The Harvest Man
Page 30
“How many other crimes must they deal with every day? As time passes, Walter will be pushed further and further down the list of priorities. They think they’ll keep searching. Jimmy Tiffany’s been round here nearly every day telling me that very thing. But he’s only looking for Walter in his spare time because his work hours are so full. People won’t bloody well stop murdering each other long enough to let the police look for Walter.” She finally sat on the edge of the red chair that had once been the centerpiece of her husband’s study. “I’m not offering you charity, Nevil. I’m asking you to work for me, because I know that you’re as dogged and stubborn as a mule and you’ll never give up until Walter’s been found. He’s your friend and I know he’s counting on you. He needs the help of a single-minded policeman, not a bloody dustman. Please forgive my language. I didn’t intend to let myself get so—” She broke off and her gaze went to the window. There was nothing to see there.
Hammersmith went and stood in front of her. He found the wallet in his breast pocket and took a card from it. He looked at it before handing it over to her. Fiona Kingsley’s handwriting was as precise as printed text.
Claire took the card from him and closed her fist around it. She looked up at him and her eyes were rimmed with tears. “Does this mean you’ll do it?”
Hammersmith held out his hand. “Nevil Hammersmith, private detective, at your service, ma’am.”
ONE YEAR LATER
Over the borders, a sin without pardon,
Breaking the branches and crawling below,
Out through the breach in the wall of the garden,
Down by the banks of the river, we go.
Here is a mill with the humming of thunder,
Here is the weir with the wonder of foam,
Here is the sluice with the race running under—
Marvellous places, though handy to home!
Sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller,
Stiller the note of the birds on the hill;
Dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller,
Deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill.
Years may go by, and the wheel in the river
Wheel as it wheels for us, children, to-day,
Wheel and keep roaring and foaming for ever
Long after all of the boys are away.
Home from the Indies and home from the ocean,
Heroes and soldiers we all shall come home;
Still we shall find the old mill wheel in motion,
Turning and churning that river to foam.
You with the bean that I gave when we quarrelled,
I with your marble of Saturday last,
Honoured and old and all gaily apparelled,
Here we shall meet and remember the past.
—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, “KEEPSAKE MILL,” A Child’s Garden of Verses (1885)
A telephone had been installed in Sir Edward Bradford’s new office on the Victoria Embankment, but he had only used it twice in a year. It sat on the edge of his desk and he did his best to simply ignore it. He didn’t trust the thing. When he talked to someone, he liked to look him in the eye. So much of a conversation was about body language. Sir Edward still used runners to deliver most of his messages. He liked the idea that some of the boys might grow up to join the Metropolitan Police, even become inspectors someday, but he could see that the old system would soon fade away. There would be no need to employ runners or nurture future generations of policemen. Time marches on and technology leads the parade.
So when the virtually unused telephone rang early one Tuesday afternoon, he jumped and upset his tea all over his lap. He stood and brushed the liquid off his trousers and sighed. He was reminded of poor Sergeant Hammersmith with his stained and soiled clothing. Sir Edward wondered what Hammersmith was up to lately. He hadn’t seen the man in months.
The telephone rang again and Sir Edward grabbed the receiver.
“Stop it,” he said.
“I’m sorry?” The voice on the other end sounded timid. “Is this Colonel Sir Edward Bradford?”
“Of course it’s me. Who else would answer this thing? It’s in my office.”
“Sir, this is Sarah at the exchange. You have an incoming call.”
“Oh. What do I need to do?”
“Please hold, sir, and I’ll connect you.”
“Well, do it, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a long pause during which Sir Edward could hear the shrill echo of machinery and multiple female voices, like ducks on a faraway pond. Then there was a click and he heard another voice.
“Hello,” the voice said. It was low and flat, almost a whisper, but Sir Edward recognized it immediately.
“Walter? Is this Walter Day on the line?”
“Please help me.”
Sir Edward’s eyes widened. He could barely breathe. “Where are you, Walter? Tell me where I can find you.”
There was no answer. After a moment, Sarah came back on. “I’m sorry, sir. The other party has disconnected.”
Sir Edward set the receiver down on his desktop. He went to his office door and was surprised when it opened on a long dark corridor. For some reason he had expected to see the Murder Squad desks, all in their rows, as they had been in the summer of 1890. He rushed down the passage and grabbed the first runner he came across, a boy idling at the bottom of a staircase. He was probably the only runner in the whole building, there just in case the commissioner had a message.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Gregory Little, sir.”
“Get me Inspector Tiffany,” Sir Edward said to him. “Of the Murder Squad.”
“Inspector Tiffany,” Gregory said. “Right away, sir. What shall I tell him?”
“Tell him . . .” Sir Edward paused and ran a hand over his long white beard. “Tell him I’ve just heard from Day. Tell him . . . tell him that our friend Walter Day is alive somewhere.”
“Yes, sir!” Gregory turned and ran.
Sir Edward watched him until he was out of sight. He put his hand on his chest and felt his heart pounding. He waited a moment to catch his breath and he nodded at the empty hallway.
“You carry on, Mr Day,” he said. “We’ll find you yet.”
Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!