by Alex Grecian
“Damn Blacker for a coward,” he said.
He let a small amount of air out through his nose and could taste the old food odors that lived in the hall. The essence of stale spices lodged in the back of his throat and made him want to cough, but he stifled the impulse. He tried to remember the smell of trees outside his home in Devon, but could not.
The landing at the top of the stairs was as small as the foyer, and the door to the Little home was open a crack. Day could hear muffled voices inside, accompanied by an occasional high-pitched wail.
He swallowed, took a breath, and rapped lightly on the jamb. After a moment the door swung open wider and Little’s boy Gregory appeared in the gap. Gregory immediately turned and disappeared, but Day heard him speaking.
“Ma, it’s the policeman again.”
“Get ’im in.”
Day didn’t wait for the boy to come back. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The flat was much the same as it had been on his previous visit, but there were subtle changes. The window over the sofa was still curtainless, but the glass had been washed. Sunlight streamed into the room, lending it a somewhat cheerier appearance. Gregory, the helpful son, was fully dressed in clothes that looked reasonably clean to Day. The simple son, Anthony, was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, stacking wooden blocks. His empty chair sat in the corner, the straps hanging loose. Day was so surprised to see the boy quietly playing that he didn’t notice Mrs Little until she tugged at his sleeve. He jumped and turned.
“He ain’t breathin’, mister.”
Day saw with alarm that she was holding the baby and that its skin was pale blue. Without a thought, he took it from her and turned it over, laying it against his arm. He smacked its back with the heel of his hand, once, then again, and a third time.
Something small and brown thumped against the floorboards at Day’s feet, and a second later the baby began to cry, haltingly at first, its howls interrupted by hiccups, but then building to a startling crescendo.
Day passed the baby back to its mother. She bounced it up and down, her massive bosom jiggling. Day averted his eyes.
Anthony looked up and shouted something that Day found incomprehensible, but Gregory nodded and Anthony returned to his blocks, apparently satisfied.
“Thank you, mister,” the Widow Little said. “That was a close one.”
He looked at Mrs Little. She was watching him, biting her lip, rocking the baby back and forth in her arms. She looked much the same as she had that morning, but her hair had been washed and combed and her housecoat had been freshly pressed.
The baby’s skin had returned to a healthy pink color. Day smiled at the widow.
“This happened once before when I was a country constable,” he said. “The rector’s son choked on a bit of sausage.”
“This’un puts ever’ damn thing in ’is mouth. Can’t hardly keep up with takin’ it all back outten ’im afore he stops breathin’.”
Day decided not to ask why she didn’t simply keep small things out of the baby’s reach. The drama now ended, he scanned the floor, looking for the object the baby had been trying to eat. Gregory saw him looking and scampered over to the barrel-table. He reached down and picked up the tiny thing, which was hidden in the shadows. Gregory brought it to him and Day took it. It was a small round button, buff-colored, stained, and smooth.
He went to the sofa under the window, where a dozen identical buttons had been pulled loose from the upholstery and now dangled on threads. He took a button from his pocket and compared it to the others. It matched perfectly.
There could be no mistake, now that he was able to make a side-by-side comparison. The button in the trunk had come from this sofa in this flat.
And Day suddenly knew how it had happened.
“Ma’am,” Day said, “did your husband visit you on the eve of his … I mean, when did you say you saw him last?”
“Aye, it was the night afore what was done to ’im.”
“Did the baby choke then as well? In Mr Little’s presence, I mean?”
“This baby chokes damn near ever’ day.”
Day sighed.
It was clear in his mind. Little had returned home to give his wife money for the household. His infant had choked on a sofa button. Little had got it out of the baby’s mouth and absentmindedly put it in his pocket. He had carried the button with him to his doom, but it had nothing to do with the murder and could lead the detectives nowhere.
Day put the button back in his pocket and then, on impulse, reached out and plucked the remaining loose buttons from the sofa.
“’Ere now, what’s this?”
“I need these as evidence.”
“Evidence? What’s my couch got to do wiff anythin’?”
“It’s hard to say now, but these may come in handy.”
Little’s widow sniffed and cast her eye on the mangled sofa. “Don’t look no worser now, I s’pose.”
Day pocketed the handful of buttons.
“I see there have been some improvements made since I was here this morning.”
“The money yer one-armed gennaman gave. Got me thinkin’ ’bout things might be done round the place now we have that pinchin comin’ in.”
“Sir Edward is a good man.”
“Is he married, though?” The widow winked at Day and he winced.
“He is.”
“Shame that.”
“I’m sure it is,” Day said. It seemed too soon after her husband’s murder for Mrs Little to make the joke, but he realized she was trying to cope and to connect in whatever way she could. Without her husband, and with few obvious prospects, she would be marginalized now and forgotten. “I’ll take my leave now.”
“Welcome to stay. I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Thank you, but no. My associate is waiting for me downstairs.”
“Bring ’im up.”
“I’m afraid we’ve more visits to make today. Still on duty.”
He tipped his hat to her and reached for the doorknob, but Gregory reached it first and swung the door open for him. Day smiled at the boy.
“You’re a good boy, Gregory. You’re very helpful to your mother.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“When you’re older, in another year or two perhaps, come by the Yard. We employ runners there, and I would be more than happy to put in a word for you with the sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir. I will.”
“Good day.”
He nodded again at Mrs Little and slipped into the dark hallway. The staircase seemed shorter going down than it had been going up, but when he opened the outside door the sudden light hurt his eyes.
“There he is,” Blacker said.
“Have you enjoyed your fresh air?” Day said.
“Like nothing else. Did you find what you came here for?”
“Yes,” Day said. “And I’m afraid we’ve been chasing at least one false clue.”
He pulled the handful of smooth beige buttons from his pocket and tossed them in the street. One of them had been found with Little’s body, but it hardly mattered anymore.
“The button’s useless,” he said.
Blacker looked at the scattering of buttons in the road and then up at the window above them. He nodded, and Day could see that he’d put it together.
“So that lets out upholsterers as suspects, doesn’t it?” Blacker said.
“I think so.”
“Which only leaves everyone else in London.”
“True, I suppose, but I feel this is progress just the same, even if it’s not awfully encouraging.”
“Leaving aside the button, then, we’ve still got needle, thread, and shears. I still want to talk to a tailor. That feels promising to me.”
“Right. What’s the name of the one we use? Kett mentioned him.”
“Cinderhouse?”
“That’s him. He might narrow it down for us, rather than running all over the city to e
very tailor with a shingle in the street.”
“Should we visit his shop, you think, or send for him?”
“Might pass him on his way back to the Yard.”
“Let’s go back. We have the dancing man waiting for us.”
“Good.”
Day took a last look at Little’s building and followed Blacker across the street. One piece of evidence had been a dead end, but Day still felt he’d done some good. There were no sofa buttons left in the Little home, and so Little’s youngest child might breathe more easily now. And perhaps live a bit longer.
46
The storage closet was an approximate three-meter cube. Blacker had dragged three chairs into the room, and they filled it so that there was barely enough space to sit in the chairs without touching one another’s knees. He lit a tallow candle and set it on a shallow ledge that ran about the walls of the room at wainscoting height. Blacker steered the dancing man toward one of the chairs and Day set the bindle of rubbish at his feet. Day sat in the chair across from the dancing man and Blacker stood behind him. The dancing man sat quietly, hardly moving, seemingly stifled by the close walls. The detectives took a long moment to light their pipes. The smell of tobacco smoke was infinitely preferable to body odor. Day was mildly amused to see that Blacker smoked a huge calabash that dwarfed his narrow face, but he hid his smile behind his hand as he lit his own much smaller pipe. When both pipes were going, Day glanced at Blacker, who nodded, then began.
“What’s your name, sir?” he said.
“Let me out.”
“We will,” Day said. “But we need to ask you some questions first.”
“Can’t dance here. Can’t dance. Too tight, too close, no room.”
“Let us help you get back out there so you can dance again. Just tell me your name.”
“Can’t dance. Broken legs. Table’s too short.”
The dancing man began to rock back and forth on his chair, hugging himself. Day looked up at Blacker, who gestured for Day to step outside.
“We’ll be right back,” Day said. He rose and left the room with Blacker.
“Shall we send him to the workhouse or to the asylum?” Blacker said.
“I’d like to let him get back to his life. He’s not causing any harm out there.”
Life seemed to turn and change on a whim, and while Day didn’t imagine he could sink as low in life as the dancing man had, he still worried that this might be his own future if he failed as a detective. What had caused the dancing man to slide into invisibility? How did one prevent it? Where were the police when the dancing man had needed them?
“You know as well as I that he didn’t kill Little,” Day said. “All he wants to do is dance with a broomstick. We need to know what he saw, but I don’t see a need to frighten him.”
“Frightening him may get him to tell us what we need to know. Assuming we can get him to say anything that makes sense.”
“The more emotional he gets, the more removed he’ll be from reality.”
“He’s already too removed. Whatever information he might have for us is already jumbled up with a lot of nonsense. There’s no way I can see to make him useful.”
There was a thumping noise behind the detectives as the gate at the railing slammed shut, then:
“Perhaps I can help with that.”
Dr Bernard Kingsley stood in the middle of the Murder Squad room, surveying the desks. Jimmy Tiffany looked up and saw Kingsley. He stood and grabbed his jacket from a hook, then exited through the gate behind Kingsley and disappeared down the back hall.
“You’ve changed a few things since I was here last,” Kingsley said.
Blacker shot a puzzled look in Day’s direction. He clearly hadn’t sent for the doctor.
“What are you doing here?” Day said.
“Inspector Tiffany sent for me. Said there was a suspect in Little’s murder.”
Day smiled. For all of Tiffany’s bluster and laziness, he had helped.
“Thank you for coming,” Day said. “As for the suspect, we don’t think he committed the murder.”
“I haven’t ruled that out,” Blacker said.
“We think, we both think, that he may have crossed paths with the real killer,” Day said.
“Well, let’s see what we shall see, shall we?” Kingsley smiled and patted the black bag under his arm. “Lead me to the evidence, gentlemen.”
47
The three men squeezed into the small storage room where the dancing man still sat. He appeared to have calmed down since Day and Blacker had left the room. He stared at his hands, clasped in his lap. Day positioned himself between the vagrant and the doctor in case the dancing man suddenly became violent.
Kingsley set his bag on one of the two empty chairs and opened it. The stench was nearly overpowering, but Kingsley appeared not to notice. He glanced over at the dancing man and frowned.
“You look familiar to me, sir.”
The dancing man said nothing, but continued to stare at his folded hands. Kingsley reached into his bag and drew out a bundle of white fabric. He partially unrolled it to reveal the Beard Killer’s straight razor covered with red and black smudges and held it out to Blacker, who took the entire bundle from him. Both men were careful not to touch the surface of the razor.
“Let’s see those shears,” Kingsley said.
“They’re on my desk,” Day said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
“Wait,” Kingsley said. “I’m afraid I’m not as prepared as I’d hoped to be. Could you possibly bring me at least one clean sheet of white foolscap and a bottle of ink?”
“Of course.”
Day left the storage closet door ajar and went to his desk. Across the room, Inspectors Waverly Brown and Oliver Boring had returned and were huddled at Boring’s desk, quietly arguing over a report. Brown looked up and nodded at Day, then went back to his murmured discussion with Boring.
Day grabbed the bottle of ink from his desk drawer and set out two sheets of foolscap. He carefully wrapped the shears in one of the sheets of paper and folded the other sheet in half so that it wouldn’t wrinkle as easily while he carried it. He put the ink bottle in his jacket pocket and took the paper and shears back to the closet.
In Day’s absence, Blacker had moved himself between the doctor and the dancing man. Kingsley didn’t seem to notice that the two detectives were positioning themselves about the room in order to protect him. Day wordlessly handed over the paper with the shears.
“Perfect,” Kingsley said.
He laid the foolscap in his hand and unfolded it to reveal the shears. He took a lens from his bag and scanned the shears carefully. The dancing man was so still that he might have been a statue in the corner of the room.
“Definitely blood,” Kingsley said. “And I would guess there was a great deal of it in order to produce these streaks across the metal. The blood has dried in layers, do you see? Look here. Two layers, one overlapping the other. The bottommost coating would have dried very quickly, especially if it were waved about in the air for a minute or two. Then, while it was still tacky, more blood was forced past the surface, covering the first batch here and there, building the layers up from the surface.”
“Is it possible to tell if they’re the same scissors used to kill Inspector Little?”
“No. In fact, I’ll need to run a chemical test to determine whether this is human or animal blood. I’m afraid that’s as much as the blood evidence will be able to tell us. Of course, it’s possible this is nothing more than pig’s blood. We’ll see.”
Kingsley must have seen the disappointment on the detectives’ faces because he shook his head.
“The blood evidence is not the end of it. You’ll see. Forensic technology is making great strides of late. Very exciting. Look at this.”
He angled the shears in the candlelight so that Day and then Blacker could see the blades.
“There’s a small bit of thread caught here between the blades.”
<
br /> “What does that tell us?”
“Why, absolutely nothing at the moment. But I’ll want to compare this thread to the threads found at Little’s crime scene.”
“You didn’t bring those threads with you?”
“No. It will have to wait until I return to my laboratory. But,” Kingsley said, “before I do that, I’ll require more. I’ll need to gather data from all three of you.”
Blacker looked alarmed. “All of us?”
“Oh, I don’t mean that I suspect you detectives of any wrongdoing. But you have touched the shears, and so I’ll need your finger marks to compare them against any evidence left on the weapon. Mr Day, could I have that foolscap? And the ink, if you please?”
Day handed over the paper and produced the bottle of ink from his pocket. He opened the bottle and set it on the chair next to Kingsley’s bag. Kingsley flattened out the piece of paper against the wall and smoothed it with the back of his hand.
“I do wish we had a bit more room,” he said.
“I apologize. The commissioner felt it best to keep him contained and out of the way while we questioned him.”
“That’s undoubtedly wise. Here now, Mr Blacker, let’s have you go first. Please dip your finger, any finger will do, into the ink bottle and apply it to this piece of foolscap.”
“Then my finger will be dirty.”
“Regrettable, but unavoidable, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t see the point of it.”
“I demonstrated this for you in my lab.”
“I didn’t see the point of it then, either.”
Kingsley sighed. “What about you, Mr Day? Will you risk a little ink on your finger?”
Day shot an apologetic glance at Blacker, then ran his index finger around the inside edge of the bottle. He held his finger up to show that it was black. Kingsley grabbed his hand, held his finger, and pressed it against the paper. He handed over the lens and Day looked through it at the black loops and whorls on the clean white paper.