Lost and Gone Forever (14 page)

M
r Parker woke up late and cursed himself for a fool. He couldn’t afford to be careless. Ever. He turned his head and saw nothing, then sat slowly up and looked all round the room. Mrs Parker was gone.

His sense of unease was tempered by his pleasure at discovering he was alive to experience another day. He placed his bare feet on the floor, careful to avoid the wire that ran between the legs of the bed. He disengaged his snares and padded barefoot across the room to the door. The alarm there had been disengaged and the key was missing.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief and busied himself with the morning routine. He washed his face and removed the wooden form that kept his mustache in its proper shape overnight, then brushed his hair and his beard until they glowed. He worked a little Macassar oil into his mustache and beard and sculpted them into sharp points that stuck out from his face at right angles. His fingers were a bit greasy, and he rubbed them dry on his eyebrows, taming the stray hairs there. He examined his handiwork in the polished metal
mirror on the vanity and smiled. He had always been a handsome devil. It was no wonder Mrs Parker had fallen for him.

By the time she returned to their rooms, he was fully dressed and all the traps had been disabled. They were free to move about the room without injuring themselves. As long as he remained alert, Mrs Parker posed no danger to him. But they both knew that there would be a day when he let down his guard or forgot to set his snares and that would be his last day. Until then, they had resolved to enjoy each other’s company and make the best of their situation.

“I brought you something,” Mrs Parker said. She checked once more for wires and blades before she sat on the edge of his bed and held out a plain paper sack for him.

“What is it?” He kept the bag at arm’s length while opening the top, but to his extreme relief there were no human body parts inside.

“Biscuits,” she said. “I was passing a cart and remembered which kind you liked.”

“How kind of you.” He sniffed one and took a bite. It was not in Mrs Parker’s nature to poison him. “Have you breakfasted?”

“I ate without you. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, that’s quite all right.” He suppressed a shudder.

“You were sleeping so soundly, and I found the key to my shackles. You shouldn’t leave it where I can reach, you know. Anyhow, I let myself out and decided to explore a bit while I had the time to myself.”

“I thought I’d left the key well out of reach,” he said.

She gave him a knowing look and waggled one eyebrow. He smiled. She was able to stretch and contort herself to the most unlikely extremes. She was a marvel, truly.

“I did have to dislocate my left arm, but it’s back in place now,” she said. “This city has so many interesting things to see.”

“How long were you out?”

“Oh, three or perhaps four hours. I wasn’t able to sleep well.”

“Sorry to hear it.” If she had been out by herself for three or four hours, there would be at least one item in the newspapers. But he knew that nobody had identified or followed her. She wouldn’t have betrayed the location of their rooms by returning if there had been the slightest chance. She read his expression and smiled again.

“We’ll pick up a copy of the
Times
,” she said.

“Will I be able to infer what you’ve been up to?”

“If you read closely.”

“Not front-page stuff, I hope.”

“You wound me. Nothing so spectacular. We haven’t finished our work in London. You know I don’t soil the nest before the job’s done.”

“I apologize.”

“I do hope Mr Ripper makes his move today. I’m growing anxious.”

“If nothing happens today, we’ll find another way,” Mr Parker said.

“Oh, good.” She sat back and stared out the window. “The sun’s finally out. I do hate how dreary this city can be.”

They had divided the duties that defined their unusual occupation, and Mr Parker was the strategist. Mrs Parker was rubbish at planning, but she carried out other aspects of the work with great gusto. She was also the prettiest woman Mr Parker had ever seen. He loved her with every fiber of his being, and the only thing he feared more than her presence was the possibility that she might someday leave him.

He polished off his last biscuit and checked the mirror again. Upon removing a crumb from his mustache, he crossed to the door and opened it wide. He picked up his case (heavy with saws, mallets,
scalpels, three revolvers, a stout length of rope, and a pair of manacles) and gestured for Mrs Parker to lead the way out.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s find our pigeon again.”

Mrs Parker leapt from the bed like a cat and stopped in the doorway for a kiss before bounding out the door. Mr Parker watched her walk away, his eyes wide and his nostrils flared. He still considered himself the luckiest man in the world.

W
ell,” Tiffany said, “come along if you’re coming.”

He led the way to a cluttered desk in the far corner of the Murder Squad’s room. It was, in its way, isolated, pushed up against the wall as far from the other men’s desks as it could be. Piles of paper existed in a sort of precarious détente, threatening at any moment to slide off each other to the floor. Tiffany pulled out a chair and gestured for Hammersmith to sit. Before Hammersmith could demur, Tiffany plopped down on the corner of the desk, toppling an avalanche of papers behind him. He tossed the file folder Hammersmith had brought on top of the mess and it somehow stuck. Hammersmith took the offered chair.

Tiffany tapped the file. “Save me time. What’s in it?”

“Not a lot, actually,” Hammersmith said. “I did the usual sort of follow-up, went over Walter’s old house half a dozen times or more without seeing anything amiss. Fiona Kingsley drew up a terrific picture of him and I took it around, showed it to everyone on that street so many times, I thought they might stone me if they saw me coming round again. Took it across the park, too, and showed it on
the other side. Nothing came of it. Quite a few people there knew him; most avoided his house. Too many bad things had happened there, and none of the neighbors wanted a killer visiting them in the middle of the night. Only the one of ’em saw Walter that night.”

“The old woman.”

“Aye. Talked to her two or three times, but she’s not all there. A bit mad, I think. She says she saw Walter get in a black carriage. Right after that, she saw the Devil himself stroll away down the street, laughing, she says.”

“The Devil.” Tiffany rolled his eyes. “Helpful.”

“Couldn’t give a good description of him. Wavy sort of dark hair, she thinks. Tall, thin. And evil.”

“Right. Evil’s, what, a physical trait?”

“I have no idea.”

Tiffany sighed. “So I know most of this already. Anything new? Anything in the last month or so?”

“Nothing.”

“The old woman, did she say if Day had his hat? Did he have his cane? The one with the brass knob at the end?”

“He had them both. At least as far as she can say. But I wouldn’t rely on her for much.”

“No.”

“I’ve gone over everything again and again. I’ve talked to every cab driver, every private carriage owner I can find in the vicinity. I’m at my wit’s end. No, I was at my wit’s end eight months ago. The trail is dead.”

“And yet Walter’s alive,” Tiffany said. “Or so Sir Edward believes.”

“I’ll talk to the telephone dispatcher.”

“I said I’ve talked to her.” Tiffany ran a hand through his hair and
stroked his mustache with his fingertips. It looked to Hammersmith like a nervous tic. “You’re welcome to do it again, but there’s nothing there. I feel like we’re being played with.”

“Oh,” Hammersmith said, “we are. We quite definitely are.”

“By the Devil?” Tiffany chuckled. “Well, there’s strength in numbers, I suppose. If we’re working together now, however much that’s actually practical—which it ain’t—but if we’re putting our heads together maybe something will finally fall out.”

“I know you can’t be pleased,” he said.

Tiffany shook his head and frowned. “I don’t care. Not really. It’s not like I don’t want to find Walter.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Yes, yes. But I’ve also got a woman clubbed her husband to death and took the kids off away somewheres. I don’t find her, who knows what she’ll do with ’em. And that’s a case I could use Walter’s help with, but of course I don’t got him. And I’ve got three men who took a woman into an alley and done horrible things to her. She’s alive, but I want those men, and I want ’em now. Those are just since yesterday, never mind everything else I ain’t got to yet.” He waved a hand over the reams of reports on the desk behind him. “So I’ll give you what I got and I’ll do what I can, and so will every other man in this room, but I’ll not answer to you, no matter what Sir Edward’s got to say on the matter. I can’t. I just don’t got the time and I can’t go back to that poor woman or to that dead man’s mother and tell them I was busy with summat else, can I?”

Hammersmith nodded, then shook his head, unsure of how to agree with the inspector. “I understand,” he said.

“Then you tell me what you need and I’ll do my best.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t really know what I need.”

“What? Men? Guns? I’ve precious few of either. Same with
information. You’re welcome to our files, but if we’d found anything out, we’d have let you know by now.”

“I’ve got used to acting alone. Walter was always the one—”

“Right. Well, no sense in that now you’ve got something real to go on. Take Jones. He’s a good fellow.”

Hammersmith and Tiffany both looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. A man as big around as he was tall moved between the queues of desks as if he owned them. And in a way he did. Hammersmith stood and shook Sergeant Kett’s hand.

“Good to see you again, boy,” Kett said. “Inspector Tiffany, I couldn’t help but overhear.” (Hammersmith hid a smile. The sergeant had been across the room, but had ears like a bat.) “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to offer myself in place of Jones. I might’ve said some things to young Hammersmith here that were uncalled for, and I’d like to make up for it.”

Tiffany shook his head and frowned. “We need you here, Kett.”

“Sergeant Fawkes can handle my duties along with his own for a few days if it comes to that.”

“I’d still rather send Jones along than lose you here,” Tiffany said.

“Day was a good lad. He was one of my boys, and I don’t sleep so good at night since he’s missing. Been a long time without a good sleep now.”

Tiffany leaned forward, away from his desk. His hands were clasped above his knees and his head was down. He resembled a grief-stricken man in prayer, and Hammersmith wondered how long it had been since Tiffany had slept. How long since any of these men had slept.

At last, Tiffany straightened up and slipped off the corner of the desk. He leaned back against it and crossed his arms over his chest. He nodded. “We’ll make do with Fawkes for a day or two. But,
gentlemen, let’s find Walter fast. Find him fast and bring him home and maybe we can all put this nasty business behind us.”

Hammersmith stood. “I suppose we’ll tread the same ground again. With two of us at it, we might be able to circle farther out, talk to more people.”

“Wait.” Tiffany tapped the folder again. “You said the Kingsley girl drew a picture of Day for you?”

Fiona Kingsley worked as an illustrator of children’s books, but she had grown up assisting her father, Dr Bernard Kingsley, London’s premiere forensic examiner. She had accompanied him to crime scenes and sketched them for the police. Lately, she had used witness descriptions to sketch criminals, giving the detectives of the Murder Squad a visual aid in tracking and catching them.

“She’s a good artist,” Kett said. “I’m sure it was a good likeness.”

Tiffany waved at Kett, irritated. “Of course. But did you ask her dad?”

“Ask him what?”

“For help.”

“What could he do?”

“He does that thing of his. Puts powder all over and finds fingerprints.”

“What good would that do? And you don’t even believe in that, anyway.”

Tiffany leaned forward and scowled up at Hammersmith. “I believe in anything that solves a case.”

“But you said—”

“I say a lot of things. What does it matter what I said? Turn up the doctor and take him along, if he’ll go. He’s smarter than the rest of us put together. One way or another, he might figure something out.”

D
r Bernard Kingsley stood at a table in his laboratory and stared down at the body of an infant. The baby girl had been neglected, left too close to the hearth, and her cotton dress had caught fire. It looked to Kingsley as if the child had actually rolled into the flames. Burns covered three quarters of her tiny body, her dress had grafted itself to her charred skin in places, and her arms and legs had shriveled to stumps. Kingsley bent and kissed her forehead before pulling a sheet up over her. There was no need for an autopsy in this case. The cause of death was obvious. And horrible. He hoped her negligent parents had been burned as well.

“Father?”

Kingsley turned around, startled, and smiled at the sight of his youngest daughter, Fiona, who hesitated at the open door. He wiped his hands on a towel, crossed the room, and took her in his arms.

“Father, are you all right?”

Kingsley sighed and stepped back, looked around at the room he spent so much of his time in. Twelve burnished wooden tables stood in a row, each of them slanted just enough so that fluids could run
off them into a drain in the center of the floor. Months before, electric lamps had been installed above the tables, and now the room was brighter, more clinical and less intimate than it had been under the old gas globes. Five of the tables were occupied by the dead. In addition to the baby and one of her siblings, there was a man who had choked to death on his dentures and a woman who had died of pneumonia. Only the fifth body posed any mystery regarding cause of death, and Kingsley had been waiting to get to it, dealing with the easier cases first.

“I suppose I’m a bit melancholy today,” he said. “I’ve a bad feeling.”

“Well, of course you do,” Fiona said. “You’ve two children on your tables. The dead always affect you this way, children especially so.”

“That must be it.” He smiled at her. “What brings you round here today?”

“I wanted to visit you.”

“Well, I’m glad of it. Come, let’s get out of here.”

He turned the knob that shut off the electric lights and ushered his daughter out into the passage, shutting the door behind them. There was a small window at eye level, and Kingsley imagined he could see the bodies on his table glowing slightly, as if they’d absorbed some of the light in the room. He wondered if the baby had been afraid of the dark.

They climbed the stairs to the ground floor, and Kingsley let his daughter lead him through a maze of hallways to his office. He stopped short of the door. It was halfway open and light spilled through into the hallway. He could see a shape moving on the other side of the frosted glass. He moved ahead of Fiona and pushed the door open.

Nevil Hammersmith jumped and turned around from the desk, where he’d been writing something on a slip of paper. He grinned
and ran a hand through his dark mop of hair before stooping to pick up his hat. To Kingsley’s eye, the former constable looked as if he’d lost weight in the months since he’d last seen him, and Kingsley wondered how that was even possible.

“I was just leaving you a note,” Hammersmith said. “Thought maybe I’d find you downstairs in your laboratory, but just in case . . .”

“I was indeed down there. Good to see you again, Nevil. It’s been too long.”

“It has.”

Hammersmith seemed ill at ease, averting his eyes, and Kingsley looked around, confused. Fiona seemed similarly uncomfortable. Kingsley frowned.

“To what do I owe this honor?”

“Ah,” Hammersmith said. “Well, Tiffany, Inspector Tiffany . . . By the way, good to see you as well, Fiona.”

Fiona mumbled something Kingsley couldn’t make out. She curtsied and backed out the door and was gone. The two men listened quietly until her footsteps had faded away down the hallway.

“That’s odd,” Kingsley said. “Perhaps she left something in the laboratory. I’m sure she’ll be right back.”

“Yes,” Hammersmith said. He seemed relieved. “I’m sure she will. Um, about the . . . Inspector Tiffany thought you might be able to help us out with a little thing.”

The doctor moved around and sat behind his desk. He indicated for Hammersmith to take the only other chair, but there was nowhere else to put the books that were stacked there, so Kingsley stood back up and they both leaned against the desk.

“Is it a new case?”

“Rather an old one, I’m afraid,” Hammersmith said. “It’s Walter Day.” Kingsley listened as Hammersmith filled him in on the fresh
developments: the phone call, Sir Edward’s renewed determination, and the fact that Hammersmith was working with the police again. When Hammersmith had finished talking, Kingsley sat back down and stared at a corner of the ceiling, pursing his lips and moving them in and out, chewing over the information.

Finally he focused his gaze on Hammersmith, who had waited patiently. Kingsley was impressed. Patience was not one of the younger man’s best qualities. “I’ve quite a lot to do here,” Kingsley said. “Five people on my tables right now. They deserve my attention.”

“Of course,” Hammersmith said. He backed toward the open door. “I knew you were busy, but thought it would be foolish to pass up the opportunity to work with you again, however slim the chance.”

Kingsley held up a hand to stop Hammersmith. “As I say, I’ve a lot to do, but none of it is as important as finding Walter. I’m ashamed to say I’d given him up for dead. If he’s alive, of course I must do anything I possibly can to help.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news. I haven’t made much progress over the last few months. Hell, I haven’t made any progress at all. I could use another pair of eyes, especially yours.”

“What can I do?”

“Well, on that point I’m not entirely sure. Inspector Tiffany is available to us in an advisory capacity, and so is the entire Murder Squad, I suppose. And Sergeant Kett, you know him?”

“We’ve met.”

“He’s waiting for us. Well, for me, but I hoped I’d be bringing you along. He’s at the house. The house where Walter disappeared.”

“His old address.”

“Yes,” Hammersmith said. “Just so. Kett’s going over the place again. Not as if it hasn’t been gone over.”

“One never knows. Even a hair found along the skirting might be the one clue needed to break through.”

“A hair.” Hammersmith sighed. “What about finger marks? Fingerprints? Whatever you want to call them, do you think they might be useful?”

“I did think so,” Kingsley said. He closed his eyes. “When Walter disappeared, I went to that house and I looked for fingerprints. I looked for hair against the skirting, for blood, for footprints. I found nothing.”

“I had no idea you’d even been there.”

“Of course I was there. Walter was my . . . is my friend.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d investigated?”

“Why would I have? I didn’t find anything that might have helped you.”

“Well, I suppose . . .”

“Yes?”

“I suppose it would have been good to know I wasn’t alone in the search.”