The Yard

by Alex Grecian

  “Is this the same Charles Shaw who visited me with a concern about you, Mr Hammersmith? Do you have any light to shed on this?”

  “It was, sir. He won’t be visiting again.”

  “He’s dead, then?”

  “He is.”

  “Murder or accident?”

  “Murder, sir. Throat slashed almost to his backbone.”

  “I see. Same person who killed Little and Pringle?”

  “We don’t think so.”

  “Sir,” Blacker said. It was the first time he’d spoken since Sir Edward had given him a dressing-down. “I respectfully disagree with my colleagues, Sir Edward.”

  “You think Shaw’s death is related to the other two murders?”

  “I’m not certain. But I’m suspicious of coincidences.”

  Sir Edward nodded and leaned back in his chair. “As am I,” he said. “But I have experienced a great number of them anyway. What is the coincidence in play here?”

  “We’re agreed that the same person killed both Little and Pringle. The methods are nearly identical.”

  “Yes?”

  “And we have three other murders, at least three, that are also similar to each other.”

  “Are they similar to the murders of Little and Pringle?”

  “No, they’re not. But I have trouble believing that there are two completely unrelated murderers at work in London who kill again and again, and seemingly at random.”

  “Whether the killings are random or not remains to be seen. That fact is up to you men to discover, is it not?”

  “It is, sir. But to kill in this sort of repeated pattern isn’t the work of any kind of murderer we’re used to seeing.”

  “There was Jack.”

  “Yes.”

  “But we don’t think this is him, do we?”

  “Right, sir,” Blacker said. “I mean, no, sir.”

  Sir Edward almost smiled, but raked his fingers through his beard and scowled at the desk. “I think,” he said, “that Jack was the first of a new breed of killer. I think he opened a door to certain deranged possibilities and there will be more like him. These cases you’re currently pursuing may well be connected, but if they’re not—or even if they are—this department, the Yard itself, is going to have to adapt. We’re going to have to stop struggling against the idea of the mad killer and instead take steps to anticipate such a person. There are still patterns in the crimes they commit. We have to be able to see those patterns. I have great faith in you men, and I’m encouraged by the new techniques that Dr Kingsley and others are discovering.”

  “I think—”

  Sir Edward held up his hand. “I understand your misgivings, Mr Blacker. I do. But we are living and working in the largest city in the entire civilized world. There are more people packed together within London’s borders than anywhere else. And I think it’s that very closeness, that utter lack of privacy, that has caused a new kind of perversion to flower in the minds of some deviant people. I saw things in India that would shock you, all of you. But I also saw kindnesses among the people there that I don’t see here. London is locked in a sort of dance of propriety, and it seems to me that it has led to desperation among certain elements of our society.”

  He took a deep breath. “And that is as much as I want to say on the matter. I would much rather hear from you detectives.”

  “Should I leave, sir?”

  “No, Hammersmith. You’re involved in this and I’d like you to have a hand in, so to speak.”

  He looked at Blacker as he said it and smiled. Blacker blushed and looked down at his shoes.

  “For now, let’s treat Dr Shaw’s murder as a separate case, but to be handled in conjunction with the Little case. Work them both and compare notes. As I told you, Mr Day, all of the detectives out there are at your disposal, but I regret that I have nobody to assign Shaw’s case to as a separate matter. I hope that you’ll rise to the challenge.”

  “I will do my utmost, sir.”

  “Back to Shaw, then. Were you able to learn anything from him?”

  “He couldn’t speak, but he was able to write answers to a few questions before he passed.”

  Day took the small notebook from his jacket pocket and opened it to the page Shaw had written on. He laid it on Sir Edward’s desk.

  “Anything useful here?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” Day said. “Most of what he wrote consisted of answers to specific questions we asked. That last bit at the bottom of the page was spontaneous, though.”

  Sir Edward held the pad up close to his face and squinted at it. “I can’t make it out.”

  “Neither could we. It seems to be a reference to ploughing something, but we don’t know what. He wrote it just as he died.”

  “He certainly didn’t appear to be a farmer when I saw him.”

  “He was a surgeon, sir.”

  “It may have no bearing on his case at all, then. Just the delusional last thoughts of a man in great pain.”

  “That’s possible, sir.”

  “Still. Be nice to know what it says. Give me a moment.”

  He opened his top desk drawer and rummaged inside before finding a small pair of reading glasses. He perched them on the end of his nose, and picked the notebook back up.

  “I’ve had occasion to decipher the handwriting of Indian doctors,” he said. “Their penmanship was better than this, but perhaps I can bring a fresh pair of eyes to it.”

  He didn’t look up as he spoke, but continued to gaze at the paper in front of him. There was a long moment of silence as the three policemen watched the commissioner. Finally Sir Edward pursed his lips and shook his head.

  “I don’t think that’s a p. It looks like an f to me.”

  He laid the pad on his desk, removed his glasses, and pointed at the paper.

  “Look here.”

  Day leaned in.

  “If that’s an f,” Sir Edward said, “then this word isn’t ploughing. I think it says following. What do you think? See the w?”

  “Yes.” Day looked up at the others. His face was flush with excitement. “It says following. That’s exactly it. And this second word has to be you. Following you.”

  “Following who?” Blacker said.

  “Was Shaw following you, Mr Day?”

  “We were discussing his killer.”

  “His killer was following him.”

  “He doesn’t say here that anyone was following him. This says following you.”

  “He also wrote that his killer was two women,” Blacker said. “He called them whores.”

  Hammersmith stiffened and grabbed Day’s arm. “He was following me. Shaw was following me. This must be a confession.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “His widow told me as much. Remember I told you that he had me poisoned?”

  “That’s a large leap to make from two words scribbled on a page.”

  “I know. But I think I’m right.”

  “But why would he confess to following you?” Blacker said. “What good does it do him as he lies dying to tell you that?”

  “If he was confessing his sins, why not confess all of them?” Day said. “Why this one?”

  “Perhaps he ran out of time,” Hammersmith said, “and this was merely the first of many confessions. I do believe he had more wicked sins to talk about.”

  “Wait a moment,” Sir Edward said. “Did you say that he poisoned you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why wasn’t I informed?” Sir Edward said. “The man came to my office to complain about you. If I’d known…”

  “Sir, Mrs Shaw was involved, and I wanted to think through the possible repercussions before bringing anything to you. I believe she was coerced into helping him and the scandal would be—”

  “Mr Hammersmith, the health and safety of my officers is of great concern. You should have brought the matter to me.”

  “I apologize.”

  “Well, I imagine
the murder of Mr Pringle rather occupied your thoughts. But in the future…”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you’re feeling quite all right?”

  “I am now, sir.”

  “Good. Well, then, back to the matter before us. If this man Shaw wasn’t confessing a sin, then do you think it possible he was delivering a warning?”

  “A warning?”

  “Yes. Think about it from the killer’s point of view. He’s been killing police and now the police are on his trail. Isn’t it possible he’s been following one of you? He might even be planning to make one of you his next victim.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “And if Shaw was following you, Mr Hammersmith, perhaps he saw the killer, also following you. Perhaps you’re the next target.”

  “Following me? Why would the killer be following me? Mr Day or Mr Blacker here, they’re the ones investigating him.”

  “Maybe you saw something.”

  “Nothing I’m aware of.”

  “It’s a thought. We still don’t know why Little or Pringle were killed. You’re as logical a target as any of us. You said Shaw’s wife is involved in this somehow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s have a talk with her, then.”

  “I’ll pay her a visit.”

  “No, not you, Mr Hammersmith. It sounds to me like you’re already chin-deep in a situation there.”

  “But, with all due respect, sir—”

  “I’ve made my decision. Mr Hammersmith, I want you to keep your distance from the Shaw home. Help Mr Day as he pursues Pringle’s killer. You should find that a satisfactory outlet for your energies. Mr Blacker, you’ll visit the Shaw woman. Take someone with you. And Mr Hammersmith?”

  “Sir?”

  “You worry me. I’ve already told these men and now I’m telling you: I don’t want you doing anything alone, and I mean anything at all. You will stay with these other men at all times.”

  “But I’m perfectly capable.”

  “Of course you are. Indulge me. I am not prepared to lose any more of my men.”

  72

  He won’t return.”

  “Hammersmith?”

  “Aye, him.”

  “Of course he’ll return. He likes the lady. Her own husband told us so.”

  “He’s had her already.”

  “Hasn’t. She’s a proper one. And anyhow, her husband’s only just dead. But once our Mr Hammersmith finds the body, he’ll be round here to call on her, I promise.”

  They looked at each other and both burst out laughing at once. Then they lapsed into easy silence. The two women sat side by side under the willow tree on the same low wall that Constables Hammersmith and Pringle had occupied two nights before. The sun had moved behind a blanket of fog and did nothing to warm them. Liza leaned her head against Esme’s shoulder.

  “He doesn’t have hair on his face,” she said. “There’s no beard to shave.”

  “They all have beards,” Esme said. “This one keeps it down, is all.”

  “Less work for us, I suppose.”

  “He done the work for us. Partly.”

  “Partly. Not all.”

  “You really think he’ll come here?”

  “If he doesn’t, we know where to find him.”

  “Not done it to a police afore.”

  “You done it to plenty a police, girl.”

  Esme laughed. “Ain’t done the other thing, though. Ain’t killed one.”

  “Don’t matter he’s police. What they done fer us, huh? They dint catch him.”

  “They let the Ripper do what he done to Annie.”

  “And the others.”

  “Aye.”

  “And you.”

  “Aye.”

  They were silent then, and the fog rolled over the wall and up the trunk of the willow behind them and swirled down. It was cool and damp, and Liza closed her eyes and felt it on her face.

  “He’ll come,” she said. “Patience, love. He’ll come.”

  73

  Should I be worried about this woman poisoning me?” Blacker said.

  “You’re not her type,” Hammersmith said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “A joke. I thought you liked those. Penelope Shaw was a victim of her husband’s cruelty and manipulation. She won’t cause any trouble for you.”

  “Michael and I seem to have hit a dead end with Little’s murder,” Day said. “Now that we have your notes, Nevil, I’d like to follow Constable Pringle’s movements in the last few hours of his life.”

  Hammersmith nodded.

  “You know,” Blacker said, “that I have the utmost respect for Sir Edward.”

  “Of course.”

  “The jokes … about his arm? They weren’t meant to hurt.”

  “Perhaps joking makes the job easier for you.”

  “Sir Edward knows you meant no real disrespect,” Hammersmith said. “If he didn’t, I believe you’d be back to walking a beat today.”

  The creak of the opening gate caused the three men to turn toward the rail where Sergeant Kett was entering.

  “Some news for you gentlemen,” he said. “Mr Day, I’m afraid we needed the room in lock-up and I was forced to send your prisoner to the workhouse.”

  “The dancing man?”

  “He wasn’t dancin’ when I saw ’im last.”

  “Which workhouse did you send him to?”

  “Hobgate.”

  “Damn.”

  “I had little choice.”

  “No, I understand, but I don’t think he’s well equipped to survive long there.”

  “Well, who is?”

  “Granted.”

  “And Mr Hammersmith, there’s been another dispatch from hospital. It’s your father.”

  “My father can wait.”

  “No, son, it don’t sound like he can.”

  “I’ll get round to see him when I have the time.”

  “If you want to do that today, I can handle the investigation on my own for a bit,” Day said.

  “No, you’ll need me to point out Colin’s habits.”

  “Your notes will steer me in the right direction, I’m sure I can—”

  “I don’t care to see my father.”

  “Ah.”

  “He doesn’t know me. He’s half the size he once was and he coughs blood onto himself, and I have no desire to watch him die. If it’s quite all right with you lot, I will do my job and I will remember my father the way that I wish to remember him.”

  The other policemen looked at one another, but remained quiet. Finally Kett reached out and clapped Hammersmith on the shoulder.

  “Well,” he said, “you lads have a busy afternoon ahead of you. I’ll let you get to it.”

  Kett stepped through the gate and disappeared down the back hallway.

  “Well, then,” Day said. “Let’s get started, shall we? Where would Pringle have been yesterday morning?”

  Hammersmith was grateful to Day for giving him something constructive to think about, a goal, no matter how wretched the circumstances surrounding that goal might be. His head throbbed and the room spun slowly round him, the poison still working its way through his system. He closed his eyes, thinking, waiting for the walls to stop moving.

  “He was headed to the tailor’s shop,” he said. “I forget the name. It’s the one used by the department for uniforms and the like.”

  “Cinderhouse,” Blacker said.

  “That’s it. Colin had new trousers being made and he was anxious to have them fitted.”

  “He was anxious for a pair of trousers?”

  “He was quite … well, he was immaculate in his ways and in his appearance. He liked to impress the ladies.”

  Hammersmith allowed himself a wistful smile at the thought of all the disappointed women who would never again receive a compliment from Colin Pringle. Some of them, Maggie especially, deserved an explanation. Hammersmith could see that the days ahead would be bu
sy. He would need to track down and inform Pringle’s friends—the friends that Hammersmith knew about—that their social circle had been diminished.

  “Then Cinderhouse should be your first stop,” Blacker said. “You were going to pay a visit there anyway. We can share a wagon, at least that far, before I have to head for the Shaw home.”

  “The scarcity of police wagons is alarming. How can we hope to track anyone down when we have no transportation?”

  “The tailor’s shop won’t be open yet,” Hammersmith said.

  “What say we roll past it and take a look? I don’t want to wait another day before questioning him. If he’s not in there, we’ll try again after we see this Shaw woman. Meanwhile, Mr Hammersmith looks particularly rough this morning. Perhaps we could all do with a spot of tea and a fresh change of clothing.”

  “I’m fine,” Hammersmith said. “Perhaps not as rested as I might be, I’ll admit, but I won’t be able to sleep again until this monster is in our dungeon.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then what say, after the tailor’s shop, we pay a visit to Shaw’s widow together?” Blacker said. “We’re supposed to stick together anyway and I’ll feel a bit less likely to be knocked off by her.”

  Day looked at Hammersmith.

  “I’ll wait outside her home,” Hammersmith said, “in the wagon.”

  Day chuckled and clapped Blacker on the back. “Very well. Perhaps the presence of three of the Yard’s finest will convince Mrs Shaw to keep her poisons locked up.”

  The gate creaked again.

  “Your pardon,” Kett said, “but there’s a gentleman out here who says he’s got to talk to Mr Day.”

  “To me?”

  “Well, not by name, but he said it was regarding the dancin’ man, and that’s your special interest.”

  Day looked at Hammersmith and Blacker. Blacker shrugged.

  “I can spare a minute,” Day said, “but no more.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Wait. Who is it?”

  “Never seen ’im round before, but he says he’s the dancin’ man’s brother.”

  74

  Dr Bernard Kingsley looked past the body of Dr Charles Shaw. Most of the tables in the large spotless room were full, and two nurses were busy bringing in more bodies. Next to Shaw was the body of a girl who couldn’t have been much older than Fiona Kingsley. Most of the girl’s jaw was missing, her tongue lolling down the length of her neck. A belated victim of the white phosphorus used to make matches, and a clear holdover from London’s match girls’ strike of the previous year. Kingsley had seen scores of similar bodies, but fewer of them since the strike. The young women who had worked in the Bryant and May matchstick factory had breathed the phosphorus fumes. They had touched their faces when they lit their cigarettes, scratched their noses, and wiped the sweat from their brows, transferring white phosphorus from their fingers. Their skulls had turned to jelly.