The Harvest Man

by Alex Grecian

  “For . . .”

  “For tying your fish,” Kingsley said. “Before you roast it.” He smiled.

  Tiffany grinned back. “Right. That fish sounds tastier by the second. What’s it really for, though? This one’s got me stumped.”

  “One of the problems we still seem to have is people walking around these places and obliterating evidence. It’s really not much better than what you described, when the neighborhood used to parade through. Your men can’t seem to keep everyone out—”

  “They’ve got a lot of work to do and they—”

  “No offense intended,” Kingsley said. “I’m sure they do their level best, but sometimes outsiders will stray in and foul a scene before I can even get a look at it. Family, neighbors, witnesses, people are curious and they’ll get around your men at the first opportunity to stroll around and ogle a dead body.”

  “So we tie everybody up with butcher’s twine,” Tiffany said.

  “No. I think you’re joking again. You work with Inspector Blacker quite a bit, don’t you? His abominable sense of humor is wearing off onto you. No, what you’d do is tie off the entrance to this room or even the front door of the whole house. Both, if you want to be doubly certain nothing is disturbed. Just rope it across, like so . . .” Kingsley wrapped a loop of twine around the knob and stretched it across the open doorway, then twisted it around itself and wedged the loop into a crack in the wood, letting the rest of the ball drop to the floor. “Now you’ve marked this room off and made it clear that no one is allowed to enter.”

  Tiffany nodded and stroked his chin while Kingsley gathered the materials back up and put them in the little bag.

  “And there,” Kingsley said. “A compact package to carry with you that will help us keep things orderly and undisturbed while we work.”

  “Let me make sure I understand,” Tiffany said. “Let’s say it’s yesterday and I arrive right here at this house. I got my bag here and I put on your rubber . . . Rubber, right?”

  “Yes. The rubber gloves.”

  “So I put on the rubber gloves and I walk around real careful-like and scour the ground for clues and then when I find one I produce my tweezers and pick ’em up and put the clues in an envelope.”

  “Not all in the same envelope. You’d use a different one for each piece of evidence.”

  “Right, so I juggle a handful of envelopes and then while I’m picking up the clues, I measure where they was at and then I get out my pencil and write all this on the outside of each envelope and put ’em all back inside this bag.”

  “That’s the long and short of it, yes.”

  Tiffany nodded. “I like it. It’s a good idea.”

  “You do?” Kingsley was astonished. “You seemed so skeptical.”

  “Oh, I am. I think we could do some different things, maybe have an extra thing or two to put in the bags in case there’s different situations, maybe figure ways to do some of that faster or easier. But it’s smart. One thing you are, Doctor, it’s smart.”

  “So you’ll help me present it to Sir Edward?”

  “Sure. But one thing, this twine isn’t gonna work at all. It’s like a spiderweb. Too thin and brown to get anybody’s attention. People are gonna walk right into it, through it, not even notice it, just pull it out of the way.”

  “Hmm. I see your point.”

  “Maybe something thicker or with some color. Some way to stick it here instead of poking it in a crack. Needs work.”

  “An adhesive tape, perhaps?”

  “I don’t know. Just needs work. Other than that, you give me one of these bags and I’ll use it.”

  Kingsley almost hugged the surly policeman. If Tiffany could be convinced to use the new kit, they all could be.

  28

  Hatty Pitt was tied to her bed. Thick coils of rope wound over and around her, under the bed and back up, pinning her arms and legs. The rope was rough, wiry tendrils sticking off it in every direction, and it scratched her, made her itch. She was able to move her head, craning her neck to watch the narrow section of landing she could see through the partially open bedroom door.

  Earlier she had woken when it was still dark and had heard someone singing, a voice she hadn’t heard before, and she had heard John Charles cry out once. Then Hatty had passed out, and when she woke again the sun was up.

  Now there was only silence.

  Someone had entered her room in the night and bound her to her bed, then done something to John Charles. It occurred to her that the same someone might still be in the house.

  Her mouth tasted terrible, like a rotten peach, and there was a lingering chemical scent in her nostrils. She snorted, trying to clear her nose, and turned her head to spit on the floor at the side of her bed. Propriety be damned. She was certain she would die soon and only wanted to feel a little more normal before it happened.

  A great deal of time passed. Hatty watched a big black-and-green fly move across her bedroom ceiling. It grew braver when she didn’t move, hopping and skimming above her, then spiraling down to land on her chest. She watched it groom itself, scraping its wings with its feet, rubbing its head, wiping its eyes, its abdomen iridescent in the pale sunlight. It stopped and sat very still for a long moment, then skipped toward her face. It took off again and drifted in a lazy circle and landed again, this time on her chin. She felt it; she could no longer see it, though she strained her eyeballs until they ached. It skittered up onto her lips and she blew on it and it retreated, up into the air for a few seconds, buzzing angrily at her, and then down onto her nose. She angled her lips and tried to blow it off her face again, but it didn’t move. She crossed her eyes and could see its blurry black shape. It ran across her cheek and onto the bed beside her face and she lost track of it there. She worried that it was in her hair.

  Her feet were free at the end of the bed. She could see her bare toes sticking up into her line of sight when she lifted her head all the way up and forward so that her chin touched her chest. She wiggled her toes and waggled her feet back and forth, then moved her legs, rocking them to and fro beneath the heavy rope. She swayed her hips, finding more room to do so the more she moved. She decided she was not as tightly bound as she’d thought and so continued to move parts of her body as much as she was able, straining against the ropes, feeling them give the slightest bit. Occasionally she would disturb the fly and it would drift upward into her line of sight and then settle down again somewhere beside her.

  She found herself wishing that a spider would come along.

  She lost track of time and was busy shrugging her shoulders, tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing, creating slack in the rope, when she sensed a presence in the doorway. She stopped moving and swallowed hard before turning her head. A man stood there, stock-still, watching her. At least she thought it was a man. It was hard to tell because he was actually quite small and was wearing a plague mask, its heavy beak thrusting into the room. The creature cocked its head to one side and reached up, lifted the mask. Hatty stared at him for a moment and looked away. She guessed the man was in his early fifties, but he might well have been a puppet rather than a living, breathing person. His face was utterly expressionless, dark eyes hidden under a heavy brow, his thin lips nothing but a gash in his narrow face. He had a large nose and his whiskers were patchy and grey. He clearly hadn’t shaved in weeks. His long salt-and-pepper hair stuck up every which way in sweaty spikes. Hatty closed her eyes and wished that he would go away, and when she opened them and turned her head, he was indeed gone.

  She heard something bump against the floor in the other bedroom and Hatty watched the door, wondering when the man was going to come back and kill her. Quietly, she began pushing out against the rope with her elbows, continuing the work of getting herself free, though she was certain it was too late.

  Sometime later, the man came by her bedroom door again. He was walking ba
ckward, dragging something heavy along the floor. She blinked. The man had two corners of a blanket in his hands and, as she watched, John Charles’s body passed through her line of sight, from his feet to his head and away across the landing to the staircase, which she could not see.

  She heard the creak of floorboards and the steady thump thump thump as John Charles was pulled down the steps, one at a time.

  Hatty redoubled her efforts, moving in mad patterns against the ropes, feeling them give way, but oh so slowly. She closed her eyes and thought about nothing but the ropes, willed them to loosen. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she hoped she might drown the fly with them, if that insect was still beside her on the bed. She felt her nose running, but couldn’t wipe it. Her chest convulsed in sobs.

  John Charles didn’t have a face.

  29

  Hammersmith had never visited the Marylebone bazaar and he couldn’t think of a thing they might have inside that he would ever want or need. He followed Fiona through the doors and waited for his eyes to adjust to the sudden shade. Electric lamps were hung everywhere, but the press of people absorbed the light. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of unwashed bodies and dust. Fiona pushed her way through the crowds—mostly women, Hammersmith noticed—to a stairway and up, without pausing to look at any of the distractions on display. Hammersmith was relieved, and had to hurry to keep up with her. He’d been afraid she was using him as an excuse to shop, but she appeared to be quite serious about their mission.

  At the top of the steps, she led the way to the back of the broad landing, where an old man sat behind a meticulously arranged counter. He smiled at their approach.

  “Lady Tinsley, isn’t it? I never forget a name,” he said.

  Hammersmith shot a puzzled glance at Fiona, but kept his mouth shut. The old man hopped off his stool and stepped forward far enough to rest his elbows on the counter. He stared up at Hammersmith and narrowed his eyes. Hammersmith felt self-conscious and used his fingers to brush his hair out of his face. He suddenly wished he’d taken the time to change his clothes that morning. And another hour or two of sleep wouldn’t have hurt him, he supposed.

  “And this must be your young man,” the shopkeeper said.

  Hammersmith’s eyes widened and he looked to Fiona for help, but she was studiously avoiding his gaze.

  “Mr Goodpenny,” she said, “this is my friend Nevil Hammersmith.”

  Hammersmith put out his hand and Goodpenny straightened himself and shook it.

  “Don’t shout at me,” Goodpenny said.

  “But I haven’t said a word,” Hammersmith said.

  “Just so,” Goodpenny said. “And when you do, you won’t shout, will you? I like the look of him,” he said to Fiona. “A bit rough, I suppose, but a few good meals and a proper laundering ought to take care of that.”

  Hammersmith was confused. He felt like he’d stumbled into a conversation that was already under way.

  “Actually, Mr Goodpenny, Nevil needs a favor, if you wouldn’t mind terribly,” Fiona said. “He’d like to get your opinion on something.” She glanced briefly at Hammersmith and nodded, and he felt a rush of relief when he realized that he finally knew what was being discussed. He groped about in his pocket until he found the cuff link Fiona had given him and set it on the countertop in front of Goodpenny, who leaned down over it.

  “May I pick this up?”

  “Please do,” Hammersmith said.

  “Wouldn’t want you to think I was stealing it,” Goodpenny said. “Does this belong to you, Mr Angerschmid?”

  “It’s Hammersmith, sir. And no, it doesn’t. I found it and would like to return it to its owner.” He and Fiona had settled on this simple cover story during their journey to the bazaar. It didn’t seem necessary to try to explain the circumstances in which he’d discovered the cuff link or the significance of it, particularly since it might have no significance at all. Hammersmith hadn’t allowed himself much hope that the piece of jewelry would lead him to a suspect.

  “I thought you might be able to help, Mr Goodpenny,” Fiona said. “Since this is your area of expertise.”

  “Oh, no no,” Goodpenny said. “Not at all. I actually have a great deal of expertise in this sort of thing. Been at it for thirty years, though not always in this location, mind you. In fact, this cuff link is of the sort I carry. Made by a fine family in Cornwall. I visit them twice a year to buy silver.”

  “There’s an engraving on it,” Fiona said. It was clear to Hammersmith that she was fond of the old man, though she seemed to be acting cool toward Hammersmith now, virtually ignoring him, as if he’d offended her somehow.

  “So there is,” Goodpenny said. “A-R. They’re initials, I presume.” He looked up at Hammersmith and nodded. “But not your own. Unless I put your initials on this in backwards order.”

  “Do you mean to imply, sir, that you engraved this yourself?” Fiona sounded excited.

  “It’s possible,” Goodpenny said. “As I say, this cuff link looks like one of mine. Here, let me show you.” He stepped back from his counter and scowled at it for a moment, then crouched down and reached inside. Hammersmith saw Goodpenny’s hands and the top of his balding head through the glass as he peered about. He emerged after a few minutes with a handful of cuff links, which he spread out over the counter. He grunted and picked one of them up.

  “This is the very one,” he said. He held it out for Hammersmith and Fiona to examine. To Hammersmith’s untrained eye it looked like the same design and style of work, a slightly squashed diamond shape with deep grooves around the edges and a smooth raised inner ridge. He picked up the one he had brought and set it in the palm of Goodpenny’s hand, next to the new one. Aside from the engraved initials, the only difference he could see was the mud embedded in every indentation of the older cuff link. He looked up at Goodpenny’s smiling face.

  “Did you do this? Did you engrave this one?”

  Goodpenny shook his head. “I can’t be sure. I do have quite a fine memory and I’ve got no recollection of these initials, so my first instinct is to say no to you. But if you’ll wait but a moment, I keep a record of all my engravings. Stay here.” The old man patted the air between them as if settling them into their places, then turned and scuttled away behind a curtain at the rear of the little kiosk.

  Hammersmith looked at Fiona and shrugged. She brushed a stray hair out of her eyes and opened her mouth to say something, but appeared to think better of it and looked away. Hammersmith turned slowly in a circle and took in the other little shops clustered around them, the ladies bustling from one spot to another, their baskets overflowing with sundry wares. He wondered how there were so many different things for sale. He glanced back at Fiona, but she appeared to be examining something behind the glass of Goodpenny’s counter. She had swept her yellow hair back behind her ear and Hammersmith could see her pulse throbbing in her throat. Her long eyelashes fluttered and she licked her lips. He looked away, suddenly aware that he was staring at her.

  “It would be quite a coincidence if the cuff link came from this very place,” he said. As the words left his mouth, he heard how inane they were and winced. Of course it would be a coincidence. He was making small talk, something he never did. He believed that if a person had something to say, he should bloody well say it. And if there was nothing to say, say nothing. He shook his head, confused by his own idiocy, but Fiona looked up at him and nodded. She seemed relieved.

  “I do wonder how many places there are that engrave this sort of thing,” she said. “Perhaps it’s unusual.”

  “In which case, it wouldn’t be a coincidence at all, would it?”

  “No. It would be fortunate, of course, but hardly coincidental.”

  “Quite right.” Hammersmith felt an almost overwhelming and irrational urge to walk away and go back to his flat and start the day over without bazaars and cuff links and foolish c
onversations. But before he could make any excuses, Goodpenny returned, clutching a leather-bound ledger book. The inexplicable awkwardness was immediately dispelled by his presence. He set the book down between them and opened it, then leafed through the pages, working his way backward in the ledger.

  “You see, I write down each transaction in this book, in case someone complains that I’ve engraved the wrong initials,” Goodpenny said. “You might be surprised by how often that happens. People say one thing and expect something completely different to end up engraved on their jewelry.”

  “Perhaps,” Fiona said, “you ought to have them write their initials down for you themselves. That way there’d be no confusion.”

  “That’s exactly right, my dear, I write it all down to prevent confusion.”

  “That’s not what she said,” Hammersmith said. But Fiona motioned for his attention and shook her head at him. Hammersmith raised his eyebrows, but didn’t pursue the matter.

  They waited several minutes while Goodpenny pored over his journal of old transactions. Hammersmith shifted from foot to foot and drummed his fingers against the countertop. Fiona stood stock-still, her shoulders tense and her hands clasped together in front of her. At last Goodpenny looked up from the book and shook his head.

  “Nothing here,” he said. “A few initials, now and then over the years, but never an A-R at any time. I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you.”

  Fiona blew out a lungful of air that Hammersmith realized she must have been holding for quite a while. She seemed to be as invested in his case as he was. She looked up at him, her brow furrowed and her jaw clenched. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I really thought perhaps . . .”

  “It was a good idea. Worth looking into, at any rate. For all we know this thing is entirely unrelated to the murders.”

  “You said murder,” Goodpenny said. “Murder? Has someone been killed?”

  “Three women,” Hammersmith said. Their flimsy cover story didn’t really matter anymore, if it ever had.