by Alex Grecian
Day turned the knob. Nothing. He stepped up to the windows set into the tiny door and cupped his hands on either side of his eyes. Peering in, he saw only darkness.
He turned and squinted into the mist. London seemed empty of any other human soul. He felt utterly alone, but the Ripper was out there somewhere in the grey city. Or perhaps the Ripper was dead and gone, having destroyed the confidence of the Yard and of the citizens who no longer trusted the Yard to protect them.
Whether he was gone or not, it hardly mattered. Saucy Jack had gifted them all the idea of himself. Others like him circled like lions around the herd. The city was changed.
Day reached into the inside pocket of his overcoat and drew out the flat leather pouch. Atop the array of heavy skeleton keys on their velvet bed was the tiny brass key to the kiosk. He picked it out and turned back to the door. Under the knob was a small keyhole. The key fit perfectly, and Day heard a click when he twisted it. The knob turned under his hand and the door swung open without another sound. He stepped inside.
There was barely enough space within the pillar for two men to stand upright. Aside from the wooden door with its small window, the interior was all of the same stone that made up the outer wall. Day closed the door behind him and passed his hands across the walls. There was a shallow ledge that circled the room at waist level. Perhaps wide enough for a candle. Day reached up and felt along the ceiling. It tapered in the middle, leading up to the lamp outside. He put his hands down and stood, looking out the window at the fog.
There was nothing here.
Whatever this lamppost–station house had represented to Inspector Adrian March, it eluded Walter Day. This was a tiny room in a vast city, and perhaps that was all it was meant to be. One of the many secrets concealed beneath the day-to-day business of the mightiest empire in the history of the world. A place of safety and hidden potential for a policeman who had ultimately been defeated by a killer of women.
Day left the kiosk. He locked the door and put the key back in its pouch. He didn’t know what he’d hoped to find here, but if Detective March had left a message, its meaning was a deeper mystery than Day was prepared to solve.
He walked away from the square and turned toward his home, his wife, and his bed.
16
Hammersmith and Pringle sat on a short wall under the drooping branches of a willow tree. They were across the street from the brownstone where Hammersmith had found the dead boy in a chimney. The street was completely deserted, and Pringle was slumped into Hammersmith’s left shoulder, snoring softly.
The moon hung low in the sky, and Hammersmith could feel the cold stones of the wall through the seat of his trousers. He thought, not for the first time, that it would have been nice if he and Pringle had the funds to sit in a hansom cab in the shadows and watch the house in relative comfort, but cabs were expensive.
Pringle shifted in his sleep, and a wet strand of drool seeped from the corner of his mouth onto Hammersmith’s arm.
Hammersmith had taken care to let no doubt show on his face while discussing the matter with Pringle, but alone in the dark, watching an empty house, and with little prospect of sleep before his next day’s shift, he could feel his confidence ebbing. Pringle was right. So, for that matter, was Inspector Tiffany. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of children died or went missing every year in London. The police lacked the resources to pursue every case, particularly if there was no evidence of a crime.
But he had once been that little boy. He had spent long hours alone in the dark doing a job he didn’t entirely understand. His own circumstances had been different, of course. He had been sent into the mines by his family to earn the money they needed for groceries and medicine. He had felt proud to contribute, useful and grown-up. But the fear and the loneliness had been there with him every minute of every day.
He was certain the boy had shimmied up that chimney on the promise of no greater reward than a smile or a pat on the shoulder or an extra biscuit. To Hammersmith’s way of thinking, that made the chimney sweep, and maybe the people who hired the chimney sweep, criminals no different from highway robbers or pickpockets. Maybe not murderers in any technical sense, but people who should be taken off the streets and locked up for society’s good.
And that was Hammersmith’s job.
From far away he heard the clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones. He leaned back into the shadows of the willow and shook Pringle awake.
“Wha—?”
“Shush. Someone’s coming.”
Pringle nodded and wiped his cheek with the sleeve of his jacket, then frowned at the silvery streak of drool and tried to brush it away.
“Is it them?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“We don’t know anyone’s ever going to return to this place.”
Hammersmith ignored Pringle. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it that night.
The two of them retreated behind the wall and watched as a patch of darkness blacker than the night moved up the street toward them. A pinprick of light bobbed along in time to the sound of the horses’ hooves. When it drew closer to them, the light resolved itself into a lantern on a pole affixed to the side of a great black carriage. Two sweating chargers pulled the carriage up even with the row of houses and stopped beside the wall, snorting and stamping.
After a moment, the driver hopped down from his perch and opened the door on the other side. He fetched a stool from the seat above and placed it on the cobblestones. Hammersmith could see under the carriage as first one foot lowered itself and then another, and a man’s weight eased forward. The feet touched ground and the man turned, apparently to help a woman down because a pair of dainty ankles were briefly visible before the hem of a frilly dress settled, obscuring the view. Another woman followed, then a child. The four pairs of feet moved away from the coach, and the driver jumped back up to his seat and whipped his reins across the horses’ backs. The carriage moved on up the street.
Hammersmith stood and stepped over the wall. He felt a drop of water hit his arm and he looked up. Another drop hit him in the eye and he gasped. He wiped his face with his sleeve and looked out across the street where the man from the carriage had also felt the rain coming. He was hurrying his two women and the child up the steps to the house. He was carrying a black leather overnight bag, and one of the women was lugging a much larger suitcase.
Hammersmith walked briskly across the street. He felt Pringle keeping pace. More raindrops splashed on his head and shoulders as he strode, his heels clicking against the cobblestones.
The man hadn’t noticed them yet. He was busy unlocking the front door. Hammersmith put his right foot on the bottommost step and cleared his throat.
“Excuse me, sir.”
The man visibly jumped and dropped his bag. The two women turned to look at Hammersmith, but the little boy stared up at the man, perhaps surprised to see his father caught unawares. The man turned slowly toward Hammersmith, looked down the steps, and pursed his lips, but said nothing. He had an elaborate beard that had been groomed into four outward-Jutting curls beckoned the eye, drawing attention from the rest of his long, horsey face.
“Are you the homeowner here?”
The man nodded, his curls bouncing on his chin.
“May I ask your name, sir?”
“Why, I’m Dr Charles Shaw.”
He said it as if the two police should already know him, as if everyone should know him.
“My colleague and I are with the Metropolitan Police. We’d like a word with you, please.”
Charles Shaw turned back to the door and got it open. He ushered the two women and the boy inside and closed the door behind them. He looked up at the black sky.
“It’s late, Constable, and it’s beginning to rain. Perhaps you’ll come back at a proper time?”
Hammersmith ignored the irritation in the doctor’s voice.
“Beg pardon, sir, but you don’t seem to be home much of late, and I’d hate to miss thi
s opportunity to talk to you.”
Shaw stared at Hammersmith so long that Hammersmith thought the doctor might come down off the porch and hit him. He watched Shaw’s hand curl into a fist, relax, and then curl up again. Behind Hammersmith, he could hear Pringle shift from one foot to the other. They were all getting wet.
“And what if I decline to talk to you?” Shaw said.
Hammersmith shrugged. That was certainly an option. From the tone in his voice when he gave his name, this man was apparently prominent in the community. Hammersmith and Pringle were at least several rungs below him in social status, and if Shaw chose to pursue a grievance with Sir Edward, it might cost them their jobs. The two constables were well over the line, and they all knew it.
“Then I suppose we’ll wait, sir. It’s no problem at all. We’ll still be right here outside your home in the morning.”
The implication was clear. When the neighbors awoke and looked out their windows, they would see two wet and miserable police officers sitting outside this brownstone. It wouldn’t be good for the doctor’s reputation. It would require endless visits up and down the street, by both Shaw and his wife, to smooth things over and quell the rumors.
Shaw sighed. “Very well,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to appear rude. Please come inside, but I’ll ask you to refrain from dripping on any of the rugs.”
Hammersmith and Pringle followed Shaw through the door and into a well-appointed antechamber. Shaw didn’t know it, but Hammersmith had been here before, had explored the entire house for clues when the boy’s body was found. He looked around as if it were his first time there. A bench with an embroidered cover sat under a huge gilt-framed mirror to their left as they entered. On the opposite wall was a series of brass hooks beneath a small chandelier. Hammersmith took off his overcoat and hung it on one of the hooks. He hung his hat next to the coat. Pringle hesitated, then followed Hammersmith’s lead. Shaw looked stricken, but said nothing.
It was the custom to leave one’s coat and hat on unless a visit was expected to last more than fifteen minutes. Often, neighbors would take a stroll after dinner and call on their nearby friends and acquaintances. If they left their coats on, it meant that their host shouldn’t worry about serving tea or dessert. To take one’s coat off signaled a prolonged obligation and was avoided unless there was a clear invitation to stay.
Hammersmith had not been invited to stay.
One of the women appeared at the arched doorway between the entrance hall and the rest of the house. She smelled faintly of lavender and apples, and she was the better dressed of the two women Hammersmith had seen outside. He guessed she was Shaw’s wife and the other woman was probably a governess or maid.
“Charles,” she said.
“Penelope,” Shaw said, “please have Elizabeth put on some tea for our guests.”
Shaw didn’t sound pleased about it. The woman, Penelope, looked like she wanted to say something, but then turned and walked out of sight. Hammersmith rummaged in the pocket of his hanging coat until he found his notebook. He turned to a fresh page and wrote Dr Charles and Mrs Penelope Shaw, and then below that Elizabeth—Housekeeper?
“What are you writing?”
“Nothing important, sir. Your names, that’s all. How long has Elizabeth been with you?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. My wife hired her, of course, and it’s been many years now. At any rate, it’s none of your business. What’s this all about then?”
“Have you been informed that there was a break-in at your address?”
“Here, you mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hammersmith watched Shaw’s eyes. Hammersmith had assumed that Shaw knew about the boy’s body and had a good reason to want to avoid talking to the police, but when he heard that his home had been burgled there was genuine surprise and concern in his eyes. It was gone almost immediately, but Hammersmith had seen the emotion there for one unguarded moment.
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“We had no way to reach you.”
“I was … We were in Birmingham on holiday.”
“Birmingham?”
“Family there.”
“I see. May we?”
Hammersmith gestured toward the rooms beyond the hall, and Shaw looked at the floor. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, sniffed loudly, then nodded, seemingly to himself rather than his uninvited guests. Without looking directly at the constables, he led the way into the drawing room and they followed.
Pringle grabbed Hammersmith by the arm and they let Shaw get a few steps ahead of them. He gave Hammersmith a look, and Hammersmith nodded. Mentioning the break-in to Shaw was a dangerous move. Hammersmith hadn’t even told Inspector Tiffany about Blackleg’s involvement in finding the boy’s body. There was no official record of any burglary. If Shaw went over their heads and inquired at the Yard, Hammersmith might lose his job. But he was certain Shaw wouldn’t contact the police. And scaring the doctor was the only surefire way he could see to get his attention.
Shaw’s drawing room was tastefully decorated. There was nothing gaudy about it; the stag’s head on the wall looked to Hammersmith’s untrained eye to be real, and the furniture was old but elegant. The large round table in the center of the room was scratched and scarred, but crafted of a single piece of wood and had surely cost more than Hammersmith’s entire annual salary when it was new. There was a low armchair with a high back, and Penelope Shaw was sitting in it, waiting for them. She rose and greeted them as if they hadn’t just met her at the front door.
She held out her hand and Hammersmith took it. He looked from it to her face and noted the way her dark hair framed her high cheekbones. Her eyes were wide and a blue so pale they appeared frozen. She smiled and looked away from him.
She waved them all to chairs and they sat. Hammersmith saw Charles Shaw bristle silently as he and Pringle sat down. The housekeeper, Elizabeth, entered with tea and set the table for them. The scones appeared to be several days old, but Hammersmith assumed it was the best she could do for unexpected strangers at three o’clock in the morning. He passed up a scone, but took a cup as Shaw explained the situation to his wife.
“They say we’ve had a break-in while on holiday.”
“Oh, my. Was anything taken?”
“You might be able to tell us that, ma’am,” Hammersmith said.
“Well, I haven’t … I mean, we’ve only just arrived home. I wouldn’t have any idea yet.”
“They’re lying,” Shaw said. His face went white and he blinked quickly. He clearly hadn’t meant to speak out loud.
“Pardon me?” Hammersmith said.
“I apologize. I’m quite tired.”
“Of course. We’re very sorry to intrude like this. It’s just that with you being such an important figure in the neighborhood, we assume that your neighbors might also face some danger of burglary. We want to nip this in the bud as quickly as possible. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” Penelope said.
Hammersmith could feel the doctor sizing him up, but he didn’t look at him. Instead, he focused his attention on the wife. Penelope was much younger than her husband. Her face reminded Hammersmith of a fox: long and lean and smart. There was something hungry about her, hidden behind a façade of perfect respectability.
“Mrs Shaw, have you noticed anyone unusual in the neighborhood of late?”
“We’ve been out of the city,” Shaw said.
Hammersmith shifted his attention to the husband. “For how long?”
Shaw hesitated and Hammersmith watched the doctor’s eyes. Shaw met his gaze and straightened his shoulders.
“Just the night. We ran into weather and had to turn around.”
“So you weren’t gone long at all.”
“I didn’t know how recently you meant.”
“Before you left, then?”
“No. I think I would have attached some importance to anyone who appeared—”
“I’m sur
e you would. But we mustn’t rule anyone out. What about your staff?”
“Elizabeth is beyond reproach.”
“I understand. And this is a difficult question to be faced with, but how well do you know the rest of your household? What about your laundress or your chimney sweep?”
Pringle spat his tea back into his cup. “Hot,” he said.
Shaw glared at him.
“Our chimney sweep?”
“Or anyone who might have access to this place in your absence.”
“Well, I’m sure he seemed perfectly respectable.”
“Do you have a name for him?”
“I believe his name may have been Robert,” he said.
“Excuse me, Charles,” Penelope said, “but our chimney sweep’s name is Sam. I’m sure of it.”
“Don’t interrupt. You have things you could be doing, don’t you?”
“Of course, Charles. I apologize.”
She rose from the table and walked slowly to a door that led to the kitchen. She looked back at the table before passing from the room. Hammersmith was surprised to realize that he wanted her to look his way, but she didn’t. She didn’t look at her husband, either. After she was gone, the scent of lavender lingered, and the three men were silent for a long moment.
“So,” Shaw said, “you’re of the opinion that our sweep stole something from this house?”
“Perhaps. Later in the day, would you be so good as to make up a list of anything that might be missing? If we track this man down, we may find some object, something belonging to you about his person, and that would be all we’d need to ascertain his guilt in the matter.”
“Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Of course, sir. That’s why I said it might wait until later in the day.”