by Alex Grecian
“Did you erase anything?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were there markings here that you or somebody else might’ve rubbed away?”
“What kind of markings?”
“Chalk.”
“Oh, that. No, nothin’ like that. ’Course, I wasn’t the first one in here. But I didn’t see nothin’ looked like chalk.”
“A circle? Blue chalk drawn in a circle. Maybe here on the wall beside the body.”
“No, not a bit of it.”
Hammersmith nodded and put his palm on the cool alley wall, leaned forward, and squinted. It seemed logical to him that the brick and stone would show some sign of fresh wear if a chalk line had been rubbed away. He saw nothing but the normal effects of age. He swept his fingertips over the ground and dislodged a tiny methodical snail. It pulled its head inside its shell, protecting every part of itself except two wet probing eyestalks. Oliver changed his position on Henry’s shoulder and cocked his head. Hammersmith closed his fist loosely over the snail.
“You didn’t find anything else?”
“Just the body,” Blackleg said.
“You moved it right away to that place underground?” Hammersmith suppressed a slight shudder at the thought of the subterranean tomb.
“Depends what you mean by ‘right away,’ but we didn’t take our time about it.”
“Didn’t stand around arguing over whether to call the police in?”
“That much never occurred to anybody, and I guarantee it.”
“And nobody lingered here when the body was gone?”
“Nobody I noticed. Of course, anybody could’ve come back later and done whatever it is you think was done.”
“I wish Dr Kingsley were here.”
“I wish he was here, too,” Henry said.
“I don’t mind if you bring ’im,” Blackleg said. “He’s not a rozzer.”
“He might find something I’m missing.”
“What do you wanna do now, then?”
Hammersmith opened his hand and set the snail down safely out of Oliver’s line of sight. He stood and kicked the wall, knocking dust off his boots. “Let’s take a look at the place where you found the second dead girl.”
Blackleg nodded and turned. Hammersmith had to trot along quickly to keep up with the bigger man.
24
After sending Walter off for the day, Claire spent some time in the nursery with the twins, who ignored her while they babbled at each other. She checked in on the boys, who were still sleeping at opposite ends of the daybed in the parlor. Simon stirred and whimpered. She sat and put her hand on his forehead, and he pulled himself farther under his blanket. When he was calm, Claire rose and went back through the house and wandered outside with her book of poems.
Her garden was exactly large enough to hold a young ash tree, as well as four white-painted chairs and a table roughly the size of a tea tray. It was not a suitable place for games or picnics, but she enjoyed reading there.
This morning, she found her mother sitting under the spreading branches of the ash with a newspaper. Eleanor Carlyle put the paper down, removed her spectacles, and smiled at her daughter. She was all sharp angles, teeth and elbows and chin. Eleanor was wearing a mint-green dress with a subtle floral print and an enormous sun hat. The brim of it hid her eyes. From where she stood in the open doorway, Claire could smell her mother’s lavender and talcum powder scent wafting through the garden.
“Come over here,” Eleanor said. “I’ve barely seen you this entire week.” She folded her newspaper and set it aside on the miniature table, then patted the seat of the chair beside her. Claire reluctantly moved around the table and took the offered seat. She smoothed her skirts over her lap and looked down at the paper, tried to read it, though it was upside down.
“You know, I didn’t sleep a wink last night,” her mother said. “People in and out at all hours. And those babies of yours.”
“We’ve named them, Walter and I.”
“Mary and Margaret?”
“No. We’ve decided on Winnie and Henrietta. Winnie will be the small one.”
“Your father won’t like that.”
“Won’t he?”
“Do you want to tell him that you won’t be using his dear sisters’ names?”
“Why don’t you tell him?”
“I’d be only too happy to. Well, whatever their names, can’t you keep them quiet? The walls here are so thin.”
Claire had not heard the babies at all. If they’d been up during the night, the governess had swiftly responded to their needs. The twins seemed to thrive on each other’s company and rarely demanded attention from anyone else.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Oh, well, it can’t be helped,” Eleanor said. “If one is going to have small creatures about, one must expect a bit of hardship. Have I told you your father’s decided to get another dog? And just when the house has finally quieted down. I suppose I shall never sleep properly again.”
“Yes,” Claire said. “A dog is much the same as a baby, isn’t it?”
“What’s that, dear?”
“Nothing, Mother. Only talking to myself.” She decided to wait a bit before telling her mother about the boys sleeping in the parlor. She could well imagine what Eleanor would have to say about that situation.
“Talking to yourself? Oh, the habits you’ve picked up here,” Eleanor said. “I’m afraid this city’s driving you mad.”
“I like the city.”
“You don’t know what you like. Walter pulls you this way and that and you go along like a dutiful wife. It’s to be commended, I suppose. He certainly chose well for himself.”
Claire stood. “I believe I’ve had enough sunshine. I’m going to lie down.”
“Nonsense. You just now came out and you’re deathly pale. Sunshine is exactly what you need. Come, let’s talk some more.”
“About what, Mother?”
“Well, about anything you’d like, I suppose.”
“I don’t think I have anything to talk about at the moment.”
“You have something better to do than talk to your poor mother?”
Claire sighed.
“I suppose you could be practicing your needlework,” Eleanor said. “You should, you know. You’re dreadful at it.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, you are. Or perhaps you could take singing lessons. Tell me, do you sing to Walter after supper?”
“No. But we often talk with each other.”
“A man does not enjoy talking with his wife at the end of the day when he’s trying to relax. A husband needs to be entertained. Sing to him if you want to be of any use.”
“Walter does enjoy talking with me. We discuss what’s happened during the day.”
“But nothing’s happened to you during the day. You take care of babies and mope about the house complaining of too much sunshine. You’re morose, dear. What self-respecting husband would want to discuss the events of the day with you?”
“Oh, Mother.”
“I’m only trying to help, you know. You need to find something to do with your time, other than just filling a room with your presence and bothering your poor husband. No wonder he’s . . .”
“He’s what, Mother?”
“Never mind.”
“Walter is fine. And I do lots of things.”
“Like what, dear? What do you do?”
“I’ve been writing . . . Oh, never mind what I do.”
“No, I want to hear about it. You write something? Are you practicing penmanship? Writing letters? That’s lovely. A good way to pass the time.”
“Not letters. I write poems.”
“Poems?”
“Well, not poems. Rhymes for the babies.”
“How charming! And them with absolutely no understanding of poetry. The perfect audience for you, aren’t they, dear?”
“I had thought . . .”
“What, dear?”
“Never mind.”
“No, tell me. What other ways have you found to occupy yourself?”
“I’m going inside now.”
“Suit yourself.” Eleanor clucked her tongue and picked the paper up from the table. She muttered something under her breath.
“What was that, Mother? I didn’t hear you. Or were you talking to yourself?”
“I most certainly was not talking to myself. I said you’re a very silly girl.”
Claire opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again. Anything she said to her mother would only prolong their conversation. She turned on her heel and left Eleanor in the garden. Inside the dim house, she bit her lip and closed her eyes, willed herself not to cry. She took a deep breath, wiped her fingertips across her cheeks to catch any escaping tears, and walked to the staircase without glancing in at the parlor. She tried to dismiss her mother’s nagging, but she was afraid there was a kernel of truth in what Eleanor had said. Claire was certain that Walter really did enjoy her company, but there might still be something she could do to be of use, perhaps even to bring in a little extra money for the household. An idea occurred to her as she looked up the stairs at the dark landing above. She pursed her lips and climbed the steps to the room where the twins slept. She took a chair beside their bassinet and gazed at their plump pink faces and let her thoughts wander far from the little house on Regent’s Park Road.
25
Hammersmith stood and leaned against the wall. “Three locations and no chalk anywhere,” he said.
“You still been looking for chalk this whole time?”
Hammersmith nodded at Blackleg. “Blue chalk. But there’s something wrong here. It’s the same sort of thing he used to do, but it seems old-fashioned to me now, out of step with what he’s been doing more recently. He’s reverting to his old ways or . . .”
“You’re thinkin’ he woulda drawn them symbols if it’s him.”
“Yes. Those three women you found were all mutilated in the same ways Jack the Ripper . . . Well, it’s the way he worked.”
“Yeah, I don’t got much doubt it’s him,” Blackleg said. “With or without chalk circles on the wall. He killed them three ladies, killed Little Betty.”
Henry grimaced and reached out, touched Blackleg on the elbow. “Little Betty?”
“Did you know her?”
“She was nice to me when I didn’t have a place to sleep,” Henry said. “I haven’t seen her in a long time.”
“She was nice to everyone,” Blackleg said. “She didn’t deserve to get carved up like a Christmas ham.”
Hammersmith’s fingers went unconsciously to the scar across his chest. It itched. “Nobody does,” he said.
“Especially not Little Betty,” Henry said.
“I’m convinced Jack’s been different since he returned,” Hammersmith said. “But these dead women . . . Maybe he’s doing two things at once. Killing women for one reason and men for another.”
“Killers usually got cause to kill,” Blackleg said. “And just one reason’s enough.”
Hammersmith suspected the big criminal was speaking from experience. “But I don’t understand this at all. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“No surprise to think he’s a madman.”
“No. No surprise.” Hammersmith turned and surveyed the cobblestones again. “Here, hold the lantern over here. Maybe I missed something.” He gestured and Blackleg swung the lantern around. Behind him, Oliver cried out and flew from Henry’s shoulder, swooped to the ground, and snatched something from the dirt. The bird circled around, soaring high up over the rooftops above them, and coasted back up the alley to land on his customary perch once more. Henry reached up and Oliver dropped the object into his hand. He held it out for the others to see.
“A silver cuff link,” Blackleg said.
“A clue,” Hammersmith said. “You and your people must have stepped on it when you found the girl here, pushed it into the soil.”
“Bird’s got good eyes.”
“Oliver likes shiny things,” Henry said.
“Could be from anybody,” Blackleg said. “Could be unrelated to this thing.”
“Possibly,” Hammersmith said. “Look. It’s engraved.”
“A-R. A man’s initials?”
“I hope so.”
“Be nice to know who A-R is.”
“It’s a starting point, at least. More than we had before.”
“So, what now?”
“Now I think we have to ask for some help.”
26
Dr Kingsley’s door was closed when Hammersmith returned. He knocked, but Henry reached out and turned the knob. Hammersmith was surprised to see Walter Day standing inside the office next to the desk. Fiona Kingsley was sitting in her father’s chair, behind a pile of odds and ends, and she hurriedly grabbed a book from a stack on the desk. She slammed it down in front of her, covering something up, and shot him a guilty smile.
“I was looking for—” Hammersmith said.
“My father’s not in.”
“I see that. But you’re here instead, Inspector.” Hammersmith looked at Day and squinted as if to bring him into focus.
“I only just arrived myself,” Day said.
“Wasn’t I supposed to meet you out at the wood to look for missing children?”
“No sense in that now,” Day said. “I’m not there.”
“Clearly. And I’m not there, either. I had an early morning, after a late night, but I was going to head out as soon as I finished up here.”
“No need.”
“You found them, then? Wonderful!”
“Last night. Only a few hours ago.” He held up the tree branch he was using as a cane.
“What’s that?”
“My new walking stick. Fresh from the wood. It’s a long story that I’ve just finished boring poor Fiona with.”
“So you went back there without me?”
“I had an idea of where they might be. Didn’t really know how to get hold of you quickly and I thought, if I was wrong, it would be a waste of your time. Anyway, it worked out. They were up a tree. Literally, up a tree. They’d built a platform up there.”
“Ah, we were looking down,” Hammersmith said, “when we should have been looking up.”
Day smiled. “We were not very observant.”
“But who expected them to stay in a tree for hours on end?”
“At any rate . . .”
“You found them.” Hammersmith puffed up his cheeks and blew out a big sigh of relief. “That’s truly the best news I’ve heard in a long time. I take it they’re all right?”
“Tired and hungry and scared, but otherwise two normal healthy boys.”
“That’s good, Mr Day,” Henry said. “I knew you would save those boys.”
“I told him about the children,” Hammersmith said. “Henry and I have spent a good deal of time together this morning.”
“We found something important,” Henry said.
“Actually, I don’t know if we did,” Hammersmith said. “Where did you put them? The boys, I mean.”
“They’re at the house with Claire,” Day said. “Still sleeping when I left.”
“Glad I didn’t go out to the wood first thing. I’d’ve wasted the morning looking for them when they were happily napping miles away.”
“I promise I would’ve got a message to you before too much longer,” Day said.
He turned his attention to Fiona. She sat with her hands on the book in front of her, as if it might float away if she didn’t hold it down. She had been moving her head back and forth between
the three men as they talked, but hadn’t interrupted.
“That reminds me, though,” Day said. “It’s why I’m here. I completely forgot when you showed me what you were—”
“Forgot what?” Fiona cut him off, her voice higher pitched than usual. “Were you looking for my father?”
“No, in fact, I was looking for you,” Day said. “I wondered if you would stop at the house a bit later. You might be able to help the children remember something.”
“But how would I do that?”
“They saw the Harvest Man. You know . . . ?”
“I know who you’re talking about. My father was at the latest murder scene all day yesterday. Those victims, the corpses, are downstairs now.”
“I saw them.” Hammersmith shuddered again. “In his laboratory, early this morning. These villains are getting bloodier minded, aren’t they?”
“It has begun to seem so,” Day said. “Those victims were the boys’ parents. The Harvest Man was at their home.”
“Oh, that’s . . .”
“It’s awful, is what it is. But they saw him, and that might be a good thing for us and for this monster’s future victims. He lifted his mask and the boys saw his face. I need them to describe it, but they can’t. I thought perhaps if you drew it for them, they might remember details that aren’t coming to mind just now.”
“You mean, they would tell me what he looked like and I would draw whatever they say?”
“Yes. Maybe seeing a sketch of his features will help them remember even more about him.”
“You’re going to make them scared again,” Henry said. “Thinking about that man and looking at a picture of him. What they’ve been through . . .”
“But it might give us more information than we have right now,” Day said. “We need to know what he looks like. He must be traveling somehow, going from house to house. That’s when we can catch him, when he’s out and about. Will you do it, Fiona? You’re the best artist I know of.”
“That’s kind of you,” Fiona said. “I guess I can try.”
“That’s all I ask,” Day said.