The Yard tms-1

by Alex Grecian

  “Are they?”

  “Oh, certainly. An absolute bane. Sticky and messy and always jumping about, ruining springs and wearing the texture off of everything within sight. An absolute bane.”

  “So you don’t particularly care for children, I take it.”

  “Not at all, not at all. They’re darling little things, I suppose. But we mustn’t let them on the furniture. Don’t have any myself. Children, I mean, not furniture. I have a good deal of furniture, of course. A good deal. But no children.”

  “Has another policeman been to visit recently? Another detective?”

  “Never! You’re the first. The absolute first.”

  “Sir,” Kingsley said, “your tools, please?”

  “My tools?”

  “You were going to show me the tools you use in your work?”

  “Oh, so I was. Come round here to this side of the table, if you don’t mind. Come, come. Easier over here on this side of the table. Don’t have to lug it all round there when it’s all over here to begin with.”

  Day looked at Kingsley, who rolled his eyes. Day understood. The upholsterer was amusing, but communicating with him was a tedious process. They stepped around the end of the table and stood back as French lifted a wooden tub of tools up and onto the table, scattering nails and screws onto the floor. The tub sat off balance, the end of a short bolt of burgundy linen under one corner.

  Kingsley peered into the tub and pulled out a number of items, setting them on the table next to him.

  “You don’t mind, I hope,” he said.

  “Not at all, not at all. Feel free.”

  Kingsley picked up a white rubber mallet and held it up to the light.

  “Why white?”

  “Pardon? Oh, you mean why is the mallet white?”

  “That is indeed what I mean.”

  “Well, not to mar the furniture, of course. A black mallet would leave marks, wouldn’t it? I mean, wouldn’t it?”

  “I suppose it might.”

  “Oh, it would. It most certainly would.”

  Kingsley set the mallet aside. Day reached past him and took a small hammer from the tub. It was shaped like a miniature pickax, with dull metal points on both sides.

  “This looks dangerous,” he said.

  “Oh, not at all. Not at all. Perfectly harmless. Of course, one must know how to use any tool. In that sense, I suppose you might say it is dangerous. Quite dangerous indeed.”

  Day held the hammer out for Kingsley to see. “Do you suppose,” he said, “that something like this might have been used to subdue Detective Little before the murder?”

  French gasped and his hands flew to his face. He grabbed his muttonchops in both fists and pulled.

  “Murder?” he said. “Oh my Lord. Murder?”

  “No,” Kingsley said. “Please calm yourself, Mr French.”

  The doctor shook his head and took the hammer from Day’s hand, frowned at it.

  “There was no evidence of any crushing blow,” he said. “So far as I was able to determine, the only implement used was a pair of shears.”

  “Like these, you mean?”

  Day reached into the tub again and pulled out a pair of shears, angled near the handles. The blades were well worn and had been frequently sharpened. The handles gleamed black.

  “Perhaps,” Kingsley said. He took them from Day and held them up to the light.

  “No, sir. No, sir, my shears never were used for no murders, none ever. Oh my Lord.”

  “Mr French,” Kingsley said, “you may want to ease your grip on your side-whiskers before you pull them entirely from your face. We are here to ask questions of you, not to accuse or incriminate you.”

  Day put a hand on the little man’s shoulder. “We really just need your expert opinion, sir. You can be of great service to the Metropolitan Police Force and to all of London.”

  French looked at him and let out a long breath. He loosened his grip on his cheeks and nodded. “Be proud to do what I can, then, sir. Proud and honored.”

  “Good. That’s settled.”

  “Shears very much like these, I would imagine,” Kingsley said. “I would need to perform some tests on them for blood residue before ruling out this specific pair as the weapon.”

  Day held out his hand to stop French, whose hands had flown to his muttonchops again.

  “It’s quite all right,” Day said. “Dr Kingsley is speaking in the hypothetical.”

  “I don’t mind the language, sir. It’s the question what throws me. It’s the question of murder, don’t you know.”

  “May I borrow these?” Kingsley said.

  “My shears? Well, I do have a second pair, but I prefer those. I prefer them over my second pair.”

  “I don’t care to inconvenience you. I could arrange to have them back to you by teatime.”

  “I’d rather not. I’d really rather not. But, as you say, if I can be of service-”

  “I’ll have them returned to you forthwith. And these, if you don’t mind.” Kingsley held up a set of long curved needles, each about four inches long and thick through the middle. They were fastened to a plain white card and resembled metal ribs, torn from a spine.

  “My needles? Certainly, certainly. I have many of those. In fact, if you don’t mind, I’d much rather you took a dull needle. I have many I plan to discard if you don’t need one of my sharpest ones.”

  “A dull one will do just fine, sir.”

  “Excellent. Wonderful. Excellent.”

  “One more thing,” Kingsley said.

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew the button. He held it out in the palm of his hand for the furniture maker to see. French leaned in and moved his spectacles closer to the end of his nose. Day watched carefully, ready to catch them if they fell from his face.

  “What do you make of this?” Kingsley said. “Anything unusual about it?”

  “Unusual? No, not unusual, I wouldn’t say. Nothing unusual about it, except perhaps that it’s not attached to anything. This sort of button, you know, this sort of button is not the sort one carries about in one’s pocket. No, not a pocket button at all, per se, but meant to be attached to a piece of furniture. Most definitely a furniture-type button.”

  “I see. Well, there was very little reason-”

  “I can tell you that the piece of furniture this comes from is quite old and probably somewhat out of fashion these days. Somewhat old-fashioned. I would think it’s from a sofa, an old sofa. The velvet has been worn down to nothing, hasn’t it?”

  “I hadn’t realized it was velvet.”

  “Oh, yes, at one time. And peach-colored, though you wouldn’t know it to look at it now. Yes, once upon a time this was a peach velvet button. Most likely from a peach velvet sofa.”

  “Yes, most likely.”

  Kingsley’s sarcasm was lost on the little man. French beamed up at the doctor and pointed at the button.

  “May I?”

  “By all means.”

  He lifted the button from Kingsley’s hand and peered at it. “I’m not at all sure what these stains are. Teeny tiny black stains dotted all about it and this big smudge here on the side. Not at all sure. Perhaps mold?”

  “It’s blood.”

  “Blood? Oh, my. Blood, you say? Well, yes. Now, if you look at the back of it here, you see there’s still a bit of thread attached, which tells me almost nothing because thread is thread is thread, don’t you know. But it’s frayed quite a bit. I imagine this button drooped from the couch for a good long while before it was plucked off. A good long time. I would absolutely hate to see the state of this piece of furniture. Clearly not cared for in the least. Why, do you know…”

  French snapped abruptly to attention and pushed his spectacles back up on the bridge of his nose.

  “Do you know, I would be willing to wager that whoever owns this piece of furniture … well, not this piece of furniture, because this isn’t a piece of furniture at all, is it? No, it’s a button.
But I mean to say the piece of furniture this button comes from. The couch it was once attached to, if you take my meaning.”

  “We do,” Day said. “We take your meaning entirely.”

  “Good, good. I would wager anything that this button comes from a couch that comes from a home that has children. And more than one child, I should think. This couch has been abused by children.”

  “I hear they’re a bane.”

  “They are. An absolute bane.” French carefully laid the button back on Kingsley’s outstretched palm. “I only wish I could be of more help,” he said.

  “Think nothing of it. You’ve given us one or two bits of new information.”

  “Have I? How wonderful. Wonderful.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr French. We’ll be taking our leave now.”

  Kingsley scooped up the scissors and the card of needles and walked briskly to the door. He turned and nodded and stepped out into the storefront. The little bell over the front door jingled, and by the time Day exited the back room, Kingsley was already out of the shop and standing in the street.

  “We’ll send someone round later today with your things, Mr French,” Day said.

  “Oh, thank you. I should hate to lose my tools. They’re quite necessary to my work. Absolutely essential, really.”

  “Of course.”

  “I suppose I can make do for a bit. Glad to be of use to the Yard, you know, always glad to be of use.”

  “Thank you again, sir.”

  Day shook his hand and hurried out of the shop. He joined Kingsley at the curb.

  “You do know he wanted to send you out with a used needle, rather than his new ones,” Day said.

  “Why do you think I left so briskly? I don’t want an old needle. I want these.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “I want to see how easily they puncture flesh.”

  “Oh.”

  “They’re thick, you see. Quite a bit thicker than a normal needle.”

  “Do you think this was the type used on Mr Little, then?”

  “No. The needles I found at the scene were of a different sort.”

  “Then why take these at all?”

  “I like to be thorough, my boy. I may learn something from these that will shed light on something else entirely. Solving this crime is important of course, but crime doesn’t stop, and the more I know the better prepared I am. Evidence never lies, but it’s up to us to interpret correctly what it says.”

  “I see. At any rate, it doesn’t look as if our Mr French had anything to do with Little’s murder.”

  “Not in the least. A more harmless specimen I’ve never laid eyes on.”

  Day nodded. “Certainly, certainly,” he said.

  Kingsley chuckled and waved Day into their waiting carriage.

  10

  Dash it all, anyhow,” Constable Pringle said.

  Lately, the tailor’s shop seemed to be closed more often than it was open. Pringle tried the door again, but it was locked tight and the interior of the little store, visible through the big plate-glass window at the front, was dark. He sighed and rubbed his chin, deciding whether to wait for the tailor to return.

  “Was you talkin’ to us, love?”

  Pringle turned and nearly bumped into two women who were standing directly behind him.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “No, I’m afraid I was talking to myself. Must be going mad.”

  He smiled his most charming smile. The two women were clearly prostitutes, but the taller one was pretty, if one looked past the livid scar that ran down her face. The other woman, the short one, seemed more aggressive, and Pringle liked that. She was the one who had spoken.

  “Everybody talks to themself,” the short woman said. “What separates us from the beasts, don’t you know?”

  “Perhaps it does at that, ma’am.”

  Pringle tipped his hat at them. “Now, I don’t mean to be off-putting, my dear ladies, but you may see by my uniform that I am the law.”

  “Aye, but the law’s got needs like any man, don’t he?”

  “True. Very true. And I appreciate your noticing. But my personal needs are filled quite well at the moment and I’m afraid it’s my solemn duty to wag my finger at you and send you on down the road so you may think on the error of your ways. That or I have to run you in for looking after the needs of strangers. I don’t think any of us would enjoy that.”

  “Just as well,” the short one said. “We prefers ’em with beards anyway, don’t we, Esme?”

  “That we do,” Esme said. “But you’re very nice, anyhow. For a bluebottle.”

  Pringle smiled at her again. Her scar was actually a bit fetching. Hinted at a hard life and a stubborn nature. Character is what he’d call it.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Likewise, I’m sure.”

  “We’ll be on our way, then.”

  “And I will be on mine,” Pringle said. “You ladies have a lovely evening.”

  He watched the prostitutes walk away from him down the street and shook his head at the unfairness of life. The company of two such tasty tarts would have been interesting. But it wouldn’t do to be seen in uniform and in the company of working women. The uniform might be taken away from him.

  At the thought of his uniform, he glanced once more at the locked door of the tailor’s shop and shook his head.

  Life, he thought, ought to work itself in a man’s favor more often.

  11

  Constable Nevil Hammersmith stood at the foot of the stairs that led up to the main house. From here he could direct the other police as they arrived. He had explored the entire brownstone without finding anything of interest, but two other constables had rolled out the Turkish rug and were looking for clues. He watched them work, but his mind was elsewhere.

  Blackleg had disappeared soon after they dragged the boy’s body from the chimney. His parting words before climbing back out through the window were “Don’t you worry, bluebottle, I’ll find the man to answer for this.”

  Hammersmith felt restless, hemmed in by the crime scene. He wanted to be there when the chimney sweep was found, wanted to confront him, look him in the eye, make him understand his crime.

  “The body was found in the chimney?”

  Hammersmith turned to see Dr Kingsley descending the stairs. The girl from his laboratory trailed silently behind. The doctor nodded at Hammersmith and glanced at the fireplace.

  “You’re in charge here?”

  “At the moment I am,” Hammersmith said.

  “I’m Kingsley. Hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”

  “We’ve met, sir. Just today, actually.”

  Kingsley peered at Hammersmith and nodded. “Of course. Constable Hammersby-no, Hammersmith. I apologize. I’ve been learning about furniture. Far more interesting than you might think.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure it is. Thank you for coming. The body was wedged in part of the way up there.”

  “Well, let’s see what we can discover.”

  Kingsley crossed the room and lay flat on his back on the hearth. He slid across the marble until his head was in the fireplace. From across the room, Hammersmith could see part of the way up Kingsley’s left trouser leg. The doctor’s garter was worn out and his stocking had holes. Someone at home hadn’t kept up with the mending.

  Kingsley’s girl had already taken up a post in the farthest corner of the room with her arms folded, clutching her tablet of paper to her chest. Hammersmith waved her over.

  “Hello again,” Hammersmith said.

  The girl nodded. Her thin hair was light, almost blond, and her eyes, when she lifted her head to look at Hammersmith, were too large for her narrow face.

  “What’s your name?”

  The girl stared at Hammersmith’s shoes.

  “Are you a student of Dr Kingsley’s? At the college?”

  Hammersmith heard a giggle, but the girl’s face was hidden behind a golden sweep of hair and the sound was abruptly
stifled. He smiled, pleased to have flattered the girl that she might be older than she appeared.

  “Ah,” Hammersmith said. “You’re his daughter, aren’t you?”

  The girl nodded, her hair swinging back and forth between them.

  “Why aren’t you with your mother? Or at school somewhere?”

  “Fiona!”

  Kingsley’s voice echoed up the chimney and back down, booming from the mouth of the fireplace. The girl jumped and turned around, hurrying to the hearth, where her father’s legs were still the only visible parts of him.

  “My scalpel, please,” Kingsley said. His voice filled the room, causing the other two constables to stop what they were doing with the rug and watch the unmoving legs, waiting to see what would happen next.

  The girl, Fiona, opened the black satchel that sat next to her father’s legs on the giant slab of marble. She dug around in the bag for a moment before producing a short blade, which she carefully placed in Kingsley’s questing hand. The hand disappeared back into the fireplace.

  “Paper. Quickly, girl, I can barely breathe in here.”

  Fiona opened her tablet and tore out a blank piece of paper. It was snatched up by the hand. A faint scraping sound filled the room, then the legs on the hearth began to wriggle and dance as Kingsley slid himself slowly back into view.

  Kingsley moved carefully, the torn piece of paper balanced on his chest. In the middle of the paper was a small pile of black dust. As soon as Kingsley’s arms were free, he grabbed the paper and folded it over on itself again and again until the black dust was completely contained; then he sat up and took a deep breath. His face was smudged with soot, and his wild grey hair was streaked with black.

  Kingsley sat for a long moment, staring at Hammersmith. The girl busied herself with the tablet of paper, minding her own business.

  “It’s been a busy day for you,” Kingsley said. “And your color’s not good. Have you eaten?”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m not hungry.”

  “The laboratory … Inspector Little’s corpse. That was unsettling, wasn’t it?”

  Hammersmith shrugged. “Murder’s never pretty, sir.”