The Yard tms-1

by Alex Grecian

  “No, not a boy,” he said. “My father has disappeared.”

  “Your father?”

  “Yes,” Hammersmith said.

  “How sad. Were you a good son?”

  “I hope so.”

  “That’s all a father asks.”

  There was another shot, but Day couldn’t tell whether Hammersmith had fired or Cinderhouse. While the shot still echoed, he moved forward in the pitch black. Another gunshot, horizontal lightning that left spots on his vision, and then a third shot, the noise covering the sound of his steps on the brittle old straw underfoot. There was no way for him to tell where the shots were coming from. Inside the carriage house, the racket was staggering. Blind and deaf, he stumbled ahead.

  Something brushed against his leg, and impulsively he threw himself sideways. Somebody grunted and pushed back against him, and Day was suddenly wrestling with the tailor, still unable to see what he was doing.

  “Hammersmith,” he said, “I’ve got him. Come quickly.”

  He felt the guard’s gun in his ribs and heard a click. The gun was empty. Day lashed out and his knuckles hit bone. Cinderhouse yelped. The tailor abruptly jerked away from Day and Cinderhouse began screaming. Day reached out, but the screaming tailor was moving rapidly away, and knocked off balance, Day fell back against the wall.

  In the patch of sunlight at the door, Hammersmith hove into view, his injured arm hanging useless, his other arm extended into the darkness. A moment later, he hauled Cinderhouse into the light, Hammersmith’s fingers jammed deep in the tailor’s nose. Day got his feet under him and hurried to the door. He grabbed Cinderhouse’s arms and twisted them behind his back. Hammersmith let loose his grip on Cinderhouse’s nose, which had already turned a deep purple color.

  Hammersmith frowned at his fingers and wiped them on his already filthy trousers.

  “His nose?” Day said.

  “I was trying to get him by the hair,” Hammersmith said. “I forgot the bastard was bald.”

  102

  Get behind me,” Blacker said.

  He stepped in front of Penelope Shaw. She grabbed his shoulders, frightened, and despite the seriousness of their situation he felt an electric thrill run through his body.

  “Put the pistol down,” he said.

  The short woman laughed at him.

  “You give me your pistol, mister,” she said.

  “I know you won’t shoot me. You didn’t shoot any of the others, did you?”

  “What do you know about the others?” This was the tall one talking, the one with the scar. She looked worried.

  “Did you get them to sit still and let you shave them because you had the pistol? Or did you make them shave themselves?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Don’t matter how he knows it, Liza,” the tall one said. “He won’t know it much longer.”

  “I won’t let you shave me. And I won’t shave myself. I know that if I do, you’ll cut my throat. So you have no bargaining power here.”

  “Then I’ll shoot you now.”

  “Well, I suppose you do have that one bit of bargaining power,” he said.

  He pointed at the arched entryway behind the two women. “Get back to the kitchen, Bradley.”

  The tall woman laughed again. “You ain’t gonna fool me so easy,” she said.

  “Leave him alone,” Bradley said.

  Surprised, the short woman-the other one had called her Liza-turned around. The tall one glanced at her friend for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for Blacker to make his move. He leapt forward, and as he did, he felt his pistol come free from his belt. He landed on the tall woman, knocking her on her back against the floor. Liza attacked him, beating Blacker on the back with her fists. He ignored her and grabbed the tall woman’s arm, shoving it up and away as she fired the pistol. The bullet smacked into the wall by the staircase, and Blacker felt his stomach lurch as he looked for Bradley, afraid that he’d been hit.

  A plain, dark-haired woman ran from the room beyond the arch and gathered Bradley in her arms. The boy seemed frightened but unharmed. Blacker heard Penelope’s voice coming from somewhere behind him.

  “You! Stop hitting my friend.”

  Blacker turned to see her holding his own pistol. She had it aimed at Liza.

  The short prostitute backed away from Blacker and stood pouting against the wall. Blacker picked up the tall woman’s pistol. He stood up and moved away from her, keeping the weapon casually aimed in the direction of the two killers.

  “Elizabeth,” Penelope said, “please take Bradley to the kitchen and get him something warm to drink. When you have a moment, send someone round to fetch the police. Ask them to bring a carriage.”

  “My colleague is asleep in the wagon outside,” Blacker said. “Let’s wake him.”

  “Beg pardon, but there’s no wagon outside, sir,” Elizabeth said.

  “He’s gone?”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “Well, fancy that. He’s an odd duck, Hammersmith is. I suppose you’d better send a runner after the police after all, then.”

  Elizabeth mumbled something that Blacker couldn’t hear and took Bradley by the hand, leading him out of sight.

  The tall prostitute stood up and brushed herself off. She moved over next to Liza against the wall and sneered at Blacker.

  “Bet you liked that, eh? Up on top of me like you was?”

  “Not especially,” Blacker said.

  “You woulda had your way wiff me if she didn’t interrupt us. I saw you wanted to.”

  “Not in the slightest,” Blacker said. “And you might be wise to keep quiet for the time being.”

  “Or what? You’ll hit me? Smack me a good one? Show me who’s in charge?”

  “I don’t hit women.”

  “I, on the other hand, have no problem hitting women,” Penelope said. “Nor do I have a problem shooting them, so keep quiet until the police arrive with a wagon.”

  “You won’t shoot me,” the tall one said.

  “I believe she would,” Blacker said. “She’s remarkably unpredictable.”

  “I will take that as a compliment,” Penelope said.

  “It was meant as one. Might I have my pistol back before the other police get here?”

  “Of course.”

  She turned the gun around and handed it to him, and he put it back in his belt where it belonged. He kept the women’s gun aimed at them.

  “We may have a bit of a wait ahead of us,” Blacker said. “Wagons are in ridiculously short supply at the Yard.”

  “Then are you sure you won’t have a spot of tea?” Penelope said.

  “Thank you. Actually, tea sounds lovely.”

  He winked at her and she smiled back.

  103

  The grounds of the tailor’s house reminded Day of the train station two days before. Dozens of police milled about, digging up flower beds and prying off cellar doors. There was a chance that Cinderhouse had taken other boys and that their remains were still somewhere nearby.

  The tailor himself sat at the curb in a padlocked wagon with a guard of Sergeant Kett and three constables. Nobody was taking any chance that he might get away from them. Hammersmith had broken the tailor’s nose, and the police were in no particular hurry to have it set for him. Sir Edward, who had arrived moments ago, reprimanded two constables who had spent a few happy minutes pushing Cinderhouse about in the dirt.

  But he didn’t relieve them of duty.

  Sir Edward approached Day and Hammersmith where they sat on a low stone wall at the side of the carriage house.

  “Well done, you two.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Mr Day, if there was any confusion about whether you were up to the job, I believe you’ve proven yourself beyond a doubt.”

  “Sir.”

  “And Mr Hammersmith. You surprise me.”

  “How so, sir?”

  “You didn’t kill him.”

  �
��No, sir.”

  Sir Edward smiled. “Come see me once you’ve had that arm looked at, Hammersmith.”

  Hammersmith nodded and Sir Edward walked away, already barking orders at his men.

  “Let’s take a wagon and get you to hospital,” Day said.

  “Not yet,” Hammersmith said. “Something I have to do first.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s a scared little boy has to be returned home.”

  Day grinned. “Ah,” he said. “That duty would be a pleasure after all this. May I accompany you?”

  “I wish you would.”

  They stood and made their way to the street, where at least a dozen police carriages were nosed in against the curb. For once, there was no shortage of vehicles.

  104

  Fiona found some things for him to wear. His clothes were filthy.”

  “Thank you for watching after him,” Hammersmith said.

  “Not at all,” Kingsley said. “He’s a delightful boy. As brave and helpful as my own children.”

  “We’ll take him back to his family now. I imagine he’ll sleep for a week after all he’s been through.”

  “I’d like to ride along, if you don’t mind,” Kingsley said. “We can take my carriage. It’s a bit nicer than the police issue.”

  “There’s no need to trouble yourself.”

  “To be honest with you, these past few days have broadened my horizons some. I find that I rather enjoy getting out of the lab.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to come.”

  “Fiona,” Kingsley said. “Look after things here, will you?”

  “Of course, Father.”

  The girl smiled at Hammersmith and he smiled back. He was suddenly aware of his broken nose, bloody arm, and soiled clothes. He was bothered and had no idea why.

  He tipped his hat and hurried after Dr Kingsley, Inspector Day, and the little lost boy, Fenn.

  105

  Hammersmith knocked on the door and stepped back. He put his hand over the wound in his arm, covering as much of the bloodstain as he could manage.

  He looked down at Fenn, standing next to him on the stoop. The boy had been cleaned up some, but he looked almost as bedraggled as Hammersmith did. The shirt Fenn was wearing, one of Kingsley’s, was much too large for him, he had no shoes, and his hair was matted to his head. He raised his eyes from the door and smiled at Hammersmith.

  “Thank you,” Fenn said.

  Hammersmith smiled back and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He remembered his father’s hand on his own shoulder, so many years ago. Was this how his father had felt, some mixture of melancholy and gladness and nearly overwhelming pride?

  After a long moment, the door opened. A woman stood there, all in black. She had been crying. Her face was red and her hair was mussed, and she didn’t seem to care.

  Hammersmith stepped to one side and Day pushed Fenn forward so that the woman could see him. The boy didn’t wait for a reaction from his mother. He ran to her and launched himself into her arms.

  The woman’s eyes closed and her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She went to her knees, the boy clutched tight to her, fresh tears streaked down her face.

  “Mattie?” A man’s voice echoed down the hall behind her. She didn’t react to it, just rocked back and forth, holding her son. “Mattie?”

  A short man with his shirttail untucked from his trousers came up the hall behind her. When he saw Fenn, he ran forward and embraced both his wife and his boy at once.

  Hammersmith stepped off the porch and looked at Day, who shrugged and smiled. Nobody in the tiny family took any notice of the two policemen and the doctor at their door. They were locked in a silent reunion and no outsiders were necessary.

  It didn’t matter to Hammersmith in the least. He knew that he had failed the unidentified chimney climber, the boy nobody had cared for, but he thought perhaps he had made up for it in some small way by bringing Fenn home.

  “Good-bye, Fenn,” he said. “Always be brave.” He said it quietly and nobody heard him.

  He was startled by yet another boy, whom he recognized as one of Kett’s runners. The boy hurtled at them on a rickety bicycle and jumped off just as he reached the curb, bringing the bicycle to a shuddering halt.

  “One of you Inspector Day?” the boy said.

  “I am,” Day said.

  “Sergeant Kett said to find you. Been by way of two other places, sir.”

  “What is it, son?”

  “He said to tell you,” the boy said, “your wife’s taken sick, sir. You’re needed home at once.”

  “Thank you.”

  Day scowled at the trees, but said nothing. He seemed to have forgotten where he was. Kingsley gave the boy a penny and touched Day on the arm.

  “I’ll take you,” he said.

  “Hammersmith,” Day said. “Let’s get him to hospital first. That arm needs tending.”

  “No,” Hammersmith said. “We’ll get you home. My arm will wait.”

  “Where do you live?” Kingsley said.

  “Kentish Town,” Day said.

  “St Thomas’ is on the way. It’s not the hospital I’d choose, but it’ll do if Mr Hammersmith will permit.”

  Hammersmith snorted. The sudden air through his broken nose brought tears to his eyes and he put his head down. St Thomas’ Hospital. He chuckled to himself, and when he raised his head, he saw that the others had stopped walking and were staring at him.

  “St Thomas’ would be fine,” Hammersmith said. “Anything that gets Walter to his wife as quickly as possible.”

  Day smiled at him and Hammersmith smiled back. He had balanced the universe by saving one boy when he couldn’t find justice for another. Apparently the universe wanted to repay the favor.

  He straightened his shoulders and hurried to the carriage.

  106

  Hammersmith sat at the edge of the bed and carefully pulled the fresh white sling off over his head. He reached for the shirt that was draped at the foot of the bed and inched it on over his damaged arm.

  “That’s a bad cut there,” the patient in the next bed said.

  “Not too bad. It’s the broken knuckles that bother me most.”

  “Got the same damn thing myself,” the patient said. “Other arm, though. And me knuckles are good.” He held up his arm to show Hammersmith the bandage. “Some mad bugger did me with scissors. You believe it?”

  Hammersmith clucked his tongue and pulled the other sleeve over his good arm. He concentrated on buttoning the shirt with his good hand. The shirt fit well. He’d found it at the tailor’s shop and didn’t think anyone would complain that he’d taken it.

  “Lucky for me there was a doctor at the workhouse today. Just visitin’, he was, pure coincidence. Except not a coincidence at all, was it?”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “He was there with the police, chasin’ after the madman what stabbed me. Anyhow, it was a lucky break. He fixed me up and sent me on here.” The patient propped himself up on one elbow so he could lean in toward Hammersmith. “Glad it happened. Know why? Food’s better here!”

  The patient broke into loud peals of laughter. Hammersmith nodded and put his sling back on, adjusting it across his chest. He stood and surveyed the area for anything he might be forgetting.

  “Here now,” the patient said. “Yer not s’posed to leave till the nurse comes an’ says it’s all right.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be glad for the empty bed. Anyway, I’ve things to do. Can’t lie about all day.”

  “Me, I’m happy to have a reason to lay about.”

  “Then enjoy yourself. Glad to have met you.”

  Hammersmith walked out of the ward and nobody stopped him. He got his bearings and turned to his left, walked down a long hall until he found a staircase. At the top of the stairs, he asked a harried-looking nurse for the men’s critical ward and followed in the direction she pointed until he came to a large room at the end of the hall. Twen
ty beds lined the walls, and in each of them lay a dying man.

  He took a deep breath and entered the ward. He found his father in the sixth bed from the end, asleep, an old man with thin white hair and bony shoulders. He no longer resembled the strong coal miner who had ruffled his son’s hair as they’d walked home in the starlight so many years ago.

  Hammersmith pulled up a stool and sat. After a while, the old man’s eyes opened and he looked up at Hammersmith. There was a long silence, and when his father finally spoke, Hammersmith had to bend over him so that he could hear.

  “Look how you’re growing, son,” his father said. “You won’t be the smallest boy in the village much longer.”

  He smiled and Hammersmith smiled back. He reached out his hand and smoothed his father’s hair back from his forehead. After a moment, the old man’s eyes closed again.

  Hammersmith waited until he was sure his father was asleep and then he rose and left the hospital.

  He was surprised to find Penelope Shaw waiting for him when he arrived at number four, Whitehall Place.

  “I heard that you rescued a child,” she said.

  “It was luck.”

  “You’re too modest.”

  “No, only honest.”

  “Your arm?”

  “It will heal.”

  “Your nose is healing already.”

  “Yes. I noticed it’s a different shade of purple today.”

  “I came to apologize to you again.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “I want to anyway.”

  “Very well, then. You’ve apologized. Now it’s done and behind us.”

  “And I want to say good-bye to you.”

  “Good-bye? I don’t understand.”

  “Perhaps I’m assuming things I shouldn’t, but it felt as if there was something between us.”

  “How could there be? You’ve been a widow for less than a day.”