The Harvest Man

by Alex Grecian

  14

  Day passed the guard on his front door and went inside without waking the man. He crept as quietly up the stairs as his cane would allow and closed his bedroom door behind him. He felt tired all the way through his body, as if he might put down roots if he stood still. He changed into his nightshirt and sat at the edge of the bed. His cane rested against a chair on the other side of the room. He leaned forward and touched the fresh puckered scar that ran from his knee to his ankle. It was smooth, hairless and alien, spotted with blood. He poked at it with his thumbnail and dug into the damaged purple flesh.

  “Walter?”

  He jumped and turned to look at Claire. She stepped into the room and pushed the door shut behind her. Her long frilly dressing gown hung all the way to her bare feet, and her hair was down, cascading past her shoulders. He was struck anew by her beauty, as he was every time he saw her. He had never got used to the fact that she was his.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Does it itch?”

  “No. There’s not much there, really. Sort of a trickle of sensation, like I’m dammed up somewhere inside.”

  “You’ll get it back.”

  He smiled at her, but he didn’t agree. She was too optimistic.

  Claire approached the bed and sat next to him. She put her hand on his arm and he lifted it, drew her close, and hugged her. His breath stirred her golden tresses and he blew the hair away from her ear. She drew back and clapped her hand to the side of her head.

  “That tickles.”

  He smiled.

  “They’re sleeping,” Claire said. “The babies.”

  “I haven’t seen them today.”

  “I barely see them myself anymore. It’s so odd having people here to help with the house. And with the girls. I think they’re quite happy with their nanny.”

  “What’s her name? I can never remember.”

  “Miss Powell.”

  “Powell,” Day said. “I’m sure I will have forgotten again by tomorrow. How long will she be here?”

  “I think she’s here for good. Unless you simply loathe her.”

  “I couldn’t possibly loathe her yet. I’ve barely even met her. I just worry we haven’t the room here for a staff.”

  “But we might. Mother’s helped me to figure it all out. It’s taken a bit of rearranging, is all.”

  “Perhaps I don’t want to rearrange my household according to your mother’s whims.”

  Claire frowned and stood up. She crossed the room and picked up his cane, turned and sat in the chair, laid the cane across her lap. “She’s only trying to help.”

  “I appreciate that, but—”

  “And it’s temporary. When we have a bigger house—”

  “Let’s stop talking about things we can’t do. I’m tired.”

  “That’s hardly a surprise. You’re never here. You’ve barely said two words to my parents since they arrived.”

  “I’m sure that’s a great relief to them both.”

  “I know you have work to do, but how will anything change between you if you don’t at least make an attempt to get along with each other?”

  “The only change they’ll accept is if I disappear from the face of the earth and leave you to find a more appropriate husband.”

  “There’s no more appropriate husband for me than you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ve got someone picked out for you. After a proper period of mourning, they’ll introduce you.”

  “You’re being beastly.”

  “You know they can’t stand the sight of me.”

  “They simply don’t know how to talk to you. You’ve nothing in common with them.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  “My father is trying very hard. He’s suggested that we name the girls after—”

  “Oh, so now he’s naming my children.”

  “He is not. He’s made a suggestion. The babies are doing well after three weeks. They’re happy and healthy and I don’t think we’re going to lose them. I think it’s time we gave them names.”

  “And what does your father suggest?”

  “Margaret and Mary, after his sisters. They were twins, too, you know.”

  “But they died when they were . . .”

  “They were three.”

  “That seems particularly morbid to me. And perhaps an ill omen.”

  “Our neighbor’s little boy was named after his own grandfather, a man he never got to meet. It’s hardly an unusual custom.”

  “Fine, then.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway. I had other names in mind. What do you think of Winnie and Henrietta? Except she’d be Winifred, wouldn’t she?”

  “Who would be Winifred?”

  “The small one. She looks like a Winnie.”

  “And who suggested those names?”

  “Nobody. I read them in a book. Fiona gave me—”

  “So now Fiona Kingsley gets to name my children.”

  “No, she has not. She gave me a book and there’s a poem in it called ‘For Winnie and Henrietta.’ I think they’re adorable names.”

  “And what does your father think of them?”

  “I haven’t asked him.”

  “Don’t you think you’d better?”

  “Walter . . .”

  “After all, it hardly matters what I think. It’s your father you’ll turn to when you need something. His influence pervades every nook and cranny of my home.”

  “You don’t like—”

  “It doesn’t matter whether I like the names or not. They’re my children and I’d like to name them myself, without his bloody meddling in it.”

  Claire stared at him for a long moment. She swung the cane from her lap and took it by its end, extending the crook for him to take. “I told you, my father had nothing to do with the names I like. You’re being hateful toward him. My parents are trying their best to be helpful. I know they can be difficult, but they’re making an effort, however small that might be, and you are not. You’ve behaved worse than the babies ever since . . .” She indicated his leg with a glance. “Well, anyway, you haven’t been yourself in quite some time and, forgive me for saying so, I’m beginning to lose patience with you.”

  “Well, that’s just wonderful. They’ve turned you against me now. I knew they’d succeed at it eventually.” He snatched the cane from her and pushed himself up, hobbled to the door with greater difficulty than he really felt, and opened it. “If you want them here so much more than you want me, you may have your wish.”

  “Oh, Walter.”

  “Tell your parents they’ve won. The lot of you can name all the babies you want to name without any interference from me.”

  “Walter!”

  He stepped into the hallway and slammed the bedroom door behind him. He turned and saw a door at the end of the hall quietly close, with just a glimpse of one eye back in the darkness. One of the many newcomers to his household had witnessed their quarrel. His face flushed and he looked down, realized he was still wearing nothing but his nightshirt.

  “Well, the hell with it,” he said. He was talking to the closed door at the end of the hallway. “I will wear a nightshirt in my own home if I choose to wear a nightshirt. A man’s home is his castle, and all that.”

  Claire exited his room. She walked to her own room and shut the door without ever looking at him.

  Day stomped to the stairs and started down, thumping his cane loudly against each step. Halfway down, he could see a light on in the study below. He hesitated, then turned and went back up and put on his trousers. A man’s home was indeed his castle, but decency needn’t be thrown out the window. There were, after all, several new women now under his roof. His second journey down the stairs was taken with a modicum of
discretion.

  Leland Carlyle was standing at the drink cart when Day entered his study. The older man turned, but when he saw Day, he grunted and went back to pouring his drink.

  “Port?” He spoke with his back to his son-in-law.

  “I’ll take a brandy,” Day said.

  Carlyle stoppered the port and reached for another decanter at the back of the silver tray. “I thought you’d gone up to bed,” he said.

  “I did. I thought you’d retired as well.”

  Carlyle ignored the implied question. “Trouble on the home front?”

  “None.”

  Carlyle picked up the two glasses, crossed the room, and set the brandy on a little table near the door, away from the chairs and the fire, as if he expected Day to take the glass up to his room. Day picked it up and took a large swallow. He wanted to turn around, go back upstairs, and take Claire in his arms. He hadn’t meant to be so disagreeable with her. He scowled at Carlyle’s back as his father-in-law settled into Day’s own favorite red armchair. Day had thought he’d be able to enjoy a few moments of peace and quiet, have an opportunity to settle his mind before gathering his courage to go and apologize to Claire. But life was simply one indignity piled upon another. He followed Carlyle, took one of the less comfortable yellow chairs, and set his cane across his lap, realizing as he did it that he was mirroring the way Claire had held it only a few minutes earlier.

  “Good port?”

  “It’ll do,” Carlyle said.

  “It was recommended to me.”

  “Yes, no doubt by another policeman.”

  Day grimaced and swallowed another mouthful of brandy. He stared at his empty glass, at the flickering room barely glimpsed through its faceted surfaces. He considered hurling the glass across the room and ordering Leland Carlyle out of his study, out of his house.

  The house Carlyle had paid for.

  Day stood quietly and got his cane under him, thumped his quiet way to the drink cart, and poured another three fingers, watching the thick amber liquid swirl around itself and up, unable to escape its cut-crystal trap.

  “I believe it was a barrister who recommended it.” He didn’t turn around or look at Carlyle as he spoke, just stood there at the cart and sipped.

  “A barrister.” Carlyle’s voice was deep and pleasant, his words clipped, even, measured. He was a man accustomed to being heard. His opinions were as good as facts. “A barrister is only nearly as sophisticated as a policeman, wouldn’t you say?”

  “So you wouldn’t have been any happier had your daughter married a barrister, then.”

  There was a long silence behind Day. He didn’t move. He was mildly shocked he’d said anything so bold.

  “I meant no disrespect, Walter.”

  “I understand your disrespect is implied.”

  “You have daughters yourself now. One day you’ll feel the same as I do. Nobody is good enough. Nobody.”

  “But particularly not the son of a valet. Particularly not a policeman who can’t afford to house your daughter properly.”

  “Claire will always be taken care of. She will never want for anything, and neither will her children. And for as long as you remain married to her, you will not want for anything, either.”

  Day turned and leaned on his cane. He opened his mouth to talk, but instead filled it with more brandy and waited. Carlyle continued in a hushed tone. Day could barely hear him.

  “And should you choose to go your own way,” Carlyle said, “you would never need worry about their welfare.”

  “Should I go my own way?” Day barely moved his lips as he repeated the phrase.

  “I think you understand me. In fact, there might be incentives for you to go, for you to pursue whatever kind of life you want, away from Claire and the babies. You’re still young enough. Think of the freedom you’d have with a little money in your pocket and the world wide open to you.”

  Day closed his eyes and imagined himself at the bottom of a deep well, surrounded by black water. He set his glass on the cart, a lonely half ounce of brandy left swirling around at the bottom. The room spun and his stomach flipped over on itself. He felt his gorge rise.

  “You’ll excuse me,” he said.

  He left his study, previously the only room in the house he truly felt he could call his own, and hurried down the hallway to the water closet. He jiggled the knob, but it was locked from the inside. Someone, one of the many new people in his home, was using it. Panicked, tasting the bile in his throat and fighting against the wave of nausea in his gut, he hobbled to the kitchen and through the meat pantry. He was bemused to see a rasher of bacon hanging there; expensive meat he was sure he hadn’t paid for. He left the house by the back door and crossed the garden to the thin smattering of trees that bordered the property behind his own. He looked up at the stars, at a cloud that meandered across the sky, its misty fingers caressing the moon. Fresh air filled his lungs and quieted his stomach. He gained control over his gag reflex and resisted the urge to vomit.

  It would have been a waste of good brandy.

  Carlyle had made his offer so casually, in such a matter-of-fact way, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that he could offend Walter Day. How could two men be of such entirely different species? Day leaned against a skinny tree trunk. The tree bowed beneath him, but didn’t fall, and Walter allowed himself to trust its elastic strength. He took his weight off his bad leg and felt instant relief. The change in sensation alerted him to the fact that he needed to urinate and he glanced in the direction of his dark house, the occupied water closet somewhere in there.

  He stood back up and unbuttoned his trousers and relieved himself in the tall grass. He looked up at the treetops, swaying above his head, and it occurred to him that there was something there, just out of sight. The treetops were trying to tell him something, the leaves rustling in a gentle breeze, chattering to one another.

  The treetops.

  Walter swallowed hard and grinned at the empty night sky. He buttoned himself back up and grabbed his cane and hurried as fast as he could back to the house. He went through the pantry, where he took the lantern that hung there, through the kitchen, down the hallway and past the parlor, past his study, past his father-in-law, who tried to grab his elbow. Day shrugged him off and kept going, to the front door and out. McKraken startled awake and gave him a sheepish smile. Day nodded at him and clomped down the steps. He was lucky. A two-wheeler rolled down Regent’s Park Road just as Walter reached the street. He put out his hand and the driver stopped. Day pulled himself up into the carriage.

  “Where to, sir?”

  “Take me to Warwick Road, just off Sutherland Gardens,” Day said. “I know where they are.”

  “I know where they are, too, sir.”

  “No, I know where the children are.”

  “Which children’s that?”

  “Never mind. Just get me there as quickly as you can. They’ve already been through enough. They needn’t spend the night in the wood after all.”

  15

  Blackleg led Hammersmith to a narrow street in a neighborhood full of empty crumbling shops and people asleep under tents and awnings. Gas globes gave a faint radiance to the human shapes in the mist around them. Hammersmith saw a child eating something that resembled a squirrel, and a woman with scabs on her face reached out to him as he passed.

  “A penny for a roll wiff me,” she said. “A ha’penny, even?”

  Hammersmith shuddered and looked the other way, but Blackleg stopped and gave the woman a coin. When he rejoined Hammersmith a moment later, he seemed embarrassed.

  “Gotta help each other,” he said. “Nobody else will.”

  “But that woman . . .”

  “She’s got a baby to feed, don’t she?”

  “Does she?”

  “Her name’s Liz and her baby’s name’s Michae
l. The folks on this street are all the family she’s got. Now shut up with that look on yer face and follow. Don’t get lost or you’re not gonna find yer way home from here.”

  Hammersmith glanced back, but the woman was gone. He wiped the palm of his hand over his face and rolled his shoulders, then hurried to catch up to Blackleg, who was already halfway to the next corner. The criminal didn’t look back, but marched purposefully to a building three doors down from the end of the street. It appeared to Hammersmith to be an abandoned textile factory, but smaller than any that he had seen before. The entire structure leaned to the west and the upper story was half gone. He could see birds roosting in the exposed timbers of the roof. Blackleg beckoned for Hammersmith to follow him down an alley that ran between the warehouse and the next building over. A wedge of gaslight disappeared three feet beyond the alley’s mouth and Hammersmith hesitated. Blackleg was a scoundrel and a murderer and he had never guaranteed Hammersmith safe passage. Still, to turn around and go back would be an admission of defeat. He might as well give up any lingering notions of being a policeman and instead settle in as a clerk or a shopkeeper. He took a deep breath and plunged into the shadows.

  And almost bumped into Blackleg, who was standing against the wall in the dark.

  “What is it? Why have you stopped?”

  “It’s behind me,” Blackleg said. “You took a minute there. Thought you was lost.”

  “Just wary,” Hammersmith said.

  “Good. Wary’s a good instinct. Now c’mon.”

  He turned and, with a grunt, pulled himself through a half-open window. Hammersmith watched him disappear into the blackness of the warehouse. He shrugged and shook his head and jumped up onto the sill. He turned and sat, dangling his legs over the edge, then scooted forward and let himself drop into the room. He landed gently, but felt the impact in his chest, as if he’d broken open his wounds, doused them in kerosene, and set them on fire. He took a moment to gather himself and heard the sound of his heavy breathing echo off the nearby walls. When he felt he could move again, he looked all about him in the inky dark, but couldn’t see a thing anywhere, just a grey rectangle behind him where the window led back out into the alley.