The Harvest Man

by Alex Grecian

  46

  Henry Mayhew.”

  Henry woke up and looked around. There was still nothing to see. Only darkness in every direction. “Who’s there?”

  “It doesn’t matter who I am, Henry Mayhew. I guess you could say I’m a friend.”

  “Let me out of here,” Henry said.

  “Of course. Let me find the door. I’m in the dark, too.”

  “Did he take you, too?”

  “Who? Who took us, Henry Mayhew?”

  “Jack did.”

  “Jack? He sounds like a delightful fellow already. Taking people on marvelous adventures.”

  “No, he’s bad. He kills people.”

  “Ah. Then we must escape his clutches.”

  “Before he comes back and kills us.”

  “Where do you think he went, Henry Mayhew? Why do you think he’s left you and me here alone?”

  “Maybe he’s gone to kill somebody else.”

  “Oh, maybe he has. You know, I think I heard him talking about that. I think I heard him say who he was going to kill next.”

  “Who was it? Was it me?”

  “No, I think he said he was going to go and harm Walter Day’s baby girls.”

  “The babies!”

  “No, wait. I’m mistaken. Not both of them. Just one. The smallest one. He said that one is his goddaughter.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Winnie is smaller than Henrietta. Not very much, but a little bit smaller. It’s because she was born second.”

  “Yes, that’s the very one I mean. Winnie.”

  “We’ve got to do something.”

  “Well, Henry Mayhew, I think it’s clear what you have to do.”

  “It is?”

  “You’ve got to take the baby before Jack does.”

  “Take the baby?”

  “Yes. Why, I’ll wager if you were to go and carry Winnie away, take her somewhere safe, somewhere far away from Walter Day’s house, it would be just as if you had rescued her from Jack.”

  “I don’t think that would be nice. I think Mrs Day would be worried and she wouldn’t want me to take Winnie away from her.”

  “Well, then you mustn’t tell the baby’s mother. What you’ll do, you’ll go to Walter Day’s home . . .”

  “But nobody’s at Mr Day’s home right now. Everybody’s scared because of Jack and the man who came and killed Mr Augustus.”

  “Well, that was speedy. It took him long enough to clear out of there, but then he goes and does it overnight.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Where are they now, do you know?”

  “They’re safe now.”

  “Yes, but where? It’s very important to know where.”

  “Mr and Mrs Day and the babies are at Mr and Mrs Carlyle’s house. That’s Mrs Day’s family. Only it’s not really their house. They’re staying there because of the babies and now they get to see them all the time, so it’s very nice that they’re there.”

  “Why, that’s not far at all.” The man laughed. “That’s just across the park from Walter Day’s house.”

  “That’s how they got there so fast.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, you must go there now, to this new house, and you’ll take the baby away, you’ll take Winnie Day for her own good, and when everything is safe and when there’s no danger anymore, you’ll bring her back to her mother.”

  “And Mrs Day won’t be angry with me?”

  “Henry Mayhew, how could Mrs Day be angry with you? After all, you’ll be the hero who saved her baby from big bad fearsome Jack.”

  “The hero?”

  “Exactly that, Henry Mayhew. You’re a hero, you are.”

  Henry heard a bolt drag across the metal plate in the wall across from him. A door scraped open and Henry pulled himself to his feet and staggered toward the rectangle of sunlight. A moment later, he found himself on the foot deck of a bright red narrowboat drifting along on a canal, green water lapping at the side of the boat under his feet, fresh air wafting into his nostrils. He recognized the bend in the waterway ahead. He was in Primrose Hill, just under Regent’s Park Road.

  “Remember, Henry Mayhew, you must move quickly or it will be too late for little Winnie Day.”

  Henry turned, but saw no one. The high superstructure prevented him from seeing the other side of the canal boat.

  “Go, Henry Mayhew, go!”

  Startled, Henry jumped into the water and swam for the footpath just a few feet ahead. He scrabbled against the stone wall and found an iron ring set into it, pulled himself up, and grabbed a low-hanging tree branch. He hoisted himself out of the water and stood for a moment, getting his bearings, then ran as fast as he could toward the steps that would lead him up into the park.

  47

  You’ll do the pictures for it, won’t you?”

  Fiona looked at Claire, unsure how to answer. Finally, she cleared her throat and shook her head. “That’s not the sort of thing I usually draw.”

  “But I know you can draw my poems,” Claire said. “You drew such a perfect little doll.”

  “It was a doodle. It was nothing.”

  “You would rather draw dead bodies?”

  “It’s not a question of what I would rather draw.”

  “Of course,” Claire said. “I’m sorry. But look, you can still render bodies for your father and do this, too. Do both. I mean, I can’t pay you. At least not at first. But I’m going to get them published, one way or another, and help Walter with the household income. Your illustrations would help so much.”

  Fiona smiled and looked away. “Oh, why not,” she said. “It might be fun.”

  Claire clapped her hands and threw her arms around Fiona.

  “But, Claire, don’t blame me if my doodles ruin your rhymes. People will think you’ve written a penny dreadful.”

  “Oh, they will not.”

  Fiona shook her head again, but she was secretly very pleased. In her head, she was already composing pictures of little boys and girls at play, kites straining against the sky, stuffed animals resting on counterpanes, apple trees being climbed, and puppies chasing butterflies.

  It all sounded so much more pleasant than the endless crime scenes and victims, damaged flesh, and lost dreams.

  She was about to ask Claire what poem she should illustrate first, but was interrupted by the front door of the rented Carlyle house swinging open. It hit the wall behind it with a bang and Henry Mayhew, Henry the Giant, appeared framed in the doorway, dripping wet, his clothing plastered to him, his eyes wide, and his hair webbed across his forehead.

  “Henry,” Claire said, “what’s happened to you?” She rushed to him and pressed the back of her hand against his forehead as if he might have a fever. “Did you fall in a puddle?”

  He shrugged her off and shook his head. He was panting, unable to speak.

  “More like the canal,” Claire said. “Well, go upstairs and dry off. I’m sure we don’t have anything that would suit you—Walter’s clothes would fit you like a sausage casing—but you can at least get a bit more comfortable.”

  Henry nodded, out of breath, still unable to talk. He went quickly to the stairs and up. Claire turned to Fiona with a bemused expression.

  “I wonder what happened to him,” she said.

  “I’m sure we’ll find out when he’s calmed down,” Fiona said.

  Claire went to the door to close it, but Henry was already clomping back down the stairs. He had something in his arms, but he kept his back turned to them and rushed out of the house before Claire could react. Fiona went to the door and looked out, but Henry was already across the road and hurrying into the park.

  “What did he have with him?”

  “I don’t know,” Claire said. “He was in an awful hurry.”

  “Stop him!�
�� The governess was hurtling down the stairs, jumping down them three at a time, her ample frame bouncing. “He’s got one of the babies!”

  Claire stood frozen at the threshold, uncomprehending. Then she snapped to and grabbed Fiona’s arm, shock written across her features.

  “Go back and stay with the other baby,” Fiona said to the governess. Then she took Claire’s hand and they ran together to Regent’s Park.

  But Henry Mayhew had disappeared.

  48

  Day struggled to keep up with Hammersmith, who trotted up and down every street in the neighborhood, knocking on doors. At each house, Nevil showed the drawing of the Harvest Man to housemaids and ladies and to the occasional businessman, cook, or governess they encountered. Children opened two of the doors and Hammersmith tipped his hat to them and went on his way. Even the illustration of a murderer might be too much for a child’s sensibilities.

  But there was no sign of the Harvest Man anywhere.

  Constable Jones passed them twice on horseback. The third time they saw him he stopped and greeted them. “He’s close. Tiffany almost caught him.”

  “The Harvest Man?”

  “Indeed. The very one. Lost sight of him in the square up there, but we’re tightening the circle now. He’s not getting away again. Here, there’s a drawing of him. Take a look.”

  “We’ve seen it,” Hammersmith said.

  “Good. Then I’d better get back to it.” With that, Jones turned the horse around and hurtled down the street.

  The constable’s excitement was contagious. Day felt a surge of energy and he picked up speed, easily matching Hammersmith’s pace for a while. They spent another two hours in the search, occasionally crisscrossing the routes of other policemen, but with no luck.

  Exhausted and hungry, they turned along a side street, hoping to find a fish-and-chips shop, and Hammersmith grabbed Day’s jacket at the elbow. He pointed. “Look!”

  A big house at the end of the street was decorated with columns in the front, and above the door was a gold-painted mask of a frowning human face.

  “Like the tragedy mask at a theater,” Day said.

  “Bentley’s scary face.”

  Day nodded. “We’ve found Tiffany’s witness. But there’s usually a smiling face, too. The happy half. It goes with the sad one. I’ve never seen just one by itself.”

  “Comedy, tragedy. They’ve only got tragedy at this house.”

  “Wonder why.”

  “What say we go ask them,” Hammersmith said. “It might help to show our drawing to the witness.”

  Hammersmith moved slowly down the street so that Day could keep up. Day knew he was holding Hammersmith back and he felt conflicted. On the one hand, he appreciated his friend’s quiet support. On the other, he wished Nevil would just get to the damn house and ring the bell.

  At last they reached the end of the street and Hammersmith pulled the cord. They waited. Day looked around at the houses. They were only five streets over from the most recent murder scene, but here everything seemed quieter, more refined. Blanketed in high shrubbery and flower beds and the hanging branches of pink-blooming willows, the homes were slightly larger, and better kept up. And no doubt exponentially more expensive. Day turned back when the door opened. A gentleman wearing white gloves bade them enter and closed the door behind them. The ceiling of the entryway was vaulted and a chandelier hovered over them, reflecting a thousand beams of sunlight from a high window.

  “Tell me,” Day said, looking up past the chandelier, “this house doesn’t have an attic, does it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I thought not.”

  The gentleman took their hats and their names and led them to an antechamber, where he left them. Day immediately sank into the cushions of a sofa, but Hammersmith paced back and forth examining the canvas portraits that hung along the walls at eye level, all depicting the same woman in different costumes. The inspector and his former sergeant didn’t have to wait long. Two women bustled into the room before Hammersmith had a chance to get impatient.

  Day stood and clasped his hands over the silver knob at the end of his cane. One of the women was tall and buxom, recognizable from the many paintings of her around the room. She wore too much rouge and a wig that framed her face in mahogany ringlets. The other woman was smaller and seemed content to hover in her companion’s shadow. Her nose was bandaged and her eyes were ringed with purple bruises. She might have been Fiona Kingsley’s age, perhaps a year or two older.

  The taller woman spoke first. She filled the room with her voice. “Have you caught him, then?”

  “We’re only here to ask a question or two, if you don’t mind,” Day said. “I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you.”

  “Oh, then you haven’t caught him. Damn it all!”

  Day had the distinct impression she was trying to shock them with her language. “Caught who, ma’am?”

  “Whoever it is that murdered John Charles. And almost murdered poor Hatty.” At this, she thrust the smaller woman out in front of her, displaying her like a recently acquired pet.

  “You must be Hatty Pitt,” Day said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  Hatty opened her mouth to speak, but the other woman interrupted. “Yes, of course this is Hatty Pitt. And I’m Eugenia Merrilow, as if you didn’t know.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you.” Day could feel Hammersmith beginning to boil behind him and hoped Nevil would remain silent. Tact wasn’t one of his strengths. “We’re looking around the neighborhood and only stopped here to ask a question, as I said. Though of course we’re terribly honored to finally meet you, Miss Merrilow.” He had no idea who she was, but it was clear she thought he should know.

  His flattery had the desired affect. She softened visibly and sat down in an armchair across from the sofa. Day took it as an invitation and reclaimed his seat on the sofa. He rested his cane across his lap.

  “Is that silver? The top of your cane, I mean.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “Thank you. A recent gift.”

  While they spoke, Hatty Pitt remained by the door. There was about her the aspect of some wild creature, poised to run. Day noted that, while she had recently been bathed and had her hair brushed, her eyes were bloodshot and her hands trembled.

  “Well,” Eugenia Merrilow said, “what was your question?”

  “We’re looking for the man who . . . Well, I’m sorry, Miss Pitt . . .”

  “We’re looking for the man who killed your husband,” Hammersmith said.

  Day winced. He watched the girl, waiting for her to bolt from the room, but she didn’t move. Her eyes cleared and she nodded. She was made of stronger stuff than Day had imagined.

  “I saw him,” she said.

  “Will you . . . Do you think you might be able to talk about him?”

  “I don’t . . . I’ll try.”

  Day looked up at Hammersmith, who nodded back at him.

  “Miss Merrilow,” Hammersmith said. “You have a lovely home. Would you mind showing me about?”

  “Oh, I’ll have Pritchard show you.” She aimed her carefully maintained face at the door and shouted: “Pritchard!”

  Hatty winced at the loud noise.

  “Actually, if you wouldn’t mind,” Hammersmith said. “I’d much rather you showed me.”

  Eugenia Merrilow looked Hammersmith over. She turned and glanced at Hatty, and Day saw something hungry in her eyes. He could see her weighing flattery against curiosity, struggling to decide between the pretty young man and the unhappy girl.

  “Well, I suppose I’ve already heard all about what happened to poor Hatty. But let’s be quick about it.” She rose and went to the door, patted Hatty on the shoulder, then reached out her hand for Hammersmith to take. Instead, Nevil put his hands i
n his pockets and followed her out of the room.

  When they were gone, Hatty left her post by the door. She came and sat across from Day. “I can describe him for you, if you like,” she said. “The monster.”

  “Did you describe him for the other policemen? The ones who talked to you this morning?”

  “I tried, but . . . Oh, I’ve forgotten his name, the policeman.”

  “It would have been Inspector Tiffany.”

  “Yes, that’s the one. I didn’t like him very much. I’m sorry. The other one, there was another one . . .”

  “Perhaps Inspector Blacker?”

  “Yes. He was nicer. Tried to brighten my spirits a bit with terrible jokes.”

  “That’s Blacker, all right.”

  “They visited me in hospital. But I didn’t want to talk and I couldn’t think just then. I couldn’t remember very much about the one who chased me and who killed . . .”

  “It’s all right. We understand.”

  “He was going to kill me, too.”

  “Yes. You must be very fast, and very brave. Only three people have escaped this man so far.”

  “Two others?”

  “Two boys. They got away from him, just like you did. Which means he’s not a monster at all. He’s only a man, and men make mistakes. And we can catch him.”

  “Are the boys all right?”

  “Perfectly fine. They’re at my home right now.” This was not entirely true. They were at the home of Leland and Eleanor Carlyle, but that was more detail than Hatty Pitt needed to hear.

  “I remember some things about him,” Hatty said. “I’ve been trying to remember, but it’s hard. He was very fast and he was running and I was running too and it was all so . . .” She broke off and put her hand up to her mouth. Her eyes wandered away to the rug at her feet.

  “Those boys,” Day said. “The boys I told you about? They remembered what he looked like. They described him to an artist who works with the police and she drew him.”