by Alex Grecian
“That’s right. Thank you, Mr Tiffany. I’ll show myself out.”
She stood and left by the back hall, stopping just long enough to thank the kind constable for his time and trouble. Claire resolved to tell Walter about her strange visitor as soon as she saw him. He would listen to her. He had always listened to her.
The world was full of men like James Tiffany. There was only one Walter Day.
62
Somewhere in the dark house, Saucy Jack called out to him.
“I won’t hurt you,” Jack said. “Come out and watch me play.”
Hammersmith remained quiet. He was in a drawing room with no lamps, but he could see dust motes floating through the air around him, backlit by the blue light of a picture window. The furniture was covered with white sheets, but the sheets were stained brown and red, spattered with the blood of Jack’s victims, who lounged about, blocking Hammersmith’s exit.
There was Annie Chapman, sitting on a Prince of Wales chair, her uterus in her lap. She smiled at Hammersmith. Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes were together, leaning against the empty fireplace, talking in hushed tones. Stride raised a hand in greeting and her throat opened with the effort, fresh blood pouring out and over the front of her party dress. Mary Kelly relaxed on the daybed. Her heart beat slowly next to her. Mary Ann Nichols stood at the window, and Hammersmith noticed for the first time that it was snowing outside the room. Mary held a finger to her lips, hushing him, and Hammersmith realized the snowflakes were actually grey ash drifting past the window.
The Ripper had been busy. Saucy Jack had not stopped with those five women. Or started with them. Jack was London itself and London had always been a killer.
Eight-year-old Johnny Gill played with a tin train set beside the divan. He grinned at Hammersmith and a thin smear of blood slid across his teeth. The train continued round its track and Johnny’s attention returned to it. Elizabeth Jackson sat by Johnny, brushing her hair, one hundred strokes before bed every night. She turned her decapitated head this way and that in her lap, blindly moving the brush, her shy face tucked away in the crook of an elbow.
The drawing room door was closed and the key was in the lock. Hammersmith could see it from where he stood. The key moved as someone worked the handle. Then a great fist struck the door and Jack’s voice echoed through the hall outside.
“You’re too small, Nevil,” Jack said. “I’m everywhere and I always find my little boys and girls. You can’t hide from me.”
Hammersmith looked down at his body and saw that he was a child again. He was almost five, and he was still smaller than most four-year-olds.
Elizabeth Jackson picked up her head and stood. Her face peered out from under her arm and a single eye focused on Nevil. It winked.
Nevil grabbed the white sheet from the divan and threw it over his head. Under the sheet, the air was thick and the darkness was complete and Nevil felt safe. If the door broke down and the Ripper came in, he would tramp right past the sheet-clad boy and he would never ever find him. Jack would only see another ghost.
He was blind, but he could still hear as, across the room, the key fell out of the lock and clattered to the floor. Hinges creaked as the door opened and deliberate footsteps thumped across the floorboards and over the rug and stopped in front of the police boy under the cloth.
Jack’s lips pressed against the other side of the sheet, and Nevil felt the Ripper’s breath, hot and moist against his cheek. A kiss.
“Thank you, Nevil,” Jack said. “I couldn’t do any of it without you.”
The lips drew away and Nevil heard the Ripper’s footsteps retreat, and the room must have grown because the footsteps went on and on.
Nevil closed his eyes—there was no change in the quality of darkness—and he wished that the footsteps would stop, that Jack would reach the door and leave, but the sound of the killer continued, pounding against the floor, pounding.
He awoke in a sweat, his bedsheet tangled about his throat. His room was nearly as dark as the dream had been. He could still hear the distant pounding.
“Hammersmith,” someone said.
The voice was faint, coming through the hall door. Someone was out there knocking.
“Are you in there? Answer the door, man, or I’ll break it down.”
Hammersmith sat up and stumbled out of his bedroom to the front door. He threw the latch and opened the door and Sergeant Kett blinked at him, his arm raised to knock again. Hammersmith’s landlady, Mrs Flanders, was behind the sergeant. Beside her, Inspectors Day and Blacker stood with their hats in their hands.
“I couldn’t find the key, Mr Hammersmith,” Mrs Flanders said. “I’ve told you not to lock the door.”
Hammersmith said nothing. He stared at the old lady and the three police, and he tried to remember why he had felt so safe with a sheet over his head.
“I’m sorry, lad,” Kett said. “We was worried perhaps you’d been done in, too.”
Hammersmith shook his head. He didn’t step back from the door, didn’t make way for anyone to enter the flat. Day and Blacker appeared uncomfortable, and Kett was red in the cheeks.
“He’s dead, lad. Little’s killer done him.”
Hammersmith found his voice. “What time is it?”
“It’s not late,” Blacker said. “Did we wake you?”
“No,” Hammersmith said. “Of course not. Who’s died?”
But somehow he already knew.
DAY THREE
63
FORTY-ONE HOURS SINCE THE DISCOVERY OF MR LITTLE.
The sun was beginning to rise, but its rays had not yet reached the alley where Sam Pizer waited. He mashed the lit end of his cigar between his thumb and forefinger and put it in his pocket to enjoy again later. The rattle of wheels on stone grew louder, echoing up and down the alley, then slowed and stopped.
Pizer leaned against the alley wall and waited. After a long moment, a voice came from atop the hansom cab.
“You the sweep?”
Pizer spat on the stones and nodded, realized the coachman couldn’t see him in the shadows, and cleared his throat.
“Aye, I does chimneys.”
“Heard you was in the market for a climber.”
“Where’d you hear it?”
“Round and about.”
“Maybe I is and maybe I ain’t.”
“Well, make up your mind about it.”
“I’ll think on it while you climb down here so’s I can see you ain’t got a pistol aimed at me bean.”
The coachman grunted. “I ain’t got a pistol on you.”
“How do I know it?”
“I’m tellin’ you.”
“Your word, eh?”
“Aye, my word.”
“Don’t mean nothin’ if I don’t know your name even.”
Another grunt and then, after an extended silence, Pizer heard the other man shift his weight. The coachman’s cloak rustled as he swung out onto the side of the cab and hopped down with a clatter of boot heels to the alley floor. He stepped forward, his hands held out to show they were empty. The coachman’s face was hidden in the murk.
“Have a cigarette?” Pizer said.
The coachman hesitated, then reached into his cloak, pulled a dull silver case from the blackness, and opened it. Pizer took a cigarette and waited for a light, the stub of his old cigar heavy in his breast pocket. In the flare of the match, he caught sight of a prominent nose, ungroomed muttonchops, and a high hat before the orange flame sputtered and the two men were once again swallowed in shadow.
“Thanks,” Pizer said.
“So is you?” the coachman said.
“What, in the market for help? Might be.”
“What’re you payin’?”
“Tell me … you know a fella name of Blackleg?”
“Blackleg? Ain’t heard of him.”
“You sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. Who’s he to you?”
“Just heard he’s been nosin’ round about me.”
“That might be why you’re such a hard man to find?”
“You found me.”
“Took some work, though, I’ll tell ya.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t wanna be found by this fella Blackleg. And neither do you. I heard stories.”
“Why’s he want you?”
“Got no notion and don’t wanna find out.”
The coachman said nothing. Pizer took a drag of the cigarette. He blew the smoke up and watched it shimmer away.
“So you gots a climber for me, then?” he said.
“Might have.”
“You the child’s parent?”
“No. I work for a gentleman who done recently acquired a boy what ain’t his.”
“Ah, and he’s ready to dispose of the kid, that it?”
“Wrong again. He’ll keep this one for a good while, I’m guessin’.”
“Then what?”
“I get paid to procure them poor wee children for the gentleman.”
“So you sell the boy to me for my climber and then you get another payday when you replaces ’im.”
“Could be.”
Pizer nodded even though he knew the other man couldn’t see him. At least this made sense. He understood the coachman’s motives here, which made him trustworthy as far as this particular arrangement went. The coachman was entirely motivated by profit. He made money by locating and helping to procure a child for his employer. Eventually, the coachman would make sure the child disappeared. His employer would pay him to help look for the child. And then he would pay him again to help find a new child. And the cycle would repeat.
Whatever money he could chisel from Pizer in the process was nothing but gravy, and that gave Pizer the upper hand in this negotiation.
“How big is he? The kid?”
“Smallish, I’d say. Maybe half the size of a man and big around as my leg. Skinny thing, he is.”
“Hmm. What’ya want for him, then?”
“Ten quid’ll do it.”
Pizer snorted. “Ain’t worth ten. I’ll find me own climber.”
“You will, eh? You’ll do that while you’re hidin’ from this Blackleg fellow? You’ll rummage about the neighborhood for a child to snatch? Take a young person from the bosom of his family and none the wiser?”
“I get around all right.”
“Good night, then.”
Pizer heard the coachman’s cloak rustling again as he turned away.
“Wait. I gives ya two and eleven.”
“You’ll give me five.”
“I’ll gives ya two an’ eleven.”
“You need this boy or you don’t work.”
“But you need to get loose of the boy more ’n I need ’im.”
“An’ how’s that?”
“You got another kid lined up already, don’t ya? Don’t bother to say no. You got another kid, but ya can’t put the finger on ’im till you shake loose the one you already got. You could kill the kid you got already, but that might cause you some problems. You need a patsy, and that’s where I comes in.”
“You’re not a—”
“No, you don’t got to pretend anything ain’t what it is. I got no problem bein’ the patsy in this here case, long as you don’t bring the law round.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“’Course you wouldn’t. Too much to answer fer yerself.”
“Four pounds.”
“To do you a favor? Yer already makin’ a bundle, I’m guessin’, offa findin’ yer master a new boy to do … well, to do whatever he does to them boys you grab.”
“He is a perfect gentleman.”
“’Course he is. Listen, sir, once you and me finishes up this fascinatin’ conversation, I can toddle on down to any embankment in this here city, sidle up under a bridge, and find me at least a half a dozen starvin’ urchins be only too happy to go wiff me fer the price of a hot meal or a biscuit even.”
“Might also find this fella you’re worried about, this Blackleg fella, under there.”
“Aye, an’ I might at that. But ol’ Blackleg caint be everywhere, can he?”
“Three pounds, then.”
“Tell ya what, two an’ eleven an’ I’ll take the next boy offa you, too, when the time comes.”
“You think you’ll have need of another climber?”
“Risky business, climbin’ up the flue. Bound to get stuck sooner or later. ’Specially if you take it upon yerself to keep growin’ alla time.”
“That’s—”
“’Tis what it is. An’ yer in no position to go castin’ stones.”
The coachman was silent, but Pizer knew he had him.
“Done,” the coachman said.
“Good. Bring ’im round here tomorrow mornin’, this time.”
Without another word, the coachman sprang to the top of his hansom cab and flicked the reins. The cab lurched forward and rolled down the alley, turned left at the mouth, and was gone. Pizer fished the remains of the old cigar from his pocket and lit it from the dying embers of his cigarette. He took a drag of the stale cigar and leaned back against the alley wall.
Two pounds eleven was still a lot to pay for a new climber, but the coachman had been right. Sam couldn’t do his own scouting when there was Blackleg to think about. All things considered, he was getting off lucky. No question about it, things were looking up for Sam Pizer.
The bald man, Cinderhouse, hadn’t stayed to watch his work being discovered this time. He wasn’t stupid. And he didn’t want to be caught. He had derived some satisfaction from watching the detectives find Little’s body, but if he had been noticed then and was noticed again when Pringle’s body was discovered, there would be suspicion. He would have liked to experience that final step in the process, but it wasn’t essential. He could guess what was happening this morning as the Metropolitan Police Force was mobilized, as the panicky prey huddled together, knowing that the hunter was out there somewhere in the night beyond the fire.
He knew now that he would kill again. It was only a matter of time. He’d had no idea how right it would feel to strike back at the universe, at the city, at the police, for everything they’d taken from him. He’d played the good citizen for most of his adult life and it hadn’t worked out for him. That was all, it just hadn’t worked out and it was time to move on. The city had taken his family and the police had done nothing to find them and now the scales would be balanced.
For all Cinderhouse knew, his family was still alive somewhere. They had left the house one day and they had not come back. No bodies had been found. So perhaps they were in a different city, with new names. Perhaps they thought of him sometimes and wondered how he was doing. The idea was disturbing, but sometimes it comforted him to imagine his wife and son living a separate life far away.
That fantasy never lasted long. He knew they must be dead. The city swallowed nearly ten thousand people every year. Ten thousand people simply disappeared, Cinderhouse’s family among them. There was nothing the police could do. He’d gone to them and they had listened to him and taken notes and done nothing.
But here he was, finally taking matters into his own hands. Killing the police wouldn’t bring his family back, he knew that, but it quieted the angry voices in his head. It wasn’t quite closure, but it felt good just the same. Maybe he would kill Sir Edward Bradford, the commissioner of police himself, the very embodiment of the useless Metropolitan Police Force.
But one thing at a time. Cinderhouse was letting himself grow angry again and it would be all too easy to take that anger out on the wrong person. He needed to be calm. He had family matters to deal with.
He made his way across the back lawn in the pale dawn light. The old carriage house loomed up before him, and he found the latch on the side door. He hadn’t been back here in months, but he still knew the place. He stepped inside and smelled the damp and the rot and the musky animal scent that tickled the back of his throat. He tried not to think about the cause of that odor. Three
empty horse stalls were directly ahead of him and he felt along the wall until he came to a set of brackets hung at eye level. Something small scurried across his foot and he kicked at it. His hand closed on the thing in the brackets and he pulled it up and away. He felt along the length of it and held it to his nose. The leather hadn’t rotted away and the animals had left it intact.
He cracked it against his leg and felt the familiar sting, the tingle that traveled down to his toes and back up to his loins. He cracked it again and groaned. His breath quickened and the old memories of discipline returned at once.
He exited the way he had come and relatched the side door. Back across the lawn and into the house. He set the riding crop on the table while he fetched an extra lantern from a cupboard in the kitchen and lit it. With the crop in his right hand and the lantern in his left, he moved through the back hall to the storage closets near the pantry.
The boy had stopped banging on the walls and kicking at the door of his closet. Cinderhouse hoped that Fenn had managed to get some rest. He still had a long day ahead of him.
A boy must be taught to respect his father.
Phillipa Dick hated Claire Day.
She hated her so much that she had taught her the wrong way to sew buttons on a blouse, the wrong way to clean an oven, the wrong way to boil a sheep’s head … She had done everything she could to foul Mrs Day’s marriage.
Her tactics had not, of course, made even the slightest dent in the Days’ marriage.
The husband, Mr Day, was an uncommonly handsome man, Mrs Dick thought. His broad shoulders, dark eyes, and kindly manner never failed to quicken Mrs Dick’s heart. Her own husband had been a small ratty tortoise vendor who had spent most of his life walking up and down Oxford Street calling after passing housewives to come and take a look at the best tortoises in London. Upon selling one of the slow-moving beasts, Mr Dick had hied himself to the nearest pub for the remainder of each day, until money was once more tight. He had spent the entirety of their married life shuttling back and forth, from street to saloon, leaving his wife to keep a roof above their heads with the meager profits she earned by cleaning houses.