by Alex Grecian
“You were wearing a yellow dress. And a bonnet.”
“You remember the color of the dress?”
“And you wore gloves that nearly reached your elbows.”
“And you liked me?”
“You were the best and prettiest girl I had ever seen, and I knew you would never marry me because I wasn’t good enough.”
Claire smiled, though she knew Walter couldn’t see her. “I prefer to decide that sort of thing for myself.”
“And so,” Day said as though he hadn’t heard her, “I knew it was a hopeless cause, but I tried every day to be the best person I could be, to be good enough for you, whether you noticed or not.”
“You were always good enough, Walter Day,” she said. But she wasn’t sure whether she’d spoken loud enough for him to hear.
They lay there side by side for a long time then, Claire straining to see the ceiling. She thought her eyes would eventually adjust to the darkness, but they didn’t. Before long, Walter began to snore, and Claire curled up with her back along his side. She knew he would be gone from her bedroom by the time she woke in the morning.
“I married you,” she said, “because you’re the sort of man who remembers my yellow dress.”
She closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come.
“Humph,” she said. “Percy Erwood, indeed.”
21
Constable Nevil Hammersmith paused with his hand on the knob and took a deep breath before opening the door and entering the Brass Tankard. It was the seventh pub he’d visited since parting ways with Pringle and they were getting more squalid as the hour grew late. The only pubs still open were the places that catered to serious drinkers and criminals. Unless he found what he was looking for soon, he feared he would get no sleep before his shift.
He still had a long night ahead of him.
DAY TWO
22
SEVENTEEN HOURS SINCE THE DISCOVERY OF MR LITTLE.
The sun climbed over the rooftops of Kentish Town, glancing through rain clouds and in at windows as it rose. Claire Day stood in front of her mirror, but she didn’t watch herself. She had enough experience that her fingers remembered what to do now; she didn’t need to see them.
She pulled the corset over her head and tugged it into place above her hips. She tightened the top set of laces below her shoulder blades and moved down, rung by rung, until she reached the middle of her back, where two loops hung down. She grabbed them and pulled the top half of the corset tight, whalebone biting into her sternum.
She took a shallow breath and started again at the bottom of the corset, just below her waist. Again, each set of laces was yanked taut until once more she reached the middle of her back. The loops, longer now, were crossed over each other and stretched again until they were long enough to wrap around to the front of Claire’s waist. She pulled as hard as she could and tied the ends into a discreet bow over her navel.
She looked down at her handiwork, what she could see of it, and frowned. Her maidservant had always made a prettier bow. Claire had resolved herself to the fact that she would never have a staff like the household she’d grown up in. Her husband was the loveliest man she’d ever met, and money meant nothing to him. They had little enough of it, but Walter routinely gave it away to anyone he met who appeared to be needy. Claire had no regrets.
She backed up and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, still avoiding her reflection in the mirror above the vanity.
She panted like a small dog, shallow breaths in and out. The inevitable suggestion of a deep breath presented itself to her and she tried to ignore it, but the thought grew until she felt she had to yawn.
Of course, she couldn’t yawn.
Instead, she felt her stomach turn over on itself, cramped though it was down there, and she ran to the bathroom, barely making it to the basin against the far wall before her gorge rose and she vomited water. It splashed her chin and dribbled from her nose. Thankfully, there was nothing else in her system, but still she continued to heave.
Finally, her body calmed itself and she slid to the floor, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and steady.
She sat there until the light of the dawning sun filtered through the curtains and turned the insides of her eyelids orange. Then she grabbed the edge of the basin and stood.
Claire wiped her face and rinsed out her mouth. She pulled a long lacy gown on over the corset and left the bathroom. Her husband’s room was just down the short hallway, and she could hear water splashing in a basin, Walter getting ready for the day. She hurried her steps. He would need a freshly pressed shirt for work.
Her stomach turned again and she pushed against the wall until the sensation passed. She closed her eyes, took a short breath, and when she opened her husband’s bedroom door she was composed and smiling.
There was no need to trouble him.
The bald man returned to his house when the street vendors started setting up their stalls for the day. Traffic had begun to pick up, curious passersby glancing in his direction, and the bald man realized that he was still wearing his sopping nightshirt and slippers.
He bathed quickly and changed clothes.
In Fenn’s room, the bald man examined the ropes that had held the boy to his bed. They were still intact, still knotted. Fenn must have spent hours wriggling his way out of them. The bars on the window looked sturdy, but when the bald man checked them, one bar slid out of place. It swung to the side and the bald man stooped to look at the window casing. The mortar there was crumbled and loose. When he scraped at it with a fingernail, it sifted down the wall like sand. He moved the bed and there was a pile of grit on the floor. Clearly he had done a shoddy job installing the bars, hadn’t mixed the mortar well enough and left a dry pocket that the boy had been able to scratch away at, loosening a single bar just enough to squeeze through.
Below the window, a flood wall ran the length of the block. Fenn could easily have hopped down to the top of it, then over and away.
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 m
inutes.
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 cheeks 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 hard
er-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.