The Yard tms-1

by Alex Grecian

  “Who is he?”

  “I think he’s the tailor’s coachman. Regardless, he’s good with a knife.”

  Day glanced at Hammersmith’s wounded arm. “Kingsley’s up there, too.”

  “You brought nearly everyone.”

  “We do seem to have converged. Good thing. Although we’ve misplaced Mr Blacker.”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea where he went. I fell asleep and he was gone when I woke up.”

  “He’ll turn up or I’ll find him when I find the tailor. Time’s of the essence, so I’m afraid I need to leave you here. The doctor’ll wrap you up and I’ll have a carriage take you to hospital.”

  The coachman’s inert body jerked, then rose smoothly up and away. The two men watched the soles of his shoes until they were reeled through the bottom of the cabinet.

  “This arm isn’t going to kill me,” Hammersmith said. “I’m not done until we find the man who put this all in motion.”

  “Rest assured, I won’t fail to catch him.”

  “I have no doubt of that. But it’s a bit personal for me now. If you don’t mind, I’ll stick it out.”

  The end of the rope hit the ground in front of them again. Day picked it up and pulled it around Hammersmith’s waist.

  “First, Kingsley takes a look at that arm,” Day said. “If he says it’s all right, then I’ll be glad of your company.”

  Hammersmith nodded. He rose into the air and disappeared from view the same way the other two had gone. Day looked around him at the empty black cave and shook his head. It was amazing what they’d all gone through in the past three days.

  He stepped back as the end of the rope descended once more.

  98

  Kingsley talked to Day while he wrapped Hammersmith’s arm.

  “The marks on the shears match the marks on the sewing machine,” he said. “I’m confident that the tailor’s your man.”

  “But how to find him?” Day said. “He’s not here, we don’t know where he lives, and he knows now that we’re on to him. We have no idea where he’s gone to ground.”

  “I know where he lives.”

  The three men turned at the sound of Fenn’s voice. The boy was standing at the door of the shop, hiding behind one of Henry Mayhew’s massive legs.

  “Will you write his address for us?” Day said.

  “I don’t know his address,” Fenn said. “But I can show you where he lives.”

  “We wouldn’t ask that of you,” Hammersmith said.

  Day looked at him, eyes wide, but Hammersmith shook his head.

  “You never have to see that man again,” he said.

  “I don’t have to see him to show you his house,” Fenn said. “I don’t mind. Really. Just don’t let him take me again.”

  “There is no chance of that,” Day said. “If you’re sure you’re up for it, we’ll go for a carriage ride.”

  “What should we do with him?” Kingsley pointed at the unconscious coachman.

  “We’ll tie him up and send someone round for him,” Day said. “We don’t want him near the boy if he wakes.”

  “Fenn stays in the carriage at all times,” Hammersmith said.

  “We’ll do even better than that. Once he points the place out, you and I go after Cinderhouse and Dr Kingsley takes the boy away. We won’t put him in danger for even a moment.”

  “I’ll take him to my laboratory,” Kingsley said. “It will be safe there, and my daughter would be delighted to entertain him until you can catch this fellow and take the boy home.”

  Hammersmith looked at Fenn. The boy nodded and Hammersmith smiled at him.

  “You’re a brave lad,” he said.

  99

  Day and Hammersmith stood on the curb and watched until the carriage had rolled out of sight. Once they were sure that Kingsley, Fenn, and Henry Mayhew were safely away, they turned and approached the big house. It was a tidy two-story home, well looked after, nothing ominous about it at all. Day imagined it rented for upward of forty pounds a year, more than his own house in Kentish Town.

  The front door was locked, but Hammersmith found a window at the side of the house that had been jimmied.

  “When do you think that was done?” Day asked.

  “Looks fresh to me.”

  “That’s what I was thinking as well. Pried open some time after the rain.”

  Hammersmith nodded and drew his club from its belt loop. His injured arm hung useless at his side, but he looked determined and Day was glad to have him there. Day held up a hand and, with his Colt drawn, he sat on the sill and maneuvered himself through the window and into the house. He crept through a dark drawing room to the front door and opened it. Hammersmith was waiting on the other side. He stepped through, quietly closing the door behind him, and the two men made their way through the rooms at the front of the house without finding a sign of the tailor.

  They split up at the staircase. Hammersmith slid through an open arch, headed toward the rooms at the back of the house, while Day edged up the stairs to the next floor. He poked cautiously through every doorway until he was certain he was alone upstairs. Then he put his gun away and went back through the rooms, more carefully this time, hoping to find some evidence.

  At the end of a hallway, near the water closet, there was a small bedroom. The window had been barred. He approached it and looked out. The top of a retaining wall was directly under the windowsill, and beyond that, a tall tree. Day put his cheek to the bars. There was nothing in the yard except an old carriage house that looked like it might fall down the next time it rained. He sniffed and pulled his head back. The iron bars cast a long shadow across the bed. There were leather straps on both sides of the bed and a coil of rope hung loose at the foot of it. Day tested one of the straps and it came loose. The strap looked new, and Day guessed that it had been purchased to replace the rope, but had not yet been installed or used.

  He looked around. A straight-backed wooden chair sat in the corner. He approached the chair and squinted at the dark shape lying across the seat. He went to the door and shouted out into the hall.

  “Hammersmith, have you found anything?”

  Hammersmith’s voice came back, surprisingly close to the staircase. “Nothing. You?”

  “Up here.”

  Day stepped back into the room. Hammersmith’s footsteps clattered up the stairs, and Day heard him checking the rooms along the hall.

  “Back here.”

  A moment later Hammersmith joined him. “What is it? Not the tailor.”

  “No, he seems to be out. But look at this.” He pointed at the chair.

  “A riding crop?” Hammersmith said.

  “What is a riding crop doing in a bedroom?” Day said.

  “I shudder to think.”

  “Yes, but where might you be more likely to find a riding crop?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  Day pointed to the window and Hammersmith looked out into the yard. He turned back to Day.

  “A carriage house.”

  “Let’s go.”

  100

  There was a thump-thump-thump on the stairs, and Mrs Flanders put aside her book. She hurried to the door and stepped into the hall in time to see one of the disguised policemen, the one with the bushy black beard, struggling through the downstairs door to the street. He was carrying something bulky wrapped up in a blanket. She scurried down the stairs and caught the door before it closed.

  “Are you leaving already?” she said. “Mr Hammersmith hasn’t come back yet.”

  The policeman jumped, clearly startled. He turned, staggering under the weight of the huge bundle on his shoulder.

  “Ah, ma’am, you oughtn’t to come up on me like that.”

  “Dreadfully sorry, sir.”

  “Not at all. Just worried my police training might kick in and I’d do you harm. Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  He smiled and winked at her. Despite his rough appearance, Mrs Flanders found him utterly
charming. She smiled back at him.

  “No, we wouldn’t want that,” she said. “Where is the other policeman? The one dressed as a chimney sweep?”

  “He left already.”

  “I didn’t hear him on the stair.”

  “He’s very sneaky. Got to be when you’re in disguise as a dipper like he is.”

  “Do you mean to say that he picks pockets?”

  “Aye, he does.”

  “But he’s dressed as a sweep.”

  “That’s a disguise on his disguise. Makes him double good at it.”

  “Well, if he steals wallets, doesn’t that make him as much a criminal as the real criminals?”

  “He’s got to blend in, you see, but then he always goes and gives people their things back, he does.”

  “Oh, well, that makes perfect sense then. He returns what he steals.”

  “Aye, that’s exactly what he does. Very sneaky one, that.”

  “I don’t mean to seem curious, but may I ask what’s in the blanket?”

  “Blanket?”

  “The one you’ve got over your shoulder.”

  “Oh, you mean this blanket?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s police supplies in here, ma’am. Constable Hammersmith was savin’ ’em fer me. Gotta get ’em down to headquarters.”

  “It looks very heavy.”

  “Well, they’re not lightweight supplies, I’ll tell you that, ma’am. Not the easiest thing to have slung on me whilst I stand about in the street.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m keeping you.”

  “Not at all. It’s a sheer pleasure talkin’ with you, and that’s for sure. Did I mention you remind me of me mum?”

  “That’s very dear of you to say.”

  “’Tis the God’s truth, ma’am. But now I’d better get this over to Scotland Yard afore it’s too late.”

  “Too late?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Big rush on it from the commissioner of police hisself.”

  “Then I mustn’t keep you any longer. Only…”

  “Yes?”

  “Do promise you’ll come back for a visit.”

  The rough-looking policeman grinned at Mrs Flanders and bowed slightly at the waist, keeping the bundle on his shoulders carefully balanced as he did so.

  “I guarantee that I will, missus.”

  And with that he tottered off down the road with his heavy burden and turned the corner into an alley halfway along the block.

  Mrs Flanders put a hand on her heart and stepped back into the building. She closed the door to the street and went back up to her own cozy flat. Strange, she thought, that she hadn’t heard the second policeman leave. They were obviously very good at their jobs. She had not bought into all the recent condemnation of the police. It made her feel safe knowing that she had them as tenants in her own building.

  She sat down with her novel and found her place again. She had read only two sentences when it occurred to her that the nice policeman had never actually told her what was in the bundle he was carrying. She made up her mind to ask him about it the next time he paid a visit to Mr Hammersmith.

  101

  Day looked over at Hammersmith, took a deep breath, and swung the carriage house door open. Something hot whistled past Day’s right ear and there was the sudden crack of a gunshot. He fell backward and waited for another shot, but none came. He crawled to the side, away from the entrance so that the building’s wall would block any more bullets that were fired his way. Hammersmith was already on the other side of the door, against the wall there.

  “Cinderhouse?” Day said. “Stop shooting.”

  He waited for a response. He was about to call again when the tailor answered.

  “Have you been to my shop?”

  “I have.”

  “Did you find the boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he all right? He was under that counter for quite some time. Longer than I intended.”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Good.”

  There was another long silence.

  “Who am I talking to out there?” Cinderhouse said. “Is that Inspector Day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you alone?”

  Day shook his head at Hammersmith. He put a finger to his lips.

  “I’m alone,” Day said.

  “Good. It should be the two of us at the end. Cat and mouse. But which is the cat and which is the mouse?”

  “I don’t take your meaning, sir.”

  “Which of us,” Cinderhouse said, “I mean, which of us will come out of this. We won’t both live through this day, you know.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “If I let you live, you’ll keep the boy from me. I can’t let that happen.”

  “You plan to kill me, then?”

  “I don’t think I have a choice.”

  “But I have you trapped.”

  “True.”

  “So perhaps you should lay the gun down and come out where we can talk, face-to-face.”

  “That won’t do, Detective.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you. The only way I’ll get to keep the boy is if you die here.”

  “Have you killed before?”

  “No.”

  “What about Inspector Little?”

  “Who?”

  “Or Constable Pringle?”

  Day saw Hammersmith shudder and he shook his head again. He didn’t want Hammersmith’s emotions to get the better of him. Day still hoped that the situation might end without further deaths.

  “It’s sad about Pringle,” Cinderhouse said. “I rather liked him. He was an excellent customer.”

  “Then why kill him?”

  “I didn’t. He was going to take the boy and so he had to go away.”

  “Go away?”

  “Yes. He disappeared. A shame, really. I had a new pair of trousers ready for him.”

  “He didn’t go away, Mr Cinderhouse. You murdered him.”

  “Certainly not. I did have to discipline him, of course. He was out of line. I only did what I needed to do to keep him from talking about the boy. He would have told everyone.”

  “So he disappeared?”

  “I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Who else has disappeared, Mr Cinderhouse?”

  “Oh, now … now, I don’t want to…”

  Cinderhouse stopped talking and Day could hear a choking sound deep inside the carriage house. He wished he had a lamp, anything that might allow him to see farther than four feet into the building.

  Quietly, he slipped his boots off and edged around the back of the carriage house. The building had no windows. The only way in or out was through the big door. When he got to the other side, he drew Hammersmith close and whispered in his ear. He handed Hammersmith his gun. The constable nodded and hurried, quickly and quietly, back around the way that Day had come. He appeared momentarily on the other side where Day had been. They’d switched places.

  Day got down on his stomach in the short brown grass and crept forward until the top of his head was even with the edge of the doorway. A few feet away, Hammersmith cleared his throat.

  “Mr Cinderhouse, are you all right?” Hammersmith said.

  The choking noise inside the carriage house tapered off. Cinderhouse sniffed.

  “Detective?” Cinderhouse said.

  “It’s me,” Hammersmith said.

  Day winced. Hammersmith’s voice was huskier and more nasal than his own. Day didn’t have a broken nose. Fortunately, the tailor didn’t notice. The big empty horse stalls and vaulted ceiling served to flatten and amplify every sound.

  “You don’t know what it is,” Cinderhouse said, “to have people disappear. People you care about.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Hammersmith said. “I’ve known people who have disappeared.”

  “Who?”

  “My friend Pringle, for one.”

  “That’s not the same. M
r Pringle was a grown man. They disappear all the time. But the children … That’s not fair, is it? My boys keep disappearing.”

  “Your boys?”

  “All the boys. Starting with my very first boy. His mother, too. Both gone. One day, just gone.”

  “And that justifies all you’ve done?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I might. At least a little.”

  Day was uncomfortable, his neck bent up so he could see and his elbows digging into the dirt. There was a small rock under his left elbow, but he was afraid to move it, afraid of the sound it might make. He kept perfectly still. Hammersmith was doing a better job than Day had thought he would. If he kept Cinderhouse talking, there might be no need for more violence.

  “No,” Cinderhouse said. “You can’t understand.”

  Another shot. The carriage house held on to the sound of it and shook it, vibrated it. It seemed to Day that the earth under him trembled with the noise of the gun. He instinctively put his head down. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hammersmith drop to one knee and fire through the door. Day crawled forward and rolled through the doorway. He was almost instantly in the dark. He lay still inside the doorway, back against the wall, the light streaming past him and fading into nothingness.

  “Did I get you?” Cinderhouse said.

  “No,” Hammersmith said.

  “I got this gun from the guard at the workhouse. I have no idea how many bullets it contains.”

  “I don’t imagine you’ve got many left.”

  “Then perhaps I should rush forward before shooting at you next time.”

  “If you do, I’ll shoot you.”

  “That might not be so bad.”

  “I’d rather not do it.”

  Either Hammersmith was playing the part of Inspector Day to a fault or he was considerably less violent than Day thought he was.

  “You said you understood,” Cinderhouse said. “Just a moment ago, before I shot, you said that people had disappeared on you. Have you lost a child, too?”

  Hammersmith didn’t respond. Day waited in the dark so long that he had almost given up and decided to make his move when he finally heard Hammersmith’s voice again, echoing faintly through the length of the carriage house and back again.