has told Walter Day sensitive information about your secret society, and you want me to . . . well, what? Order Walter to keep mum about it? Am I to pretend I believe Jack the Ripper’s still gallivanting about London, despite the fact that his murders stopped two years ago and have not recommenced? Jack is gone. You fear a ghost, a boogeyman. I’m frankly tired of hearing about this myth. Even my own men have tried to bring the specter of Jack back, despite an overwhelming lack of evidence. Go away with your ridiculous children’s stories. Go away and don’t come back.”
“He does still exist. He does. He’s killing us. Do you know how many are left? A handful, that’s all, and we cower behind locked doors at night, jump at every creaking floorboard, every knock at the window by a tree branch. Have you any idea what it’s like to live that way?”
“No. At the end of the day I go home to my wife and have a good meal, a glass of port, and then to bed for a solid night’s sleep. I do not burden myself with fairy tales and ghost stories. You may indulge yourself if you like, but leave me out of it.”
“You won’t do anything?”
“I still don’t know what you would have me do. Listen, Mr Carlyle, my men are going to bring Walter Day home. God willing, he’ll even return to work. He was a good detective once, and I have every hope that he will still be a good detective. Your daughter will have her husband back, you will have your son-in-law, all will be right with the world, and I may very well enjoy a second glass of port that evening, but I will certainly not bother Walter with your brand of silliness. I would advise you to restrain yourself in the matter and not bring it up with Walter. He’s had a rough enough go of it, I think, and could probably use a return to normalcy, if that’s at all possible.”
“I have taken certain measures. I wondered whether I was doing the right thing, but now I see that I was right to do it.”
“What have you done?”
“With luck, you’ll never know.” Carlyle stood and put on his hat. “Good day to you, sir.”
“Leave the door open on your way out,” Sir Edward said.
Carlyle stomped away, and Sir Edward returned to his book. After reading the same page three times, he leaned back and sighed. “Lord save me from Frenchmen, Karstphanomen, and other as
sorted asses,” he said.
Fawkes stuck his head back into the office. “What’s that, sir?”
Sir Edward jumped in his chair. “Did you hear our conversation, Fawkes?”
“No, sir. Thought you said something about Frenchmen.”
“Here, Fawkes, read this book and tell me what it says.” Sir Edward handed the book over to the reluctant sergeant.
“I’m not much of a reader, sir,” Fawkes said. “What’s it all about?”
“To be perfectly honest, Sergeant, I haven’t a clue.”
36
Hammersmith had two clues to work with.
The words crow and king written on the wall indicated that the killer might be a chess player.
And one of the dead men in the murder house was a backer of Plumm’s.
Adding one and one together, Hammersmith reasoned that Plumm’s might sell chess sets. He hadn’t figured out what to do if they did or what that might have to do with multiple murders. But it was a place to start.
He had lost a year in the hunt for his friend and he couldn’t afford to lose any more time. Walter was alive and needed help. Sleep and food had always been secondary concerns for Hammersmith, but now he pushed them further back, out of his mind entirely. Day had come into his life just when his father had left him. Day was close to his own age, but wiser somehow. Greater, he felt, than Hammersmith could ever be. He needed that in his life, needed Day to give him guidance. He would never find a friend like that again. He needed, for Claire’s sake and his own, to find Walter Day.
Plumm’s wasn’t open yet when he arrived, and he stood in the shelter of an awning across the way, staring out at the street. A light mist still clung to the ground and to the walls around him, and yesterday’s drab grey cobblestones were today a mottled rainbow of natural tones in the new sunlight. A tall man with thin hair slicked back along his scalp passed without seeing him and unlocked the front door, slipped through, but no light appeared inside the department store once he was in. Hammersmith waited. Eventually another person appeared, then another. Then lights did come on inside. A white-gloved man came out and sniffed the air. The man stepped forward and rolled a gate back from the doors.
As Hammersmith watched, a young woman appeared at the end of the street and walked slowly toward the department store, hugging the wall. Light shimmered through her hair, which was drawn up at the back of her neck. As she drew near, she noticed Hammersmith and crossed the street toward him. He pulled back in the shadows and motioned to her.
“What are you doing here?”
Hatty Pitt rested her hands on her hips and scowled up at him. “I’m doing my job, Mr Hammersmith. What are you doing here?”
“I’m confused,” he said.
“That’s not really an answer, you know. More a state of mind.”
Hammersmith shook his head. “Now wait a minute. You work for me, not the other way round. How did you know I’d be here?”
“I didn’t. And it seems to me you’ve no right to tell me where I can and cannot be when you’ve been gone and I’ve been the one—”
Hammersmith held up his hands and put his head down. He sighed. “Hatty. Why are you here? Why have you come to Plumm’s this morning?”
“I’ve been working on my case for a whole day and a half now. I’ve made real progress.”
“Is it to do with Walter Day or the Karstphanomen or the murders of those four men?”
“What four men?”
“So it has nothing to do with any of that?”
“It’s that missing person, Hargreave. He was a floor manager here. The supervisor.” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the store. “He’s disappeared.”
“Interesting,” Hammersmith said.
“Mildly so,” Hatty said. “But not terribly. Men disappear all the time. What makes this case especially interesting is that someone wants to pay us. And with our detective missing from his own detective agency for weeks on end, and with charges coming in left, right, and center, a paying client is very interesting indeed.”
“I could swear I told you to consult with me on every development.”
“I couldn’t find you. Time is of the essence in a missing person case, Mr Hammersmith.”
Hammersmith was surprised by her forthrightness. He gave her a rueful smile. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course.” She was, he thought, very much like himself: headstrong and too honest for her own good. He admired these qualities in her, but wondered if he irritated others as much as she was irritating him. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me about the case.”
There was little to tell, and Hatty caught him up within five minutes. He made her go back over the bit about how she had found a tongue in a rubbish bin and he admonished her about traveling to strange places by herself. Meanwhile, foot traffic around Plumm’s had increased and the shutters on all four stories had been opened. Elaborate displays were barely visible in the windows of the ground story and the floor above it. Gossamer mist moving over glass gave the mannequins behind it an eerie energetic quality.
“So,” Hammersmith said, “your client’s brother—or rather, our client’s brother—was employed here.”
“Yes. I thought I’d talk to his coworkers.”
“Good. And have you talked to his household staff?”
“Not yet,” Hatty said. “I’m starting here at his work. He was the floor manager, so he must have interacted with dozens of Plumm’s staff every day. It seems to me there might be clues here.”
Hammersmith nodded and pursed his lips. “Good.”
“Thank you. But you never said why you’re here, Mr Hammersmith. Is it something to do with finding Mr Day?”
“Yes. I’ve only now come from a murder scene. One of the victims was a backer of this store.”
“Oh, he might’ve known my missing person.”
“Hmm. Maybe. But he might never have set foot in here. Might be it’s just money moving about and no connection at all.”
“What does the murdered man have to do with Mr Day?”
“He was found at Walter Day’s old address.”
“On Regent’s Park? But it’s been a year since he was there.”
“Well, obviously. It’s been a year since anybody was there. Anybody besides us and the police.”
“So it might not be related to his disappearance.”
Hammersmith shook his head. “It’s related, all right. What say we go inside and see what there is to see.”
• • •
HAMMERSMITH HAD ONCE VISITED a bazaar, and he had been inside mammoth train stations, but he had never seen a space so big devoted solely to selling things. Everyone in Plumm’s department store was there to buy something or to entice someone else to buy something. Everywhere he looked, Hammersmith saw wooden mannequins and busts made of wax and papier-mâché, he saw flat wooden forms draped with dresses, festooned with necklaces, and pinned with brooches. Counters were set in diagonal clusters, topped with globes of light that accentuated the sparkle of jewelry and the richness of fabric. A wide spiral staircase with a wrought-iron rail led to another floor, where Hammersmith could see an array of women’s shoes and boots. Workers struggled across the gallery above, leaning against the rail, carrying huge panes of glass for an upper-story display in progress. An enormous blue globe spun slowly inside the framework of a brightly lit cube that was tipped up on one corner.
“It’s beautiful,” Hatty said. “It’s all beautiful.”
“Welcome to Plumm’s.” A small, officious man with a pencil-thin mustache hurried toward them. “How can I help you?”
“We’d like to speak with Mr Plumm,” Hammersmith said. He worked to put some authority in his voice.
“Mr Plumm? Why, I’m afraid he’s in a meeting right now. But I’m Mr Swann. Please, I’m sure I can help you with anything you might—
”
“Mr Hargreave said we might be able to see Mr Plumm,” Hatty said. “It’s dreadfully important.”
“Mr Hargreave?”
“Joseph,” Hatty said. “Joseph Hargreave.”
The prim man drew himself up as if there were some invisible thread attached to his head that extended to the high beams above, through them and to the heavens. “Joseph Hargreave is no longer employed by us. And his brother is not welcome here, either. Not at the moment. There has been some irregular behavior, and at Plumm’s we pride ourselves on professionalism and decorum. No shopper shall ever be—”
“Then who’s managing the floor now, Mr Swann?”
“That would be Mr Oberon,” the man said. “But he’s quite busy now, supervising the new installation.” He pointed up and back, and Hammersmith looked at the railing above him, where a tall man with dark wavy hair had joined the workmen struggling along with their sheets of glass.
“Mr Hargreave has been replaced?” Hammersmith could hear a note of surprise in Hatty’s voice, but his attention was fixed on the man above him. “Already?” There was something about that man on the gallery, something familiar in his movements, the tilt of his head, the halo of light from the window overhead. The man—Mr Oberon—looked down, and a slight smile twisted his lips.
“Mr Angerschmid?” Hammersmith tore his gaze away from the dark man on the gallery. Another man, small and round, was hastening toward him from the far side of a cabinet that displayed cufflinks and flasks. “I thought that was you!”
The little man was beaming from ear to ear, waving his hands wildly, and it took Hammersmith a moment to place him. Then he remembered. “Ah,” he said, “Mr Goodpenny, isn’t it?” An old acquaintance from another case.
“It’s been too long, Mr Angerschmid!” Goodpenny was still moving toward him, but as he spoke, his eyes rolled up toward the gallery and the smile began to slide from his face. “But where is— Oh, my!”
And then the immediate surroundings were a deafening jumble as Hammersmith was toppled off his feet by a rushing weight and he hit the ground hard. A ripple of sound passed over him then was gone, and all he could hear was his own pulse pounding in his temples. Cold pinpricks showered him in a wave from head to foot, followed immediately by an overall itching sensation.