The Yard

by Alex Grecian

  “I doubt that we’re here for the same reason. The man I’m looking for likes to perform. He dances. Have you seen him?”

  “Can’t say as I have, but I’m out here on the entrance. Might ask inside. Just follow the path up the hill and you’ll find someone at the main building. Men’s ward’s on the first floor. Women and children are upstairs.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Might think to keep your stick handy. Sometimes they get out of line.”

  “You hit them?”

  The guard looked away. “Only if they need it, sir.”

  Day didn’t know how to respond. He was appalled by the thought that the homeless in Hobgate might be abused, but he had no experience with the workhouse and no idea how dangerous the people here might be. Perhaps it was the guards who feared abuse.

  He nodded at the guard and set off up the hill. The path twisted and the workhouse disappeared in the fog. The rain was coming down harder now, and Day silently cursed himself for forgetting his own umbrella. The path was lined with small yew trees, all stripped of leaves and bark. Day wondered whether the trees had fallen victim to disease or to the Hobgate inmates. Ahead, the main building hove into view again, a dark stone block against the grey sky. There were no windows in its walls, only a huge oak door wrapped in iron bands.

  Another guard was posted outside the door. He was talking to someone as Day approached. The second man had his back to Day and was holding a small black bag in one hand. Both men turned to look at Day.

  “Dr Kingsley?” Day said.

  “Detective!”

  Kingsley seemed relieved to see him.

  “What are you doing here?” Day said.

  “I suspect I’m here for the same reason you are.”

  “The dancing man?”

  “Henry Mayhew, yes.”

  “I’d like to get him out of here, if I can.”

  “As would I.”

  “Well, between the two of us…” Day grinned. He couldn’t help himself. In the wagon on the way to the workhouse, he’d wondered if he was doing the right thing, if sending a vagrant back to the streets ran counter to his responsibilities as a police. But if Kingsley had also made the trip to Hobgate, there must be some logical merit to the idea of letting Henry Mayhew live his life as he pleased.

  “I didn’t relish the thought of entering this place alone,” Kingsley said. “I was trying to persuade this gentleman to accompany me inside when you arrived.”

  He gestured toward the guard, who raised his umbrella and tipped his hat.

  “Against regulations to leave my post here, sir, unless there’s a ruckus inside. Otherwise, I’d be proud to help.”

  “I understand. Now that the detective is here, I think we’ll be fine.”

  “Good luck then.”

  The guard gave them a look that made Day nervous, then slid back a bolt on the door and opened it. He reached into a small antechamber just inside the open door and came out with two lanterns. He lit them from his cigarette and handed one to each of them.

  “You’ll need these in there,” he said.

  Then the guard stood aside and let the two men move past him into the gloom of Hobgate.

  The ground floor of the workhouse was one huge room, partitioned off into smaller chambers. The walls on both sides of the makeshift center hallway had been hastily thrown up and were rough, so close that splinters snagged at the sleeves of their overcoats. Day inhaled through his mouth to avoid the odors of human waste and body odor. Every six feet there was a hole cut in each wall. A doorway without a door, so small that a grown man would have to crawl through it.

  Day and Kingsley divided the hall, each of them taking a side, and stooped to peer into each room that they passed. The lantern light cast long moving shadows, but there was little else to see inside the chambers. They were all identical, two long platforms fastened to the walls and covered with straw, a walkway between them that ended at a second door-hole. Each platform was deep enough to sleep three men, and the snores echoing throughout the hall were evidence that Hobgate had few vacancies. At the far end of each room was a chamber pot. A single sniff was enough to confirm that the pots were rarely emptied.

  “This is inhumane,” Day said.

  “Hardly unique in this city,” Kingsley said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “London is growing too fast for the poor and the dead, the children or the simpleminded to keep up. There is no place for any of them.”

  “I hope that’s not true.”

  “You know that it is.”

  Day sighed and changed the subject. “I don’t know how we’re going to find him in this labyrinth. There’s no rhyme or reason to anything here. Men are stacked like cordwood.”

  “Let’s try this, then,” Kingsley said.

  He set his lantern on the floor, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted: “Henry Mayhew! Come out, Henry Mayhew!”

  “I don’t think he’ll respond to that,” Day said. “He’s quite timid.”

  “Have you another idea?”

  Day raised his eyebrows. “I might,” he said. “Or at least an addition to your own idea.”

  Several heads had poked out from the holes along the walls. Men peered down the dark hall at them. Day didn’t like the looks of most of them. He stuck out his chin and shouted.

  “Henry Mayhew, your brother has sent us! We’re here on Frank’s behalf! Henry, Frank wants you to come out!”

  More faces appeared along the length of the hall. From somewhere ahead, a place deep in the shadows, a rhythmic thumping began as something heavy moved toward them. Kingsley leaned close and whispered, “Do you have your pistol on you, Detective?”

  “I do.”

  “Are you a good shot?”

  “I’ve never used it except to practice.”

  “That’s not particularly comforting.”

  Day put his hand on the grip of his pistol but didn’t draw it. Kingsley raised his lantern and both men braced themselves as the thumping drew closer. The heads along the passageway swiveled and disappeared back inside their chambers. Finally a figure emerged from the darkness at the end of the hall and moved slowly forward. The swinging lantern created multiple shadows, and Day pulled his gun partially from his belt.

  “Where’s Frank?”

  “Is that Henry there?” Kingsley said. “Are you Henry Mayhew?”

  The dancing man moved into the circle of light cast by Kingsley’s lantern and his shadows joined him, pooling at his feet. Without the shadows’ imaginary bulk behind him, there was nothing intimidating about Henry Mayhew. If anything, he had shrunken in on himself over the course of the night.

  “Where’s Frank?” he said again.

  “Frank couldn’t come to see you today,” Day said. “He sent us in his stead.”

  “You gonna keep me safe from the messenger?”

  “The messenger?”

  “The messenger of the city. The one what left the scissors for you. He’s here to kill me now.”

  “Nobody wants to kill you, Henry.”

  “The messenger does.”

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “He looks mad and he scares me.”

  “Have you seen him again?” Day said.

  “Aye.”

  “Where?”

  “Behind you.”

  The dancing man pointed. Day turned, his lantern swinging wildly in the small space. The yellow light sent shadows looping and veering about the narrow hall, black doors like mouths in the dark. A shadow separated from the others and spun away, taking shape as a man in a dark suit and a tall black hat.

  The man raised his hand and lantern light glittered off a pair of shears.

  87

  The notice in the Times was clear and to the point. An elderly couple had lost their chimney sweep and needed someone new for the job. Interested parties were to enquire at the couples’ flat.

  Sam Pizer couldn’t read letters, but he could re
ad numbers, and the bartender’s daughter at the Whistle and Flute had read the advertisement aloud to Sam. Now he double-checked the address against the numbers on the curb.

  Lord only knew he needed the money that the job could bring. He had offered the coachman two and eleven for a new climber, but he didn’t have it. And everything would be much harder if the police kept coming round to harass him. It might be impossible to find a new boy on his own, which made his connection with the coachman his only real hope.

  He hoisted his bucket of brooms and rags and rang the bell next to a confectioner’s shop. He heard a shuffling noise and then the door cracked open and a sliver of an old woman’s face appeared there.

  “What is it you want?” she said.

  Sam tipped his hat and smiled. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Your notice said to come round about now.”

  “Notice?”

  “For a sweep? In the Times?”

  “Didn’t put a notice in. Must’ve been Mr Hammersmith.”

  “Your husband, ma’am?”

  The old woman blushed and put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my, no. He’s a tenant.”

  “I see. May I come in?”

  She stepped aside, but didn’t open the door all the way. He had to walk in sideways in order to get the bucket of tools past her. Looking around, he found himself in a small foyer with a dark staircase ahead.

  “Just upstairs?” he said.

  “Yes.” She peered at him and stuck a finger up in the air. “I know who you are.”

  “You do?”

  “You’re no sweep at all, are you?”

  “But I am, ma’am.”

  She winked at him. “You look like a sweep would look, but there’s something not quite right, I think. But never you mind. Your secret’s safe with me…” She paused and leaned forward, looked over her shoulder at the empty hall behind them, and whispered, “… Officer.”

  Sam blinked at her, but said nothing. He’d encountered his fair share of dotty old bats in his time.

  “Head on up. It’s there at the end of the hall. The second flat. He’s waiting for you.”

  Sam nodded and hoisted his bucket, getting a better grip. He started up the staircase and turned back when the old lady hissed at him.

  “Never mind what I said before,” she said. “You’re quite convincing.”

  Sam shook his head and trudged up the remaining stairs to the top. The old lady followed him and broke off to scurry into a flat. Sam moved on to the door at the far end of the hall and rapped lightly on the jamb.

  “Come in,” a man’s voice said.

  Sam Pizer used his free hand to turn the knob and stepped inside the flat. He closed the door behind him.

  88

  The coachman pried open a window and let himself into the tailor’s house. He checked it thoroughly, but Cinderhouse wasn’t there and neither was the boy. He’d hoped to find Fenn in a closet somewhere. He could take him, sell him to Sam Pizer the chimney sweep, and Cinderhouse would simply assume that the boy had escaped again. A neat profit for the coachman, and with no consequences to worry about.

  Next, the coachman went round to the tailor’s shop, but it appeared to be empty as well. Just to be sure, the coachman felt along the top of the door frame where he knew Cinderhouse kept a key. He unlocked the door and went inside. He almost locked the door behind him, but decided that he’d only be there for a minute. The shop was clearly deserted.

  The tailor’s white cat rubbed against his leg. It dropped something at his feet and sat back, looked up at him, and purred. The coachman bent to look at the object and recoiled when he realized it was a dead rat. He kicked at the cat and missed, and the damned thing trotted away, its tail in the air.

  The coachman ignored the rat at his feet and tried to focus. He couldn’t think where the tailor might be. Surely he wouldn’t take a walk in the rain with the boy. Of course he could have hired another carriage, but it wasn’t the sort of day for an outing, was it?

  The coachman had just decided to give up and head back to his own home and a nice warm cuppa when he heard something, a faint and faraway noise. He cocked his head and listened and heard it again.

  It sounded like someone yelling for help.

  The coachman poked his head out the front door, but heard nothing outside over the rushing sound of the rain. Inside again, he wandered about the shop, keeping his ears open, aware that the sound might be nothing more than the mewling of the white cat. But again and again he heard the small, muffled voice shouting for help.

  The coachman opened closet doors and toppled mannequins over, ripped curtains from the walls and pulled drawers out of the wardrobes. Finally, he pried off a rusted padlock and opened the cupboard doors beneath the long counter in the middle of the room.

  There, in the floor of the cupboard, was a large square hole. He guessed that it was the entrance to some abandoned root cellar. It was possible that the tailor’s shop had once been a residence, and when it had been converted to a business, the cellar had been covered over and finally forgotten.

  The coachman stuck his head inside the cupboard and yelled, “Hallo! Is someone down there?”

  There was a moment of silence, and then a small voice. “Please help me! My foot is stuck!”

  It was the boy.

  The coachman smiled. It was his lucky day. The child had been left there alone.

  “I’ll have you out in a jiffy, boy. Hold tight and I’ll be back.”

  “Don’t leave me,” the boy said. “There’s rats here and I’m afraid they’re hungry.”

  “They might be at that. Don’t you move now.”

  The coachman searched the shop and, when he didn’t find any rope, tore part of a bolt of linen into long strips. He tied the strips together and secured one end around the sewing machine that was bolted to the counter. He tossed the other end down the hole in the floor.

  “Ready or not, here I come,” he said.

  He lowered himself into the coal-black cellar.

  89

  Mrs Flanders looked up from her book. She’d been so absorbed in the story she was reading that she couldn’t be sure she’d heard anything at all. She listened carefully. Just as she gave up and returned to the story, there came a strangled cry and a thump from the flat next door.

  She waited several moments, but heard nothing more.

  She clucked her tongue at the wall. Boys will be boys, she thought. But she would have to ask Mr Hammersmith to hold his police meetings elsewhere. Hers was a respectable building, and she couldn’t have riffraff traipsing in and out and horsing about making noise, even if they weren’t really riffraff but were actually policemen in disguise. The neighbors didn’t know that.

  She shook her head and turned her attention back to the new penny novel she was reading. It told the story of a raffish gentleman thief and murderer and it was absolutely thrilling, even if it wasn’t particularly true to life.

  90

  Inside the hansom cab was dark and dry, and Hammersmith came gradually awake feeling refreshed and more completely himself than he had in the past two days. His mouth was dry and tasted like dirt.

  Blacker wasn’t in the cab with him. Hammersmith assumed the detective had decided to let him sleep. He pulled the curtain aside and felt immediately disoriented. The rain had picked up and visibility was low, but he could see well enough and the Shaw brownstone was nowhere in evidence. Nor was the willow tree or the stone wall across the street from the Shaw home. Whichever direction the cab faced, Hammersmith felt he ought to see something familiar.

  He opened the door and stepped out into the storm. He was immediately soaked to the bone. He turned his face to the sky and opened his mouth, swished the rainwater around, and spat it out in the street. His mouth felt and tasted marginally better.

  He was in front of the tailor’s shop. He’d been here with Pringle many times before. How long had he been asleep? Had Blacker finished the interview with Penelope Shaw and moved on?

&nbs
p; He tried the door and it swung open. Inside the shop he shook his overcoat out and ran a hand through his hair to stop the water running into his eyes. The place appeared to be empty. Blacker was nowhere to be seen. Hammersmith couldn’t see many places a grown man might hide in the little shop. He felt something at his ankle and looked down to see a cat rubbing against him. He stooped to pet it.

  The cat was white and fluffy, and some of its hair clung to his wet fingers. There was a small hard nugget in the cat’s coat and Hammersmith prodded at it while the cat undulated and purred. When he plucked the speck from its fur, the cat yowled. It grabbed his hand between its paws and bit down on the web between his thumb and index finger. He yanked his hand away and the cat ran off.

  Hammersmith frowned at the tiny bead he was holding. It was dark brown and there were cat hairs stuck to it. He was certain it was blood.

  Day had said something about cat hairs. Something about Pringle’s trousers.

  He let the crumb of dried blood fall to the floor and stood, wiping his fingers on the leg of his trousers. The stillness of the shop felt eerie to him now. At his feet, the tangle of white fur bound in blood might well have been an omen. And now the shop came into focus for him, wardrobes flung open, drawers pulled from cabinets, something tied to the sewing machine on the counter.

  He approached the sewing machine. A homemade rope of knotted linen was wrapped around its base. He ran his finger under it and traced it across the countertop and to the other side, where it disappeared through a trapdoor inside a cabinet. He knelt by the opening and listened. Nothing.

  “Hello?” he said.

  Still nothing.

  He looked around, but he was alone.

  Inspector Blacker had apparently abandoned him in a cab at the curb. There was no sign of Blacker now, nor were there any traces of the coachman or the tailor whose shop this was. Something had clearly happened while Hammersmith slept, and the only clue he had was this makeshift rope and a trapdoor in the floor. It was entirely possible that Blacker was somewhere below, possibly injured. Possibly worse.