by Alex Grecian
“Don’t hurt him,” Carlyle’s daughter said, but she wasn’t looking at Mr Parker or her father; she was addressing Mrs Parker, who had stopped to pick up the fleeing man’s sword and the barrel of his cane. Mrs Parker didn’t seem to hear the woman. She ran on, pushing her way through the onlookers and, now doubly armed, chased the man into an alleyway.
Mr Parker got the daughter’s attention. “You know him? The one who did this?”
“It’s my husband. I don’t know what’s going on, but he’s not himself. He’s a policeman. He must have meant well.”
Mr Parker shook his head, unable to believe their bad luck. Jack the Ripper was related to their client? And he was a policeman? Things were getting entirely too complicated. He put pressure on Carlyle’s wound and turned his gaze again to the young woman. “What’s his name?”
“Leland Carlyle.”
“Here, let me help. My father’s a doctor.” The other girl squatted next to Carlyle, and Mr Parker took the opportunity to back away, bumping into the people behind him.
He stood and fixed Carlyle’s daughter with his best glare. “I asked the name of the other one. Not this one. I know this one. What’s the name of the man who stabbed him?”
“Oh. That’s Walter Day.”
“Walter Day,” Mr Parker said. They had been specifically told not to kill Walter Day, but was it possible Carlyle didn’t know Day was the Ripper? There was something strange going on, but Mr Parker couldn’t figure it out and he was suddenly afraid they had been played for fools. He needed to find his daughter, his partner, and take her away, leave this country. He turned and ran down the same alleyway he had seen Mrs Parker enter.
• • •
BY THE TIME DR KINGSLEY RETURNED, there was a crowd gathered on the street in front of Plumm’s. He recognized Claire Day, who stood alone, leaning against the brick façade of the wrecked store, but few of the others. A man jumped up from the ground and ran down an alley beside the store. Others watched him go, but no one else moved.
Kingsley went to Claire and gently touched her hand. “Claire? Claire, can you hear me?”
She looked up at him, but she didn’t act like she knew him. He waved a hand in front of her, but her glazed eyes didn’t follow the motion. He checked her pulse and smoothed her hair out of her face. He took her arm and walked her back to the wide window ledge outside the store. He brushed the broken glass from it, then took off his jacket and laid it down so she could sit on it. He had smelling salts in his bag, but he wasn’t sure they were necessary.
Kingsley pushed his way through the rabble, rolling up his sleeves as he went, hoping he wouldn’t see Walter Day or Nevil Hammersmith dead on the ground. Instead he saw his daughter leaning over a stranger. Fiona was pressing a cloth against the man’s abdomen, but blood pulsed out through her fingers and soaked the street beneath them. Kingsley knelt beside his daughter and moved her hands out of the way so he could see what he had to deal with.
She looked at him with tears in her eyes. “Can you help him?”
“You did the right thing, Fiona. If the wound had been just an inch away from where it is, the pressure you put on it wouldn’t have been enough to save him.” He ripped open the man’s shirt and peeled the fabric away from the wound, then rooted through his black bag for bandages, alcohol, a needle, and thread.
“Then he won’t die?”
“I’m making no promises, but you’ve given him a chance.” Fiona shivered, and Kingsley wished he had his jacket back so he could drape it over her. “The police are on their way and they’ll be able to provide transport for him. Who is he?”
“It’s Claire’s father. Walter stabbed him. Mr Day tried to kill Mrs Day’s father right in front of her. Why?”
Kingsley blinked hard and rocked back on his heels. He shook his head. “He didn’t kill him. If we can keep this man alive, then Walter Day isn’t a murderer.” But he knew that time was of the essence and he hoped the wagon he’d ordered was on its way already. The bodies in the workshop could stay where they were an hour longer so the police could get Claire’s father to the hospital for proper care.
Kingsley shook his head again and sighed. He had left Walter Day to his own devices, knowing full well the man might be a danger. He hadn’t counted on the Ripper’s enemy being someone who had made himself Day’s enemy as well. He continued stitching, not looking up from his work as he talked. “Fiona, you must think very carefully. Did Mr Day say anything? Anything at all? Did he mention a crow or a white king when he did this?”
“He didn’t say a thing. He just did it. It happened so fast. I don’t understand.”
“It’s all ridiculously complicated.”
He finished and cut the excess thread away, pressed bandages around the wound, and taped them securely in place. He checked the victim’s pulse again and was gratified to find that it was weak but steady. He stood and helped Fiona up, wiped her hands with his handkerchief, and walked her over to where Claire still sat in the open window of the fabulous department store.
“Fiona, you’ve done a great deal to help already, but I need you to take care of Claire. She’s had a shock, and so have you, but you’ve got to be strong for me a bit longer. You’ve got to watch over Claire. Can you do that?” Fiona nodded, and Kingsley smiled at her. “That’s my good girl. I’m very proud of you.”
He glanced behind him at the crowd, which had begun to break up, people wandering away now that the entertainment had ended. Kingsley was disturbed to see that some of them were only children.
“Tell me where Mr Day went,” he said. “Did you see?”
Fiona nodded and pointed at the mouth of the alley.
“Fiona, was Mr Hammersmith . . . was Nevil with him?”
“No. I don’t know where Nevil is. Oh, do you think he might be in danger? Do you think Mr Day might—”
“No.” Kingsley patted her hand and smiled at her. “Don’t worry now. It will all work out. I can fix everything.”
But his words sounded hollow to him. He hoisted his bag and took a deep breath. It was, he thought, possible to fix everything, to reverse the terrible mistake he’d made in leaving Walter Day in an unstable mental condition, but in order to do that he would have to find Day before the police did.
55
Hammersmith took off his jacket and ripped the left sleeve off. He discarded the rest of the jacket and wrapped the sleeve around his mouth and nose, tied it at the back of his neck. It made his face hot, but he could breathe a little more easily. He crept forward, gripping the length of pipe tight in his fist. The end of the hallway was a wall of flames and smoke, but Hammersmith needed to see Jack’s body for himself. He needed to know that the monster was finally and truly dead.
“Mr Hammersmith!”
Hammersmith turned and saw Hatty Pitt at the landing behind him. She was obscured by smoke and was coming slowly toward him. She reached out to steady herself against the wall, but pulled her hand back. The wallpaper was bubbling in the heat.
“Hatty, what are you doing here? Go back downstairs.”
“You’ll die up here,” Hatty said. “You need my help.” Her voice was low and hoarse, and Hammersmith realized his own throat burned when he tried to talk.
Hammersmith reached down and picked up his jacket, ripped off the other sleeve, and tied it around Hatty’s mouth. He shook his head at her, but he didn’t have enough air to try to speak again, unless he absolutely had to. He waved Hatty back and proceeded once again toward the source of the flames. At least he could keep her behind him.
The fire reached the ceiling and began to crawl across it. Hammersmith knew there wasn’t much time left, but he couldn’t turn back now. He put his arms over his face, steeled himself, and ran forward, jumping through the flames and through the open door into the room. A moment later, Hatty barreled into him from behind and knocked him forward into the be
d. His hand brushed against cold flesh. He pushed himself back away from it and adjusted his grip on the iron pipe, his only weapon. He shook his head again at Hatty, reached past her, and closed the door to keep out the smoke, then checked her arms and face for burns.
Somehow the air felt cooler and relatively smoke-free. The fire was out in the hallway, but soon, he knew, it would consume the doorjamb and make its way into the room. They had a few moments at most to look around. Not much time for detective work.
Hatty pulled the sleeve down off her face and pointed at a chair in the corner of the room. “He was there. Sitting right there. Mr Hammersmith, I didn’t think he could even move.”
“Well, he must have found the strength.” Hammersmith nodded at the corpse in the bed. The man lay in a dried pool of blood and his jaw was missing, the flesh torn back halfway down the length of his throat. “Is this Joseph Hargreave?”
“I believe so,” Hatty said. “At least, that’s what Mr Oberon told me.” She shuddered and looked away. “He does resemble his brother. At least . . .” Her voice trailed off. Hammersmith understood. Hatty was strong, but some things were not meant to be seen.
“Stand back,” Hammersmith said. He moved round the foot of the bed and approached the wardrobe that stood between the bed and the window. He took two deep breaths, raised his iron pipe, and pulled the door open.
A second body, stiff with rigor, fell out at his feet. Hammersmith gasped and took a step back, then leaned forward and pushed the body over on its side. It was not Mr Oberon.
“That’s Richard Hargreave,” Hatty said. “The doctor. He was this one’s brother.” She pointed at the dead man in the bed. “He’s killed both brothers. I mean, he made it sound as if he had, but I was holding out some hope.”
“Hope isn’t much of a defense against Jack,” Hammersmith said. The crackling of the fire had grown much louder, and over the top of the closed door he saw a tongue of flame lick the ceiling of their room. “Wait, Hatty, did you say this man was a doctor?”
“Yes, Dr Richard Hargreave. Mr Hammersmith, I’m afraid we’re trapped in here.”
“The crow. This was the crow in the message he left at Walter’s house. Not Dr Kingsley at all. Dr Kingsley is safe from harm. We need only worry about the white king, whoever that is.”
Smoke began to seep into the room, causing Hammersmith’s eyes to sting. He looked at Hatty and saw that her eyes were watering, too, tears streaming down her face. She coughed into her fist. “Mr Hammersmith, I think we’re going to die in here.”
“I certainly hope not. We’ve got a case to finish.” He went to the window and pulled back the curtains, his pipe raised and ready to smash the glass out of the frame. But the window was already broken, and a knotted length of linen hung from the sill, fastened around the window’s latch. Hammersmith leaned out and peered down into the narrow alleyway behind the store. He couldn’t see far enough into the shadows below the window, couldn’t see whether the makeshift rope ladder went all the way to the ground, but decided a broken leg was better than burning to death. He banged away at the bits of broken glass still stuck in the frame. Behind him he heard Hatty yelp and turned to see that the fire had entered the room, eating away at the door all round the jamb and peeling back the wallpaper.
Hammersmith ripped the sheet from the bed, exposing the rest of poor Joseph Hargreave, and grabbed Hatty’s arm. She tried to pull back, but he gripped her harder and looped the sheet round her waist. She nodded her understanding and sat on the windowsill, rotated so that her legs were kicking free in the air outside, then pushed off without even waiting to see that Hammersmith had braced himself. He could feel the fire at his back as he strained to support Hatty’s scant weight. She turned and grabbed the knotted linen rope, and as he watched her lower herself down the outside wall of the building, it belatedly occurred to him that Jack the Ripper might be waiting for them below.
• • •
SIR EDWARD’S CARRIAGE pulled up outside Plumm’s, and the commissioner jumped out and scanned the street, taking in the diminishing crowd and the injured man at its center. A moment later, a second, larger carriage stopped behind his. Tiffany, Blacker, and Kett piled out, along with three constables, and they ran to catch up to Sir Edward.
“There’s a man down,” Sir Edward said. “Blacker, see to him. Tiffany, Kett, catch these people before they run off. Get statements from them. You others, cordon this off. Dr Kingsley will want to look the area over.”
He spotted Claire Day and Fiona Kingsley sitting against the building. Fiona stood and approached him.
“Miss Kingsley,” Sir Edward said. “Your father summoned me here by telephone. He said Mr Day was to be found in the vicinity, but clearly a great deal has happened since then. What can you tell me?”
“Mr Day stabbed Mr Carlyle and ran away down that alley.” She pointed. “Several people have already chased after him. Mr Carlyle needs immediate attention.”
“Yes, I see.”
“There are wagons coming to take away some bodies in a warehouse, but my father said to tell you that Mr Carlyle should be taken first.”
“Of course. And we needn’t wait for the wagons. They won’t be in any hurry to get here if they think it’s not an emergency. Dead bodies are sadly all too commonplace, especially round here these past few days.” He waved his arm at Inspector Blacker. “Blacker, use my carriage. This man is Inspector Day’s father-in-law. Get him to hospital right away, and make sure the doctors understand he’s to be a priority.”
“I’ll tell the driver,” Blacker said.
“Go with him. I want it understood that I’m taking responsibility for this man’s well-being and will be quite cross if he’s not taken care of.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Blacker, none of your jokes. I want the hospital staff to take this seriously.”
“I never joke with doctors, sir. They’re not known to be humorous people.”
“Away with you.” Sir Edward turned back to Fiona. “How is Mrs Day holding up?”
“She’s had a shock, sir. It’s been a difficult year, and this only adds to her hardships.”
“I don’t believe Walter is responsible for this.”
“I saw it, sir, with my own eyes.”
“I don’t mean that I disbelieve you. I mean there are circumstances neither you nor I can currently understand. Your father explained a bit of it when we spoke on the telephone, but I’m hoping for more details from him.”
“He’s gone with everyone else, chasing after Mr Day.”
“Then that is where I must go as well. Thank you, Miss Kingsley. Look after Mrs Day, and we’ll get this sorted. I promise you that.”
He watched her go and sighed again. They had so many problems to deal with from outside the Murder Squad. And yet there seemed to be no end of problems within the squad itself, most of them centering on Walter Day. But he was fond of the lad and was determined that he could be a steadying influence in Walter’s life.
Provided he could catch up to him.
56
Walter Day, what a pleasant surprise.”
Day stopped and squinted at the shadowed end of the alley. His leg ached, which was often the case when he tried to move too fast. He looked about for a weapon, but saw nothing he could use. He wondered what had become of his walking stick. He remembered having it in his hand and didn’t recall setting it down anywhere, but it was gone.
“It’s all right,” Jack said. His voice echoed weakly back and forth between the brick walls, making it impossible to pinpoint his exact location. “I won’t bite you. Or stab you, or cut out your liver and eat it. Unless you promise to remain very still. I don’t think I’m in any shape for a fight.”
“You don’t sound good, Jack.”
“The pain is rather exquisite. I’m afraid I overextended myself climbing down.”
&
nbsp; Day glanced up at a hazy square of light, a window overhead. A rope of some sort hung down from the ledge, and a shape hung there in the dark. The smoke moved above and Day thought he could pick out a familiar figure at the window. He took a step forward.
“That’s close enough, Walter Day. You look confused. Is something bothering you?”
“You can’t see my face any more than I can see yours, Jack. The light’s wrong.”
“I see more than you do. And I hear more than you do. I hear confusion in your voice. What’s happened?”
“I don’t know.” Day took another step forward. If he kept Jack’s attention on him, the Ripper might not look up.
“Oh, my,” Jack said. “You did it, didn’t you?”
“Did what?”
“You finally did me that favor you promised.”
“Favor?” But now fragments of memory exploded in his head. Images of blood and anger, a man on the ground at his feet, bleeding and unconscious. “Jack, what did I do? What did you make me do?”
“An interesting fact about mesmerism, Walter Day. The public believes you can make a man do anything when he’s under your spell, but it’s not true. You can’t force someone to do something he wouldn’t do anyway. It’s what makes mesmerism such a limited tool for murder.”
“I know that now.”
“You could only have killed someone you already wanted to kill. That’s what makes it delicious.”
“I never wanted to kill him.”
“But of course you did. I helped you discard your inhibitions for one glorious moment. And in return you’ve eliminated the last of those dreadful Karstphanomen for me. Or at least of them what held me in that cold, dank prison and did things to me. I did the crow myself, and his body’s burning even as we speak. And you’ve done the white king. Congratulations, and thank you.”