by Alex Grecian
The bald man had an idea of where the boy might go. Fenn had a head start, but he was probably still on foot and had miles to travel. The bald man kept a private hansom on retainer and would be able to overtake the boy soon enough.
His shop was on the way. He would stop there first to get some supplies and to put a sign in the window. It was a shame to have to close the place down for the day, but the bald man had his priorities.
Family should always come first.
Constable Colin Pringle couldn’t decide whether to wait or to go home and try to get an hour’s sleep before his shift. But after a long sleepless night outside, his clothes were a mess, wrinkled and dirty. Maybe the tailor would be at his shop early. And maybe he would have new clothes that Pringle could wear out of the store. It would be good to show up for his shift looking fresh, even if he didn’t feel awfully fresh.
But it was clear that the tailor still wasn’t in. There was a sign in the window, carefully printed in red ink on stiff white paper: Will Return Soon. Pringle cupped his hands against the glass and peered into the shop. It was dark and still. There was no sense that anyone was working within, and there was nothing to indicate how “soon” anyone would return.
Pringle assumed that if he left now, the tailor would immediately return to the shop. But if he waited, he might be here all day. That was the way the universe worked. He regretted not waiting at the store on his previous visit. If he had, he might have a fresh new uniform waiting for him at home right now.
He tried the doorknob. He didn’t expect it to turn, didn’t expect the door to swing open; it was just the thing you were supposed to do before giving up. But the knob did turn, and the door did swing open, and Pringle stepped inside.
Now that he was here, he might as well wait.
He walked through the shop and sat in an overstuffed chair that was positioned near the back room for clients who were being fitted. He would give the tailor fifteen minutes and then he would leave.
Just fifteen minutes.
It was a comfortable chair, and the shop was quiet, and it felt good to sit.
He closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.
23
Walter Day had woken up early and rolled out of bed with the cobwebs of a bad dream clinging to him. He splashed cold water on his face from the basin and ran a wet cloth over his chest and armpits. He shaved quickly, stopping long enough to smile at Claire when she entered his room.
By the time he finished shaving, Claire had set kindling in the small fireplace. Day’s trousers from the night before were draped over the board to be pressed. He checked the walk-in closet and was pleased to find that he had three fresh shirts.
“I didn’t hear you leave my room last night,” Claire said.
“I was quiet. I’m glad I didn’t wake you.”
“I wish you had stayed.”
“What would the housekeeper say?”
He chuckled, but Claire acted as though she hadn’t heard him. The kindling began to blaze, and she carefully placed a handful of thin logs on the new fire. She stood and aimed a pointed stare at him.
“I swear I don’t know what to do with myself, Walter. Except for the bloody housekeeper, I know none of the women in the neighborhood. They don’t come round. They haven’t warmed to me.”
“How could they not? You are, I’m sure, the most charming woman in all the city.”
“Detectives’ wives are not universally beloved here.”
Day grimaced. It was another reminder that the man on the street had no great love for the police. There was too much crime that went unstopped and no one felt safe. Everyone in London knew that the Ripper was still out there in the fog and that the police were helpless to stop him.
“Then don’t tell anybody what I do.” He winked at her.
Claire smiled and put the press on the fire. It was a flat rectangle of iron with a wooden handle bolted to one side. She used a pair of sturdy tongs to move it into place on the logs.
“Shall I tell them you’re a vendor? I’ll say you sell dolls from a cart in the West End. I’m fabulously proud of the work you do with dolls.”
“Hmm. Perhaps I drive an omnibus.”
“The other wives shall embrace me and raise me on their shoulders when they find out.”
Day laughed.
“They’ll carry me through the streets,” Claire said.
“Until I run over them all with my omnibus.”
“You and your bus will ruin my best day.”
“You are the best Day.”
“That’s positively corny.”
“It is. There’s another detective I’m working with. His name’s Blacker. That’s the sort of joke he makes.”
“You’ve made a friend?”
“I believe I have.”
“I’m glad.”
“Now we need to find some friends for you,” Day said.
“Perhaps Mr Blacker has a wife.”
“I believe he’s a bachelor.”
“Poor man.”
Claire used the tongs to lift the hot iron from the fire and wrapped a cloth around her hand before picking it up by the handle. She dipped her other hand in a small dish of water and sprinkled it over the ironing board. When she pressed the iron against her husband’s trousers, a cloud of steam and a loud hiss filled the air around her. She moved the iron over the pants quickly, repositioning them as she went. In seconds, Day’s trousers looked fresh and presentable again.
“I should go round to the tailor for another pair of trousers,” Day said.
“Mrs Dick will be in today and I’ll have her launder your other pair.”
“There you have it. Right under your nose. Mrs Dick shall be your bosom companion.”
“That sort of friend I’m sure I don’t need.”
“Perhaps if you were to-”
“Walter.”
“Yes?”
“Walter, you’re a dear man and I’m touched that you concern yourself with my affairs, but I shouldn’t burden you with my silly complaints. I have this fine house to look after and I am content to know that my husband is a brilliant detective with the famous Scotland Yard.”
“Even so. If you wanted to go back … I mean, if you should ever wish to return to Devon, to your family, I would understand.”
“You mustn’t worry about that when you have so many important things to do. Now, let’s get you dressed and off to work.”
She held his trousers out to him and he put them on. They were still warm.
24
The sky was the palest of greys, and street vendors had begun setting up tarps and awnings to protect their wares from the drizzling rain. The city’s nightlife had wound down and the saloons had emptied out. Hammersmith’s eyes were grainy. He needed sleep, but the coming day beckoned.
He had been in every pub and opium den in the neighborhood of the Shaws’ brownstone, and in the last hour had extended his search several blocks out, but with no luck. He decided he had time to visit one more establishment before returning to the flat to get ready for his shift.
The place in front of him was drab and run-down. The timbers of the steps were split and rotting, but a yellowed paper sign in the window read NO GRIDDLING, meaning that panhandlers and peddlers weren’t allowed inside. The peeling sign above the door read THE WHISTLE AND FLUTE, which was Cockney rhyming slang for a gentleman’s suit. Hammersmith imagined the original proprietor had started out with more optimism than the neighborhood had finally permitted.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, stopping long enough to let his eyes adjust to the sudden cavelike darkness of the pub. When he could see well enough to move forward, he approached the long bar that imposed itself before the back wall. It was really nothing more than a few well-worn planks that had been nailed to four uprights. The barkeep, a heavyset man with a wild beard and thick tattooed arms, nodded to him from behind the counter. The barkeep’s eyebrows met in the middle and struck out from there across his forehead. Pink c
heeks and beady eyes were the only artifacts of the man’s face still visible through the thickets of hair.
Hammersmith ordered a pint and stood surveying the room. Two worn-out tarts hunkered at a small table near the end of the bar. They weren’t looking his way. No doubt they were ready to turn in for the day without company. At the other end of the room, a handful of shadowy figures hunched over four tables that had been pushed together. Hammersmith could hear cards being shuffled and bets murmured through the smoke. The barkeep set a mug on the counter and backed away. Hammersmith took a courtesy sip. He had no intention of drinking the ale, but he didn’t want to appear out of place. The people in this pub weren’t here early in the morning. They were here late at night, hard-core drinkers who didn’t want to stop.
The ale tasted of ashes. Hammersmith set the mug back down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He noticed he needed a shave and wondered if he had time for it before his shift.
As he reached for his wallet, he felt a hand on his arm and turned, ready for a fight.
The girl in front of him was no more than fifteen years old. She wore a low-cut white blouse and a skirt that was immodestly tight. Her long dark hair hung loose over her shoulders, and she leaned in toward Hammersmith, breathing heavily, the tops of her breasts visible under the blouse’s scooped collar.
“You look lost,” she said. She giggled, covered her mouth, and looked up at him with her head lowered. “Would you be wantin’ some company?”
Hammersmith understood. He looked toward the end of the bar and saw the two worn-out whores watching them. The girl was bait. She was a working girl, but it was her job to lure men outside or upstairs or to wherever business was done. Once a man was committed to the deed, a switch would be made and one of the others would take her place. The young woman would then sidle up to the bar once again to be dangled in front of the clientele. Hammersmith assumed that in another year, maybe just a few months, this girl would assume her place with the harder-working women and a fresh young girl would be recruited to act as the bait. It was a sad fate awaiting her, and he wondered how much of her future life she was aware of.
“No, thank you,” he said.
Her face turned red and ugly. “Well, you’re a ponce, then, ain’tcha?”
“Hardly.”
He put the girl out of his head and frowned at the mug on the bar. He had struck out again at the Whistle and Flute, and he didn’t have time to visit another pub this morning. Besides, most of them would be closing soon, if they weren’t closed already. Only the least reputable places were still open, which was why Hammersmith was still out looking. The least reputable places were the places most likely to attract his quarry.
“Oh!”
Hammersmith turned in time to see the girl fall to the floor.
“You didn’t have to get rough,” she said.
He didn’t see anyone else around, and the men at the card table across the room hadn’t budged. Hammersmith realized he was about to fall into yet another trap arranged by the same girl, and he moved quickly away from the bar just as the giant hand of the barkeep came crashing down where he had been leaning.
“What’s this, then?” the hairy brute said.
Hammersmith felt like a fool. Evidently, if the girl couldn’t coax a man upstairs where the older women might gain a shilling from him, then she’d fake an insult and the barkeep would beat or intimidate the hapless mark for a few coins. The entire establishment was set up to swindle anyone who wasn’t in on the game.
Hammersmith took another step back and reached for his club. It was strapped to his side, under his jacket. He brought it out as the barkeep produced his own club from beneath the counter. The barkeep’s club was three feet long and had iron spikes set into it. Next to it, Hammersmith’s nightstick looked like a toy. The barkeep raised a hinged portion of the bar’s surface and stepped out from behind the counter. In one smooth move he was standing in front of Hammersmith.
Hammersmith glanced toward the other end of the room. The two older prostitutes had disappeared, presumably into a back room or up the stairs. The card players had left their table and were ranged out across the wall, their features still hidden in the shadows, waiting either to resume their game or to head Hammersmith off if he ran for the door.
Hammersmith raised his hands, showing the barkeep his pitiful nightstick. The barkeep blinked and punched Hammersmith in the nose. Blood poured out across the front of Hammersmith’s shirt and spattered the floor.
He swung his club. It hit the barkeep on the shoulder and bounced off. The barkeep grinned. His teeth were uneven and brown, crumbled nuggets of bone. The young prostitute grabbed Hammersmith from behind and he shrugged her off, but he was distracted long enough that he almost missed seeing the barkeep’s club as it whistled toward him. He ducked and the club sailed over his head, thunking into the stool behind him. One of the spikes on the big man’s club stuck in the wooden seat, and the barkeep braced the stool with his foot to try to pry it out.
Hammersmith seized the moment and turned to run, but the girl hung on to his jacket and blocked his retreat. He swatted her hands away, but by now the barkeep had freed his club from the bar stool and was taking aim again.
Hammersmith turned to the side, hoping the club would hit him in the arm rather than the head, but he tripped over the girl’s leg and fell back. The girl fell the other way and the club clipped her shoulder. She screamed and Hammersmith hit the floor rolling. He jumped up, but the barkeep had already dropped the club and was hovering over the girl, who had pulled herself into a ball under the seats, her legs drawn up to her chest and her back against the counter. Blood flowed freely down her left arm, and she was trying to stop it by batting at it with her right hand.
The barkeep squatted down in front of her and grabbed her flailing hand, trying to get a look at the damage. Hammersmith was frozen in place. He knew he should run, but he was riveted to the spot, unable to look away.
“Hush now, little one,” the barkeep said. “Let me have a look at it.”
“Daddy, make it stop.”
Hammersmith felt sick. The barkeep had put his own daughter to work hustling the customers.
The barkeep looked up from the girl and snarled, “Don’t you move, mister. You give me one minute here and I’m ’a kill you good.”
Hammersmith felt a hand on his arm and jumped. He turned, his club raised. The only other people in the pub were the card players, and they had him outnumbered. He was ready to do his worst, but the man behind him was familiar, now that his features weren’t hidden in shadows.
“Best we get out of here now,” Blackleg said, “afore Big Pete gets his hands on you.”
Hammersmith nodded. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said.
25
Fennimore Hubbard sat on the curb and examined the soles of his feet. They hurt badly, and his pace had slowed in the last hour. Blisters had already formed and burst, and blood mixed with rainwater beneath him to create pale pink tributaries that crossed the divides of his toes and trickled away into the gutter. He wished now that he had taken the time to put on a pair of shoes before dropping from the bald man’s window, but what was done was done.
He shucked his sopping pajama shirt and twisted it in his tiny fists, trying to rip it in half. The fabric was too strong, so he used his teeth. It was a well-made shirt, probably fashioned by the bald man himself. Once he got it started, it ripped easily enough up the back, but he had trouble with the collar and had to remove it completely, tossing it into the street.
He wrapped the shirt halves around each of his feet and knotted them at the top. He stood. The fabric bunched under the balls of his feet and threw off his balance, but his feet felt a little better.
Now, of course, he was bare-chested and cold. He was seven years old and not large for his age. His ribs sat on his flesh like umbrella tines. The best way to keep warm, he thought, was to keep running.
Fenn had a good sens
e of direction, and he was certain he was headed toward home, his real home, the house he’d been born in and the house where his parents, he hoped, still lived and waited for him. The bald man had told him that his parents and three sisters had moved away, that they had sold Fenn to the bald man, and that there was no birth home to return to. But Fenn didn’t believe anything the bald man said. The bald man had also claimed to love Fenn as his own son, but Fenn’s father, his real father, had never tied him to a bed or shut him up in a dark closet or screamed at him. Fenn wasn’t a baby, he could figure things out for himself, and it hadn’t been hard to figure out that the bald man was dangerous. The bald man was something that Fenn had heard his father refer to as “touched in the head.” Which meant that he did things that made no sense.
Fenn was also certain that the bald man had killed other children. He had heard the man say several times that Fenn was “another chance” for him, that Fenn would be better than “the others.” And so Fenn had tried to be better than he imagined the others had been. He was smart-his real mother always said so-and he had understood that fighting the bald man, or disobeying him, was futile. He had known to bide his time.
His one big mistake had been in not talking to the policeman who had come round the bald man’s shop. The policeman, who had not worn a blue uniform like the other policemen Fenn had seen, said his name was Little, but he was big and fat, which was funny. The bald man told Fenn to be quiet when the policeman came, but Mr Little had looked right at Fenn and said that his parents were looking for him.
And right then Fenn should have told Mr Little that the bald man was touched in the head. He should have shouted it as soon as he saw the scissors in the bald man’s hand. But he didn’t. The nice fat policeman was dead now, and Fenn believed it was his fault.
He came to a wide intersection and stopped. The sky was growing brighter and the fog was burning off. It would be harder to run and hide in the daylight. People would see him, shirtless and dripping, tattered fabric wrapped around his feet, and they would stop him. And if they didn’t listen to him, they might take him back to the bald man. They might think that the bald man was really Fenn’s father like he said he was.