The Harvest Man

by Alex Grecian

“What time should I stop in?”

  “Perhaps wait a couple of hours so they can catch up on their sleep and eat another meal. They’ll no doubt feel safer once they’re rested. But I don’t want you to wait too long or they may start to forget.”

  “We’ll make sure to keep them safe,” Henry said. “You tell them that.”

  “I will,” Day said.

  Fiona turned to Hammersmith. “And you? Did you also come to talk to me?”

  “Your father, actually,” Hammersmith said.

  “I haven’t seen him yet this morning,” Fiona said. “He’s left a dreadful mess here and run off somewhere.” She swept a hand through the air a foot above the desk, showing off the collection of bric-a-brac from Kingsley’s cabinet drawers. The whole pile of junk was surrounded with a ring of twine that was still attached to a ball that had fallen off the desk and rolled halfway across the room.

  “What was he doing with all this?”

  “I haven’t the slightest,” Fiona said. “He scattered random things everywhere and then it looks as if he’s made some halfhearted attempt to tie it all together.”

  “Should we tidy up for him?”

  “I don’t think so. He prefers to have things just so.”

  “I can see that,” Day said.

  Fiona shrugged. “I can write down a message for you and leave it here. But I can’t guarantee that it won’t be lost in this clutter.”

  “Actually . . .” Hammersmith said. He passed a hand through his hair. “I just realized I don’t know what I’d say if we did leave him a message. I don’t know if he can help me.”

  “That sounds intriguing,” Fiona said.

  “It’s only this.” Hammersmith took the silver cuff link from his pocket and set it down on a reasonably clear area of Kingsley’s desk.

  “Oliver found that,” Henry said. “He likes shiny things.”

  “I thought the doctor might be able to detect something that I can’t,” Hammersmith said.

  “You mean the finger marks he makes visible with black powder,” Day said.

  Fiona leaned forward and peered at the cuff link. She looked up at Hammersmith. “Is it a clue of some sort? From the Harvest Man case?”

  “No,” Hammersmith said. “Something else. I don’t . . .”

  “Of course, you aren’t investigating the Harvest Man,” Fiona said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “Quite all right. I haven’t got used to it myself, being a civilian.”

  Day leaned forward to peer at the cuff link. “Is it a clue about you-know-who?”

  “That’s just it,” Hammersmith said. “I have no idea, but it might be. And if it is . . . Well, it’s all I’ve got at the moment, so I thought it was worth bothering the good doctor on the off chance it really is something.”

  Fiona narrowed her eyes at them. “Who is ‘you-know-who’?”

  “Another case. It’s something I’m following up on now that I’ve got the spare time.”

  “Well, at any rate,” Fiona said, “I’m quite sure my father won’t be able to find any fingerprints on this thing.”

  “He can’t?”

  “Well, it’s so small,” Fiona said. “And even if he could find a little part of a finger mark, you’ve been touching this. They would be your marks he’d find all over it, wouldn’t they?”

  Hammersmith looked down at the cuff link and felt his face grow warm with embarrassment. “I wasn’t thinking. I should have been more careful.”

  “It’s all right.” Day laid a hand on his shoulder. “Finger marks aren’t everything. If you’ve a reason to think this cuff link is connected to a crime, you’ll track the man down, one way or another.”

  Hammersmith sighed. Perhaps Sir Edward had made the right choice, after all, in dismissing him from the force. He wasn’t careful or thoughtful enough to be a good policeman.

  “But there is an engraving on it,” Fiona said. She had picked the cuff link up and was examining it in the light of the dim lamp on the windowsill behind her.

  “Initials,” Hammersmith said. He felt suddenly a bit more hopeful. “At least, I think they’re initials.”

  “A man named A and R,” Henry said.

  “There must be a thousand men in London with those initials,” Day said.

  “At least we know it is a man,” Fiona said. “Women don’t have need of cuff links.”

  “Is there a way to track down the purchase of these? I mean, without a hundred constables at my beck and call, marching all over the city, questioning shopkeepers.”

  “Perhaps if there were something unusual about them,” Day said. “Or something different about the engraving process.”

  “Does your father know much about . . . I don’t know, clothing or engraving on silver?”

  Fiona shook her head. “But I think I know someone who does.”

  “An expert?”

  “You might say that. I could show this to him, if you’d like.”

  “Could I meet him?”

  “You could go with me.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  Fiona stood up from behind the desk and picked up the cuff link. “We’ll go right away. And then I’ll come round to your house as soon as we’ve finished up, Inspector.”

  “Bring your drawing supplies,” Day said.

  “I always have those.” She slipped the cuff link into her pocket, grabbed her bag from the floor beside the chair, and marched out the office door. In an instant she was back. She ran to the desk and raised the book she’d been leaning on, scooped up something from beneath it, and ran back out all in a flash. Startled, Oliver swooped out the door after her and returned a moment later, looping through the office door as Hammersmith was trying to leave. Hammersmith ducked and fell back as the bird settled itself once again on Henry’s broad shoulder.

  Day helped Hammersmith to his feet, bracing himself with the stick, and brushed him off with his free hand. “Well,” Day said, “I suppose I’d better get moving, too. Lots to do.”

  Hammersmith paused at the open door. “You’ll be at the house later?”

  “I think I’ll stop at home to check on the children and then I’ll head in to the Yard. I’m behind on paperwork.”

  “I’d rather not go by there, if I can avoid it.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  Hammersmith checked to be sure that Fiona was out of earshot. “Three women killed in the East End. But recently. Matches his previous deeds.”

  “But he’s changed,” Day said. “That makes no sense.”

  “I know. I’d hoped you might have some thoughts.”

  “Come by the house,” Day said. “I want to know more.”

  “I don’t want to stay here,” Henry said. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to clean this up.” He gestured at the desk.

  “I’m sure Dr Kingsley will—”

  “I want to come to your house, too, Inspector Day,” Henry said.

  “You do?”

  “If that’s all right with you. Mrs Day is nice to me and I’m hungry now. Maybe she’ll give me food.”

  “Um.” Day shrugged. “Well, why not? The more the merrier, I suppose.” He looked at Hammersmith. “You’ll tell me if there’s anything to this cuff link thing, right?”

  “Of course,” Hammersmith said. “I’ll find you, wherever you are.”

  He waved to Henry and rushed out of the office, hoping he wouldn’t get lost in the hospital again before he could catch up to Fiona.

  27

  The street was empty, men off at work, children away at school or inside their homes carrying out chores, some women working, too, the rest watching their children or visiting friends. A four-wheeler rolled by and turned the corner and was gone, dragging silence in its wake. Dr Kingsley stood at the curb and
looked up at the murder house again, at its wide-open shutters, its well-tended garden, its freshly painted trim. The windows of the attic above gave it the appearance of a face, watching over the bluebells and daffodils, and the creeping Jenny in early bloom. Kingsley unclasped his bag and approached the open front door, pulled out his tape measure, and ran it across, then up and down. He put the tape away and stepped inside, sniffed to test the air. He still detected decay and the lingering body odor of many policemen, but the worst remnants of recent history were already wafting away out the doors and windows. When the dust finally settled, there would be nothing left but a few stains and the memories held by neighbors.

  “Who’s there?”

  Kingsley flinched in surprise at the sound of the rough voice and he strode quickly to the staircase. Inspector Tiffany stood at the top of the steps, looking down, poised as if to leap on trespassers. “Ah, Tiffany,” Kingsley said. “I thought perhaps I’d found some poor relative of the family, here to make off with the silverware.”

  “I had the boys clean up in here a bit. Wanted to let the place air out before I closed it back up.”

  Kingsley climbed the stairs and shook Tiffany’s offered hand. They walked across the landing together and stopped in the bedroom doorway. The bed had been stripped of linens. A splash of dark brown marred the thin mattress. The sun streaming in through the open window behind the bed highlighted sticky smudges here and there across the floorboards. Fewer of them than Kingsley remembered.

  “You could have left anyone here to guard this house,” Kingsley said.

  “I wanted to take another look around,” Tiffany said. “These murders don’t sit right with me. Don’t understand what he does or why he does it. I thought maybe . . .”

  “Maybe there was a clue you’d overlooked.”

  “It’s possible. I had a little hope. Maybe with all the bodies out of here, living and dead both, well, maybe there was more to it all than a bloody madman slicing people up for no good reason at all. Used to be if a woman’s dead, her husband did it. Go nab him at his club and the job’s done. Now nobody’s got a reason for what they’re doing.”

  “Jack the Ripper opened a gate.”

  “Right,” Tiffany said. “Exactly right. No reason we ever saw for what he did and he got clean away with it, too. Now every other madman out there’s decided ‘if Jack can do it, I can do it.’ Makes it rough for the rest of us who just want a decent night’s sleep.”

  Kingsley nodded. “And did you discover anything new here?”

  “Aw, damnit, you know I didn’t. If there was something here, you’d’ve found it yesterday, wouldn’t you?”

  “Who knows? The bodies, the living ones, do tend to get in the way sometimes,” Kingsley said.

  “I apologize for Bentley. He was curious, is all. But I gave him what for, all the same. He shouldn’t have walked all through here like he did.”

  “What’s done is done. No need to apologize. But I have an idea that might help us both with that very thing. I’d like your opinion and, if you agree with me, I’d appreciate your support when I present it to Sir Edward.”

  “What is it?”

  “Hold this for me, will you?” Kingsley handed his bag to Tiffany and reached inside. He drew out a cowhide pouch and held it up for Tiffany to see, then took the medical bag back and set it on the floor at his feet. He opened the pouch and walked to the bed and emptied it out on a clean section of the mattress. He pushed the items from the pouch into a small pile and plucked out a glove, tossed it to Tiffany, who caught it and frowned at it.

  “A rubber glove,” Kingsley said.

  “A what? I mean, I see it’s a glove, but . . .”

  “A rubber glove,” Kingsley said again. “It’s made completely of rubber.”

  “Never heard of such a thing.”

  “It’s not common. But I frequently correspond with Dr Halsted in America, and he sent these over. The staff of Johns Hopkins has developed them in order to protect their hands from harsh chemicals, but these gloves have an additional unforeseen benefit. They’re proof against the oils of the skin.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “That means your constables won’t leave the prints of their fingers on anything they touch if they wear these.”

  “Oh, for . . .” Tiffany threw the glove back at Kingsley. “Finger marks again? Look, I’ve got nothing but the highest regard for you, Doctor, but this fairy-tale finger smudge of yours is too much.”

  “I know you’re not a particular champion of fingerprints in the—”

  Tiffany held up his hands, palms out. “No disrespect intended. Sorry if I misspoke. But it’s my belief that criminals get caught because I chase after ’em. Where you come in is tellin’ me which way to run. Finger marks don’t help either one of us do that.”

  “They will,” Kingsley said. “I believe they will. But we can disagree and still find common ground here. Before you finish passing judgment, I have more to show you.”

  “Why me? I thought Day was your man. I wasn’t even good enough for you to talk to yesterday, was I?”

  Kingsley held a hand to his nose to mask the lingering scent of death and took a deep breath. He rolled his head until he heard his neck pop and a gratifying bit of tension left his shoulders. This was going to take longer than he’d expected. “You have qualities, Jimmy,” he said.

  “I do?”

  “You do. You are closed-minded, you have trouble commanding respect from your peers, you frequently allow your job to overwhelm you, which in turn causes you to retreat from intellectual pursuits and give yourself over to the easiest answers that present themselves—”

  “Oh, do go on.”

  “But,” Kingsley said, “you are dogged in your pursuit of the criminal element, you do not allow yourself to be swayed to any view but that of the law, you are not, in short, here to make friends. You are a perfect example of the modern policeman.”

  Tiffany relaxed his stance and raised his eyebrows.

  “You want to catch the man who did this thing,” Kingsley said. “And so do I. And that’s why I’m showing you this kit I’ve made up. I think it will help us both.”

  Tiffany blinked and nodded and leaned back against the doorjamb. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then,” he said. “Besides them flimsy gloves, I mean.”

  “I should think some sort of rubber cover for your boots would be good, but I don’t have such a thing at hand.”

  “Aye, it doesn’t do to have us tromping all through the stuff you’re trying to look at, but I think that can be done just as well by trainin’ the men better. Teach us to be careful where we step. Now I’m conscious of it, I watch where I put my feet.”

  “Training will suffice, I suppose. Until I can come up with a solution.”

  “Used to be, when I was just comin’ up in the police, the public would turn out for a thing like this. We’d leave the bodies where they lay and everyone in the neighborhood would file through for a good look. Like seein’ their dead friends was high entertainment for ’em. Never understood it myself. But we didn’t worry about findin’ evidence. Mostly, if there was any evidence, it’d be stolen anyways for a souvenir. We only worried about catchin’ the one who did the deed. And I’ll tell you, nine times out of ten, the murderer would be one of the ones walkin’ through for a peep at the bodies. Imagine if things were still like that.”

  “That was before my time,” Kingsley said.

  “I’m not sayin’ it was better then.”

  “No.”

  “Anyway, I’m not likely to stop and put covers on my boots. Much of the time there’s a certain amount of hurry in what we do.”

  “Point taken. But I’ve got this, as well.” Kingsley held up a small stack of envelopes with string fasteners.

  “For puttin’ clues in, right?”

  “Exactl
y, Jimmy. When you find something important—say the Harvest Man had tracked something out of this room and you couldn’t contain it or you needed to pick it up to keep it for me—you’d put it in one of these envelopes. And here’s a grease pencil so you can write where you found it, the date, the case it’s from, et cetera, on the outside of the envelope. A record of everything from start to finish.”

  “And where would I put the envelope?”

  “Back in the bag here,” Kingsley said.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize . . . You mean, you want me to carry that little bag with me everywhere?”

  “Well, not necessarily everywhere. But you could keep a few like this at your desk. We’ll make them up ahead of time. And when you’re called out to a scene like this one . . .” Kingsley motioned with his hand to indicate the room and, beyond it, the entire murder house. “When you come to a place like this, you’d just bring one of these along with you. It needn’t be all that difficult.”

  “Keep convincing me.”

  “All right. Here, a pair of forceps.”

  “Tweezers? What, in case I’m eating fish?”

  “Fish?”

  “Gettin’ them little bones out of a fish so I don’t choke.”

  “No,” Kingsley said. “To pick up small things and put them in the envelopes. Hair, threads, dirt, pipe ash, you know the sort of thing.”

  “Go on.”

  “Still not persuaded?”

  “You got more there. Let’s see it all.”

  Kingsley picked up a measuring tape exactly like the one he carried, but new, without the myriad stains and overall threadbare quality of his own. He tossed it to Tiffany.

  “Let me guess,” Tiffany said. “When I pick up a clue, I can measure out where it was in relation to everything else.”

  “Now you’ve got it. That’s just what I’m driving at.”

  “Or I can measure my fish before I take the bones out and eat it.”

  “No, there’s no fish. I don’t know why you . . .”

  “I’m havin’ a little fun, Doctor. That’s all. My apologies.”

  “I see. Sorry. Yes, now for the last thing here. A spool of butcher’s twine.”