by Alex Grecian
“Doctor?”
Kingsley turned to see a one-armed man approaching him. He recognized Colonel Sir Edward Bradford, commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.
“Sir Edward, my nurse didn’t tell me—”
“Your daughter let me in, sir. She assured me it would be all right.”
Sir Edward caught sight of the body and blanched. Kingsley grimaced and moved himself between the commissioner and the corpse. He stamped the liquid off his shoes and held out his hand. Sir Edward looked at it.
“Generally,” Sir Edward said, “I try to be carrying something so that I can gracefully avoid this very situation. I hope you understand, but I couldn’t possibly shake your hand.”
Kingsley looked down at his hands. They were covered in gore. He nodded and crossed the room, dipped his hands in a basin of reasonably clean water and rubbed as much of Thomas off them as he could.
“Terribly sorry, Sir Edward. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Of course not. I apologize for intruding. I’ve meant to visit your morgue, but I’m afraid I haven’t had the opportunity.”
“Shall I show you round?”
“Your daughter, what was her name?”
“Fiona, sir.”
“Yes, Fiona was kind enough to show me much of the facility. I take it this room is where the most … in-depth work takes place.”
“You might say that. This is where our victims give up their secrets to me.”
“Our victims?”
“We’re still alive, after all, and they are not.”
“And we must claim some responsibility for that, I suppose?”
“If we choose.”
“How poetic, Doctor.”
“It’s often a lonely occupation and my mind travels to strange places.”
Sir Edward nodded and glanced around the room, taking in the long tables and the instruments and the drain hole in the center of the floor.
“You’ve been helping the police with these matters for how long now?” he said.
“Nearly two years, sir.”
“Commissioner Warren appointed you?”
“No, sir, I took this work upon myself.”
“You’re a busy man, Doctor. I’ve seen your laboratory and the classrooms. Why would you choose more work for yourself?”
“I would rather not speak ill of anyone.”
“Ah, you leave that to me, then. Am I to assume that the previous facility was not up to your high standards?”
“One might say that.”
“And so you simply stepped in, took over, and nobody challenged you?”
“Until this moment.”
“This is no challenge, Doctor. I’m here about a different matter. You have never drawn a salary from the Metropolitan Police. I checked.”
“You seem to be well informed.”
“I am endeavoring to manage a great many things that have gone untended. A great many things that escaped the notice of my predecessors.”
“I’m sure they were busy men.”
“I’ve no doubt. Did you know that one of my detectives left the Yard before I arrived in London? He has disappeared somewhere in the Midlands, and there was no notice taken at all.”
“He’s disappeared?”
“I’m being dramatic. He apparently retired. My men have continued the farce that Inspector Gilchrist is still on the job. It’s humorous, I suppose.”
“A joke?”
“In its way.”
“You’ve let them continue with it?”
“There’s no harm in it. Perhaps it boosts the men’s morale. I don’t know.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to replace the man and ease their workloads?”
“Of course. And I will, but I’ll do it without exposing their prank.”
“I see.”
“My point, Doctor, is that I intend to do things differently than they have been done before, and that includes the Yard’s relationship with you, sir. It’s one thing to take this extra work on yourself, but why not receive payment for it?”
“I don’t need the additional income, and I thought it might be put to better use. Perhaps helping to prevent this sort of thing in the first place.” He gestured at Thomas.
Sir Edward glanced at the cavity where the top of Thomas’s head had been.
“What happened to him?”
“He was mugged.”
“Is it necessary to do…” Sir Edward waved his hand, taking in the body, the tray of instruments, and the exposed brain, mottled and shiny under the lights. “To do all of this? If we already know that he was mugged, I mean.”
“There’s still more that he might tell us. His brain has swollen with the impact of some blunt tool, but the question is, where on the brain did the swelling take place in relation to the site of impact? Had he been hit at a different point on his skull, might he have survived? Thomas is teaching me things.”
“Is he a good teacher?”
“I find that if you’re a good student, the teacher hardly matters.”
“Very good. I’ll leave it to you, then.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Sir Edward smiled and turned to leave. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned back.
“These things you learn, they’re for the benefit of the police force, are they not?”
“Of course. For the benefit of us all, but primarily for gathering evidence.”
“You shall draw a salary from this day forward. I’ll have a check sent round.”
“That’s not necessary, sir.”
“Doctor, I can’t have you gallivanting about a crime scene and engaging in police business if you are not a proper member of the Yard. And the Yard does not pay its people well, but we do pay them.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“No, Dr Kingsley, thank you. And in the future I would greatly appreciate it if you shared the things you learn here with me.”
“You have but to ask.”
“And now I have asked. I’ll let you get back to it, but I hope to see you again soon. Thank you for your time, Doctor. And for everything else.”
With that, Sir Edward stepped through the door and pulled it shut behind him.
Kingsley drew in a deep breath and blew it slowly back out. For two years he had dreaded such a visit, and now that it had finally occurred he felt relieved and even excited. He ran his hands through his wild thatch of grey hair and belatedly wondered whether he had got all of Thomas’s cranial fluid off his fingers. He made a mental note to wash his hair, then promptly forgot when he returned to work on Thomas’s corpse.
With long-handled scissors, bent near the tip, he reached in past the brain and snipped blindly but expertly, and the brain slid into his hand and he drew it out. He held it up like a newborn for Thomas to see, the corpse’s eyes still set in the grinning skull.
The brain went into a small basin, a damp cloth to cover it. Kingsley filled Thomas’s empty brainpan with cotton and set the skullcap back in place with a bead of thick glue. He maneuvered the corpse’s skin back up over the top of the head and down. It was a tight fit. He smoothed it over the skull, popping the teardrop of cartilage back in place over the nose. He stitched the skin shut at Thomas’s throat using one of the upholsterer’s thick curved needles and made a mental note to order more of the needles for the lab. They were ideally suited for this type of work. When the flesh was joined again, he moved his expert fingers over the corpse’s face, pushing here, pressing there, realigning the features so that the dead man looked like himself once more.
“See there,” he said. “Good as new. No one need ever know you haven’t a brain in your head.”
He smiled.
The door of the laboratory opened again, barely a crack, and Fiona’s soft voice floated in.
“Tea’s ready, Father.”
“I’ll be there directly.”
The door closed again with a sigh and a click.
Kingsley rinsed his bloody hands in
a bowl of water, wiped them on a clean towel, and left the room. Before he closed the door, he looked back at the dead man. Kingsley followed Thomas’s empty gaze to the laboratory’s ceiling.
“I hope it’s all worth it,” he said.
He closed the door, leaving Thomas to sort it out for himself.
37
Mr Pringle was smaller than Inspector Little had been, and he fit more naturally inside a steamer trunk. Cinderhouse, the bald man, had only two trunks left in his possession, and one of them was a hat trunk, cube-shaped and half the size of his only remaining steamer. Pringle wasn’t that small.
Cinderhouse locked the shop door and took Fenn home. He bolted the boy in a downstairs closet with a sandwich and a jug of water and then returned to the shop. He took a hatchet with him.
Pringle’s arms were separated from his torso. This was easily accomplished, but there was a suspenseful moment when Cinderhouse’s foot slipped from where it anchored Pringle’s weight and the body rolled to one side. The bald man almost lost a toe.
But without arms, Pringle was easier to pick up and maneuver into the trunk. Inspector Little had been a nightmare. The tailor liked to think that he learned from his mistakes. He had given more thought to the disposal of this second body.
Pringle’s legs were folded up against his body and tied there with a length of stout twine. The arms were thrown in on top of the rest of the mess and the trunk closed over it all, removing it from sight and memory.
Cinderhouse wrapped the bloody shears in a length of black crepe and put them in his pocket. He would dispose of them later, anywhere so long as they were far away from the scene of the crime.
He mopped the floor and scrubbed it with an ammonia solution until it glowed.
The coachman was summoned, and for a shilling, he helped Cinderhouse lift Pringle’s trunk up into the hansom. The tailor climbed onto the board next to the coachman and with a snap of the whip and a “Haw!” the three of them set out toward the train station.
38
I hope you don’t mind my saying so … Your shirt is ridiculous.”
Hammersmith took the cup from Penelope Shaw and smiled. “It’s not mine.”
“Of course it isn’t yours. It doesn’t fit you.”
“A friend was kind enough to lend me his shirt. Mine was ruined.”
“How was it ruined?”
“I spilled something on it.”
“Spilled something?”
“Blood.”
“Oh, my.”
Penelope took a step back and reached for the wall behind her. Hammersmith rose from the chair and reached out toward her, but she waved him away.
“You didn’t say what happened to you. You killed someone, did you?”
“It was my own blood. I apologize for troubling you.”
“You haven’t troubled me in the least. I lost my balance for a bare instant, that’s all.”
Hammersmith took a sip of tea and scalded his tongue. He set the cup on the side table.
“Have you ever killed anyone?” Penelope said.
“No, of course not.”
“I’m sorry, I just thought perhaps … So many villains out there.”
“Perhaps fewer than you might think.”
“Well, it’s clear that someone’s been acting up.”
She gestured at Hammersmith’s shirt, then his damaged face, taking in the entire tableau with an up-and-down movement of her wrist.
“Again, only an accident. A misunderstanding.”
“Well, I hope you gave as good as you got.”
Hammersmith smiled. “I believe God will eventually even the scales in this particular case.”
“If that’s so, then why do we need policemen at all, Mr Hammersmith? Why don’t we all simply wait for…” She waved her hand again, this time taking in all of time and space.
“Because no man should send another to his death. It’s not for us to decide. Police maintain the natural order of things.”
“Do you?”
“I try to.” He shrugged and picked up the cup. The tea had cooled a bit now and he took a swallow. There was none of the bitter tang of copper that he was used to.
“You’re about my husband’s size. I’ll fetch you a fresh shirt, at least.”
“No need for that.”
“It would make my time spent with you more pleasant if I weren’t constantly reminded of violence and death and your ‘natural order.’”
Hammersmith narrowed his eyes. “Where is your boy?”
“He’s with his governess. They’re at the park.”
“You don’t accompany them?”
“I waited here in case you chose to visit.”
“Why did you think I would?”
“I didn’t think that you would. But I had hope.”
She stood and left the room. She paused under the arch and turned toward him for a moment.
“I’ll be back with that shirt.”
39
What’s he doing here?”
“He’s harmless enough,” Day said.
“Let me dance for you,” the dancing man said.
He began to gyrate, waving his broom handle in the air between them, a talisman of something only he understood. A streamer of black crepe fluttered at his throat.
“Somebody should’ve moved him along weeks ago,” Blacker said. “He belongs in the nuthouse. Or at least the workhouse.”
“No,” the dancing man said.
The dancing stopped. He dropped the broom handle and reached into the folds of his clothing. He drew out the knife that Day had seen the night before.
Day took a step back, but Blacker moved forward. The dancing man feinted with the knife and Blacker jumped back, then forward, rocking on his toes. He grabbed the other man’s arm and twisted. The dancing man made no sound, but Day watched as his expression changed from anger to confusion. Day reached out toward Blacker, but the older detective had already disarmed the dancing man in two swift movements and knocked him to his back on the cobblestones.
“Stay there,” Blacker said.
“What made him do that?” Day said. “I’ve mentioned the workhouse to him before without any threat of violence.”
“Look at him. You think he ever makes any sense?”
Day didn’t answer. He leaned down and helped the dancing man to his feet. He held the dancing man’s elbow tight and steered him toward the back door of number four.
Blacker picked up the knife. He held it out to Day, then pulled it back and looked at it more closely, letting sunlight play over the silvery surface.
“This is made of wood. It’s only painted wood.”
“Surely not.”
“You think I don’t know wood when I see it?”
“It’s not a real knife?”
“It’s a child’s toy.”
Day threw his head back and laughed. He couldn’t help himself. The anxiety he’d felt since moving to London caught up to him all at once and he let go. Blacker glared at him and then gave in and began to laugh, too.
“It looked so real,” Day said. He wiped a tear from his eye. “In the gaslight it looked completely real.”
“It looks real enough in the sunlight as well,” Blacker said.
“I don’t hurt people,” the dancing man said.
“Of course you don’t,” Day said. “But you’re in danger of being hurt yourself. This isn’t the best spot for you to dance, you know.”
“I have a message for you,” the dancing man said. “The messenger wants me to show you something.”
“How lovely,” Blacker said.
“The messenger?” Day said.
“He left something for you. He knows who kills the police.”
“Who is this?”
Day was suddenly interested despite himself. Even Blacker had stopped chuckling and seemed to be listening.
“Come,” the dancing man said.
He took off at a full gallop across the street and down an
alley. Day and Blacker followed at a safe distance, keeping the vagrant in sight. At the mouth of a storm drain, the dancing man ducked down and disappeared. The detectives rushed forward and found the dancing man standing hip-deep in rippling water.
“I’m not going down there,” Blacker said.
“Nor I,” Day said. “But thank you for showing us, sir.”
He smiled at the dancing man and turned to go back to the Yard, but the dancing man shouted, “No, look!”
Day turned back and, with a deep sigh, squatted down to see what the vagrant was pointing at. There was a ledge formed by a crosspiece between two pillars deep in the tunnel, and there, shining bright against the dark red bricks, was a pair of shears.
Day pointed and grabbed Blacker by the leg of his trousers.
“There,” he said. “Go get those.”
“Not me,” Blacker said.
“I’ll get them,” the dancing man said.
He splashed into the cavelike tunnel and emerged a moment later holding the shears high. He presented them to Day, who took them and turned them over. They were streaked with a filmy layer of red. He clenched his jaw and looked at his colleague.
“Kingsley said that Little’s wounds were—”
“Inflicted by shears.”
“Yes.”
“Let me dance.”
“Come with us,” Day said. “You can dance inside.”
The dancing man tossed one end of the long strip of black crepe around his throat as if defying the breeze to touch him.
“My things,” he said. “I need my things.”
They walked back to number four and Day collected the dancing man’s things, including the broken broomstick, but left the milk crate where it was against the brick wall. He was conscious of spectators who had begun gathering in the street in the hope that there might be an arrest.
Sergeant Kett was at the desk in the back hall and he stood as the dancing man entered ahead of them.
“Here now, get on out,” he said.
Then he saw Blacker and Day. He scowled.
“Aw, what’re you doin’ bringin’ ’im in here? Smell’s worse’n usual today.”